Features

Photographers would call her a natural. Point the camera and she turns on the perfect, pert, pouting performance.

It's a talent that is being seriously tested at the moment, kneeling in what must be some discomfort on the roof of a Porsche Cayenne limousine, the exotic backdrop consisting of air ducts, water pipes and a large, green exit sign.

Still, no one appears to be going anywhere, her poses transforming the punters at the inaugural European Limousine and Chauffeur Show into a lust-fuelled army of amateur paparazzi, arms holding aloft mobile phone cameras, eager to get a shot.

Dave McPhail, the designer of the stretch Cayenne, might want them to take a bit more interest in the car but he isn't stupid. They'll get to that when the erotic façade abruptly fades as she clumsily makes her way off the roof and back into some clothes.

For now though, she's an integral part of selling the great limousine fantasy; life as one long party with plenty of care-free, high-roller sex thrown in.

It's a correlative so effectively woven into limo legend that most porn movies can't do without at least one scene involving an old Lincoln Town Car and a curious chauffeur.

It's also associations like this that have people turning their noses up. Well, this and the increasingly familiar scene from Soho to Tyneside, of white stretch limos spitting out gaggles of pomaded girls into the sodium-lit, alcohol-soaked night, the aura of A-List glamour left somewhere back in the 1970s.

We might well offer a superior chuckle ourselves at this desire to be glottal stop Royalty-for-a-day' but the truth is, there's money here, and lots of it.

What does it matter that people yearn for success so huge and wholly farcical? Such concerns are just another example of dreary, pendantic old England.