Let’s give this a shot and see where we end up, shall we?  Follow these simple instructions, boys and girls:

Close your eyes and picture the least attractive current-spec racing car you can imagine.  Think of something that fell from the ugly tree atop Minger’s Hill, smacking every physically repulsive branch on the way down before rolling helplessly into the nearby settlement of Repugnant, where the residents immediately set about beating it with aesthetically displeasing sticks.

Craft a vision of yourself in a nightclub at 4 on a Sunday morning.  It hasn’t been your most successful night’s work.  You’re drunk.  You’re bedraggled.  You’re alone.  The Jordan 191 has gone home with your best mate, the Eagle Mk1 is far too classy for someone in your state, you’ve only got one racing car left to make a play for and yet you can’t.  No matter how hard you squint, close one eye or look the other way, irrespective of you having brought your best prescription beer goggles for exactly such an occasion, it’s still not coming back to your place because you’re still not asking.

When you’ve done that, join me after the little page break.
















All done?  Good.  This is what you saw:

  1. […] at the start of this piece was to humanise it a bit.  About a year ago, I crafted some kind of imaginary nightclub where, even though you were clearly interested, the 191 had decided she could do better and gone […]

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