Another week, another motoring review in which I read the suggestion that you, dear car owner, might be inclined to drop the keys to your new car onto a pub table, so you can impress people with the badge.

You know how it is: you walk in to a bar to meet your friends, who are already seated at a table, so you stroll over and casually toss the keys to your new premium car in front of them. It prompts them all to look up in quiet awe at this Adonis, this most ambitious of men, this Hercules among plebs, who stands before them and is gracious enough to walk among them.

“I’m going to the bar,” you say, intoning that you’ll leave the keys where they fell – mid-table, like a floral centrepiece – for them to discuss in hushed tones while you buy a pint of shandy and a packet of Monster Munch (which you regard as the king of snacks). And so you depart.

Quiet descends across the table. Someone nervously fingers the keys, makes sure you’re out of earshot, and opines: “Jesus, Mark’s such a bellend. Who invited him, anyway?”

See, I don’t know anybody who does the key thing. You don’t know anybody who does the key thing. Literally nobody knows anybody who does the key thing because literally nobody does the key thing, because it would make them the second most irritating person in the world. It is just another motoring writer’s lazy cliché (and, boy, do we have a few), here used to imply that the car being written about has a desirable image.