End of the week again and another peek behind the dusty veil discreetly drawn over the Champagne-soaked torment of the motoring hack.
Clearly driving and drink do not go together. Not even remotely. Not even as remotely as speed cameras and safer driving.
Therefore the modern car launch is a sober affair often held at the local Friends Meeting Hall over strong tea and a cream bun.
It was not always so.
Have you ever had a Spanish Sunday lunch? It takes hours. A mountain of food is floated off on a sea of red wine and two dry sherries. The last thing you want to be told at the end of this is that there is driving. To a hotel 150 miles away.
So I found myself with my co-driver of too many years Jon Smith, then of the Daily Mail, deciding to sleep off swordfish poached in olive oil with two small glasses of Fanta, on the beach.
One snag. He had brought a cozzie, I hadn’t.
In a flash of special forces genius I decided to put a spare pair of boxer shorts on top another set, reversed so as to protect the innocent.
We walked onto the beach. A young lady, only partially clad, walked towards us. She smiled at the two handsome Englishmen. Her smile broadened until it was almost a laugh. Good Lord, she was laughing! At my front spoiler.
Do you know the Spanish for ‘last turkey in Sainsbury’s?’ She did.
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