He told quite an amusing story to which the punchline was, "Hey Carrot, they've got no Bovril!" bawled in broad Brummie. I occasionally shout this phrase for no apparent reason.
Also, don't get me started on the canary yellow TR7. One of those wánkers who thinks he drives a 'classic car' because it's more than 25 years old. (See also all MG enthusiasts.) The car was shít the day it rolled off the production line, mate, and the passage of a quarter of a century is unlikely to have improved its dynamic capabilities.
****.
I used to get lifts to work with a rather pretty sales lady who insisted on driving one of them - canary yellow, too. Not only did one look ridiculous in it, it was forever going wrong, so I'd have to get the bus.
If I hadn't fancied her rotten (and needed a lift), I'd probably have sacked off the whole arrangement.
She turned out to be a lesbian. :-(
I couldn't say. She just turned up at an event one evening with a short-haired woman in tow. This made a lot of people who'd tried it on with her and failed feel a lot better about things.
My body wasn't particularly hairy back then, I don't think. Indeed, I was quite smooth.
My whiteness I couldn't really help, you racist.
Yes, I once actually performed the foul deed within the confines of a TR7; this event may have taken place, if my memory does me no disservice, in the car park of Finchley Golf Club.
A regrettable, cramped and uncomfortable, of ultimately satisfying, experience.
The car in question was one of the few automatics built, by the way. A three-speed unit, this was not a gearbox of which the British motor industry should be proud.