Last week the final Dodge Viper rolled down the line, a suitably tasteless gold and bronze affair with which to sign off 18 years of over-the-top excess.

To many the Viper was a bit of a joke, an outsize, overblown hotrod from over there which possessed none of the subtleties we Europeans look for in our supercars.

But that’s why I liked it: its creators took an 8-litre, V10 engine that started life in a truck, stuck it in a very basic chassis and directed its preposterous torque earthwards through the medium of the fattest road legal tyres money could buy. Never mind the quality, feel the width. It was nothing if not pleasingly simple.

No its handling wasn’t very good in the dry and, yes, it was comically awful in the wet, but at least you never got bored driving one.

My best Viper memory was driving the first one in the country to Italy to chase the Mille Miglia. With Sutcliffe sharing the pedalling we determined before leaving that the boot would take the roof or our luggage but not both, so left the top behind and drove overnight to Italy at speeds I may never admit to.