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 shÃ*t 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.