Imagine owning a supercar in the 1970s. Imagine creeping down to the garage and painfully inserting yourself into a driving position designed by a yogic monkey. Imagine silently incanting a thousand Hail Webers as you twist the key and hope the fragile motor won’t falter or flood itself. Imagine heading out for a drive, praying it stays dry so the damn thing won’t spit you into an oak tree while patiently allowing the fluids to warm through before attempting to use second. Or fourth. Or the steering.
Of course, all this is to assume that you’ve been able to buy the car in the first place, because chances are the sole UK concessionaire is some gimlet-eyed ex-military indie who can ask you to put away your chequebook and get off his bloody land simply because he doesn’t like the look of your shoes.
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