The late 1980s. Somewhere in the wilds of the English countryside, I get my hands on a tired Volkswagen Mk1 Golf. Not the sprightly GTI of legend. Rather a wheezing 1.3 GLS on bicycle tires. In keeping with its wine-colored paint job, it drinks more oil than petrol, but still makes the 6.5-mile twisty country lane run to school in under six minutes. Complete with hedgerow scratches, tire squeals, fading brakes and shaking heads from other petrified road-users.
The four-speed manual stick shift works overtime searching a gearbox that feels like a wooden spoon stirring drippy cake mix. Meanwhile the London City Boys wear red braces, pinstripe suits, flash watches, and speed by in bright red Porsche 911 Turbos. A piece of kit all wheeler-dealers aspired to. Not because they loved driving them. But because of the message they sent.
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