What’s the bit between Christmas and new year called?” asked the radio DJ I overheard at this time last year. It’s Christmas, mate. Literally, that’s what this bit is called. Of the chorused 12 days, we’re only up to about four, hence half the populace is sufficiently soaked in sherry as to be dangerously flammable by lunchtime.
It’s a time for love, peace, goodwill, families or, for this page, perusing my notebook of ideas I had in 2018 but which never quite made it into this column; whether for being too long, too short, too serious, or too light.
Is every Dodge Challenger cooler than its contemporary Charger equivalent? Isn’t the resurrection of Donald Campbell’s Bluebird rather macabre? Have you ever caught site of a Citroën BX or Lamborghini Countach (both Marcello Gandini designs) and, at a glance, mistaken one for the other? All these questions and more, which will never alone make 570 words.
Why has it taken me 20 years to realise that, when hanging a shirt next to an iron-less hotel room’s shower to steam the creases out of it, if you clip another hanger to the bottom, it pulls the creases out much more quickly?
Or have you noticed, for example, how unnaturally good people look at the Goodwood Revival, compared with pictures from the time? They’re in period dress and look great because they spend weeks getting ready and travelled down in a modern air-conditioned SUV; but they didn’t look so polished back in the day, because driving an Austin 7 for four hours in hot weather in what were everyday clothes would have taken its toll like it doesn’t on modern gin warriors. Perhaps we’ll don jeans and T-shirts and puffy jackets for a retro race festival in 50 years’ time.