The relatively small number of cars that plied the roads of the small English town I grew up in during the early 1960s were mostly the rather dull British saloons so prevalent during that time. A Zephyr or a Sunbeam Rapier was regarded as being something rather exotic, and even the new MGBs – usually driven by flat-cap, duffle-coated, pipe-smoking gents – were rarely seen.

The odd lawyer or doctor from the more affluent end of town might occasionally be spotted wafting by in their Bentley or, in at least one case, a huge Pontiac Laurentian. Catching a glimpse of a Jaguar or an Aston Martin was a once-in-a-year occurrence, while the chances of coming across a fancy Italian Alfa Romeo or Ferrari was about as likely as going out tomorrow and finding yourself parking alongside a Bugatti Chiron at your local PAK’nSAVE.


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