Baby Du Kannst Fuhren Mein Motorwagen.
Picture the scene. A pair of bewitching, unwed ladies is taking the air, perambulating pleasantly, discoursing upon subjects as divers as cross-stitching and lead-content in make-up. Suddenly the air is rent by a sound. A sound they’ve never heard before. The sound of the future.
No sooner have their ladies’ minds registered, and been bamboozled, by this gnu-like roar than, minutes later, you hurtle past at a petticoat-wafting, moustache-all-over-face-plastering nine miles an hour. Suffice it to say that those ladies will no longer require a letter of introduction. As their chaperone jogs after you – eventually catching up, quite out of breath – you give her your card. You will be wed before the day is out!
For you are driving Mr. Karl Benz’s latest invention. The Motor Car.
Feel the wind in you hat as you accelerate from nought to nine in just four minutes, our groundbreaking one cylinder engine configuration delivering a massive two-thirds of a horsepower. That’s right; if you get in a race with two-thirds of a horse, it’s, “Sayonara, Dobbin.” Or, should that be “Sayonara, Dobb…”? …it’s two-thirds of a horse, you see…? Two thirds of Dobbin is… oh, never mind…
With just one gear, the gear change on this beast is as smooth as one of Oscar Wilde’s similes. The design is a delight, its aerodynamic shape slicing through the air like a typhoid epidemic through a work-house. As you move up through the gear as smoothly as one of Lillie Langtry’s ankles – and twice as sexily – it’s as if this baby wants you to open her up and hit the open-area-where-they-will-eventually-build-some-kind-of-relatively-flat-causeway-upon-which-a-motorised-vehicle-might-travel.
So, what are we waiting for? Let’s take a look under the bonnet.
Under the bonnet of any lady is a brain. A brain that wants a man. A man that doesn’t walk if he can sit. A man that isn’t afraid of a spot of rain or being stared at (remember, as Adam Ant will say in around a hundred years time, “Ridicule is nothing to be scared of.”*) A man who’s perfectly at home splattered with horse-sh*t.
The Benz Patent-Motorwagen; as of a magnet pursuant to the attraction of a ladies unmentionable – eh, gentlemen?
* He will also say, “Da diddley qua qua.” This is also true.