Age 16: 1978 – 79

Return of the Saint is on television, with Simon Templar driving a Jaguar XJS. What a dream car! So beautiful, so expensive – and completely unattainable. It even has a telephone! In one episode, the Saint is in the South of France and a beautiful woman approaches his passenger window and leans towards it. Simon Templar pushes a button on the centre console of his XJS and the passenger window glides down. It’s electric!

I have a longing to have this kind of persona: that of Simon Templar or James Bond. A handsome and brave adventurer, loved by beautiful women and admired by all. Simon Templar wears smart seventies clothes, and so do I (although his are from Francesco of Jermyn Street, and mine are from C&A of Hounslow High Street). I scrutinise his hairstyle intently, and then carefully model my own hair in the same way; it takes a lot of combing to maintain it. It’s funny, because I never see Simon Templar pay any attention to his own hair, but it always remains immaculate, no matter how much action he gets into.

Simon Templar drives his Jaguar XJS all over Europe, taking it as far as Italy. He finds excitement effortlessly; he couldn’t even go out to pick up his dry-cleaning without something happening on the way. Occasionally I dress smartly, and casually go for a very long walk around the neighbourhood, or far into Bushey Park, looking for some adventure (and a beautiful woman) to fall into my lap, but nothing ever happens.

Without my parents’ knowledge, I drive the white Jaguar … onto the road. The engine purrs smoothly, the interior is fabulous: leather seats, polished wood, a sumptuous steering wheel, countless instrument lights and shiny switches … it’s breathtaking. As I turn around the corner into Ormond Avenue, I see ahead of me three of my most elite classmates walking together. Alaric Smith, Jon Davidson and Michel Bowes; they are the crème de la crème, intellectually and socially. I so much want them to like me and to treat me as one of their clique. I am excited that I will be showing off my Jaguar XJS, which will give me huge credibility, but, as I approach them …

Age 19: 1981 – 82

One Friday evening on campus, I see a little handwritten card on one of the noticeboards. It says: ‘VW Beetle for sale. Blue. 1969. £200’.

Irrational excitement grips me. I have £400 (about $600) in the bank to last the rest of semester (about ten weeks). My rent is already paid in advance and I have a book of meal coupons worth about £80. I reckon the insurance will cost me about £100, leaving me about £100 to live on. And I can have a car! There is no better status symbol than a car. Girls ‘dig’ guys who have cars!

The Beetle is in a village called Bridge of Allan, close to campus. I call the number and the middle-class woman who owns the car is practically able to sell it to me on the phone. I agree to come over the next morning.

I excitedly tell Milton about it and he agrees to come with me.

The car, when we see it, could barely look more pathetic. Three of its four wings (fenders) are dented, as well as the back end. It seems to run okay though.

Milton and I converse in low tones. ‘I think you should buy it,’ he advises. My hand is shaking as I write the cheque. This is not, by any means, a rational decision. I have allowed my heart to overrule my head, and it is exhilarating and frightening.

The woman drives the Beetle to campus for me and parks it at AKD. I cannot drive it until I buy the insurance on Monday morning. This weekend passes painfully slowly; a few times I go out and sit in the car, playing in it like a child.

The insurance is duly arranged and costs me £114 – it is very close to my estimate. I call the car ‘Tracy’. She gives me access to Scotland in a way that wasn’t possible before. Milton and I go on many trips that take us to lochs, forests and mountains. When I know my way around, I will be able to persuade some girl or other to come on a drive with me, including Janice and her friends.

Age 20: 1982 – 83

At mid-semester Janice is going to drive home, down to Derbyshire. Although I can easily get a cheap ticket to fly home to London, it seems unbearably exciting to me to drive down to England in my car, accompanying Janice. This will be such fun.

We set off immediately after the last lecture, on Tuesday morning. I am acutely aware that her car has a maximum speed of 95 mph, whereas for mine it is 82 mph, but I do not believe that this will be a problem. I am wrong. Once we are on the motorway (freeway), Janice begins to drift ahead, 70 … 80 … 90 and I struggle to keep up. (She is Teresa di Vincenzo.) I lose sight of her, but proceed as fast as I can. Fortunately we have a rendezvous at Southwaite service station, just south of the border; she gets there a minute before me. I park alongside her and we eat our sandwiches in the Honda (I am very careful not to drop any crumbs in her car), before setting off again.

Once again, she begins to drift ahead. If only she would keep to 80 mph, I would have no problem, but she insists on doing 90. The other problem for me is that it takes the Renault 5 (with its one litre engine) an eternity to accelerate from 70 to 80. Janice begins to disappear into the distance. I keep my foot to the floor and clench my teeth, speeding in the outside lane. The Renault 5 accelerates excruciatingly slowly: 70 … 72 … 74 … 76 … 78 … 80. A car pulls out in front of me and I have to brake hard. Stupid bastard!

I sound my horn, flash my lights, and slowly pull past him. Again, I accelerate as fast as I can; there is nothing more that I can do. I can still see the tail of the Honda on the distant horizon as the Renault drifts to 80, then 82 mph. The Honda disappears and I just happen to glance in my rear-view mirror to see dark smoke pouring out of the Renault’s exhaust …