The other evening I pulled up at a nicely traditional row of shops on the way home. You know the sort: set back from the road, their own service road, a bench strewn with cans of Special Brew and with a random dog with a neckerchief strung to it, plus a bunch of 'yoofs' hanging around outside the pizza place.
Admittedly, I had stopped to buy a big brown bottle of cider by some brand of which I have never heard, but which sounded a bit like – and from a distance looked a bit like – one I have heard of, but I still knew I didn't really belong there.
Not least when the yoofs all turned and glared, triangles of pizza hanging out of their mouths.
The thing is, sometimes when I am in The Beast I forget that people stare because they have very little option. It is a loud and obnoxious sounding car.
Simon Taylor once exclaimed (which is approximately a millionth of the times I have since recounted his wisdom) that it sounded like a D-type at full chat when it was barely above idle.
Anyway, there I was parked up and walking past this gaggle of intimidating teens to get to the off licence when one of them says: "Nice rat-rod mate."