This, I suspect, is going to be a contentious question. Have Aston Martins ever really been any good?
Glorious, yes. Caddish, of course. Likeable, most defnitely. A little bit knowing, quite possibly. A keystone of this nation’s sense of its own identity as evinced by the more memorable of its industrial products, like Mallard and Concorde – yes, yes, all right. But actually that good? I’m not sure.
It pains me to say this, because as a lad I could imagine nothing more wonderful than a V8 Vantage (I’m talking about the one from the Seventies, which is when I was a lad, not the more recent one). The thought of that car kept me awake longer than the thought of Catherine Bradley did. Somewhere on the bookshelves, I still…
