Aston Martins are sin, personified: everyone disapproves of them, but everyone wants one. That is why James Bond, a sex-addicted fictional civil servant, is suited to them – at least until he died in No Time to Die (clearly it was). Of course he died. He became emotionally available. If Bond isn’t ripping the knickers off death-stalked maidens, what is the point of him? Why is he feeding a child mango? Next! If you don’t want an Aston Martin, you are either dead like him or – more likely – you have never driven one.

Recite the technical specifications by all means and pretend this is why you bought it: numbers. That’s just the denial of the captured. We know why you want the car. For the British, there is no hotter marque – and there never will be. (The Italians, of course, have Ferrari: a car with the soul of an Italian man – an Italian man who speaks in roars.)

Aston Martins are for impressing the opposite sex (if rich, you should at least know what money is for), and, when I borrow one, I park up at Screwfix or any other builders’........

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