After an early start on Sunday, getting cars ready for a little drive out to a pub for lunch, the weather let us down by raining hard on the way there and forcing us to do an emergency pull over and roof up job.  Always fun.

After a splendid lunch marred only by the staff's initital refusal to offer us dessert as they were closing the kitchen in 5 minutes (... we suspect due to the footie) we went on a little drive down to Pewsey Vale and back up towards Marlborough.

Now my old Midget has a dodgy fuel pick up (well that's what I think it is anyway) and it always runs out when the needle get to 1/4 full.   Given this knowledge you would expect I would have the wit to carry a spare fuel can, perhaps even with some petrol in it.

So anyway, the inevitable happened and we left the car at the side of the road and Big Mike and I roared of in the Aston in search the needful.   Red face for me then.

It was still raining when we got home so consequently an hours lethargy in front of the telly was in order.   Somehow we managed to watch the World Cup.   England vs. Ecuador.  Now I will freely admint to not being an expert in matters of the round ball game, but as a slothful spectator, in the mood to be entertained, I was wholly underwhelmed.   What a load of dross.

And looking at the picture of Becks on the front page of most of the newspapers this morning, you'd have thought we'd won the Jules Rimet outright.

Even in the eyes of this armchair incompetent, we need to try harder, after all; England expects.

So, at last all can be revealed.   Big Mike has traded out of his Bentley and up to a Roller.   Oops, sorry, that should be 'Royce'.  

We said the Bentley had altogether more sporting pretensions and did rather look the part... while the Royce is - how shall I put it? - somewhat less subtle?

His riposte was in two parts - at first reminding us that deep down he is still from across the Atlantic and therefore does have an errant predeliction for such styles ... and second that this was no ordinary Royce.   No sir.  It's one of only 50 RHD turbocharged Royces ever made.   A Flying Spur.  And it has its' own number to boot.

All other doubts fled my mind Wednesday night, when for a brief moment he put his foot down.   There is not the instant flight and flat scream of my 911, merely the briefest hestitation before 2 tonnes + of a nearly 20 ft long car lunges at the horizon very quickly indeed.   Noise remains incredibly muted, with just a whiff of induction rush to remind you that under the bonnet the oily bits are getting real busy.

I can see why he was smitten - it's a beautiful car.   Add to that a rich ebony black paintwork (I'm sure it had a fancy name, but basically, black is black right?) and a cream hide interior that cost about 20 cows their coats.  Their sacrifice was worth it.  It's long wheelbase and even the back seats recline....

Big Mike's new motor outside Fabrizio's in Clerkenwell.   The owner of the scooter we nearly crushed while parking, offered us £8,000 for the car.  Cash.  Right.

What a great rally.   And a particularly good one for newcomers like us.   First, the result.   We were 16th (out of just over 100), third in our class and won the team prize overall.

The car performed faultlessly, the weather was perfect and teamwork in the car spot on.

I'll post some pictures later and a bit of a write up on each day if I get time.

Still grinning!
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