There I was, hunkered down in the armchair, tub of
popcorn, bag of Heroes and a large fizzy drink. Let the classic car show roll. (See previous post).
After half an hour of Mr Wilson twittering on about sleek and elegant Italian espresso
machines on wheels, I was getting withdrawal symptoms. I wanted less Italian
pea-shooter, more British blunderbuss. Eventually there was Senna unwrapping
this unmistakable outline of automotive nostalgia, this iron age piece of
exotica, so I was more than ready for his accented attempts at describing
something way beyond his years - a walk round the car, a look under the bonnet,
the reason for the oddly hung exhaust, why did it have a hump on the boot, a
listen to the straight six rumble. Nope. I hardly had time for one puff of pop,
sook a Hero fudge or have a single swig of fizz before it was all over.
Cheated? I was so annoyed I would have thrown the cat at the TV - if I had a
cat.
On the other hand just a fleeting glimpse of that ton of assorted BMC
ironmongery getting flung around the ‘Mercedes-Benz World’ handling track was
pure dead brilliant.
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