Ask any Ferrari, Porsche or Ray-Ban salesperson about their average customer and you will very likely hear that he is not, as the adverts would have us believe, a virile young footballer with shiny hair, a rippling six pack and a trouser pouch like a new punch bag. He is, in fact, a middle-aged bloke wearing more chins than he started life with and carrying the clear evidence of forty years of beer and pies slung across his midriff.

When the afterburner lights, I haven't got 5,000 horsepower. I've got 10,000 horsepower, and possibly the biggest accident you've ever seen in your life.

Im not reckless. I was never reckless.

This is just the happiest car in the world! I shall call it Oliver! Not that we'd ever name a car on Top Gear. I wish I hadn't said that.

At home I drive an old Land Rover.

Failing my driving test first time; that was a disappointment on a geological scale.

Mexican cars are just going to be lazy, feckless, flatulent, overweight, leaning against a fence asleep looking at a cactus with a blanket with a hole in the middle on as a coat.