Before I could answer in the affirmative, the pinker, marginally less ham-like khaki-wearer interjected aggressively. “And wha’s wrong with that?” He had, implausibly, a Scottish accent flecked with a hint of Afrikaans, which is precisely as weird as you might imagine. He gestured towards his battered Land Rover Defender 110, every panel of which appeared to have sustained a significant but very localised accident. “She’s got a turbo, and she’s gone half a million kilometres, no problems.”
“Stresses the engine,” replied Hamface authoritatively. “And can you fix it when it goes wrong?” He wafted a sausage-like arm at his faded, double-cab Hilux, so dented it made the Defender look showroom-fresh. “No turbo on that, 750,000km, tight as a duck’s arse.” Few great romantic poems have been written in Afrikaans.
“Aye, and what sort of consumption d’ye get from that?” snorted Afriscotsman. “Two point seven, is it? Lucky to get 15 to the gallon from that. Landie’ll get mid-twenties, easy. That’s the problem with you Toyota lot. You’re proud of sh*** consumption. What are you gonna do when you run out of fuel in the middle o’ nowhere? That’s the difference between life and death, that is…”