Kathy Lette's tasteless but really very funny penis and religion joke has been endlessly reposted elsewhere, but I was reminded of it when paying a second brief twilight visit to the Concours d'Elegance at the Marina this evening. The fact that I felt the need to go twice has no significance whatsoever. The testosterone dripped as wanabee machos, chocolate gangsters to a boy, mingled saliva and possibly semen on to their overtightened trousers. The hordes having largely left to do more shopping, I almost had the exhibition to myself - from the Cord to the Veyron. Bentleys, Aston Martins, Rolls Royces - a multitude of expensive antique and modern machinery was on display, louring stormclouds notwithstanding. It was difficult not to reflect on the conjugation (sorry, ladies) between long, oversized, horsepower-rich vehicles and sexual congress. Anyone I know who races cars online might like to take notes.
Having now turned sixty, such amusements are less frequent than formerly, but one's long-term memory improves with age. Or so I am told.
Kathy Lette is now fifty. In case any lady readers haven't come across her, get your own back and look here.