The phone chirps. It's a text message from a footballist, who's been offered a Mustang GT500E Super Snake for two hundred and eleventy billion dollars. And wants to know if it's a good buy.

No, obviously. It'd be a terrible buy. Mustangs are like those blondes with hair and breast extensions who hang around in clubs hoping to snare some poor chap who's just been evicted from Celebrity Who Wants to Get Thrown out of the Brother.

He knows he shouldn't. He knows she has the News of the World's number on speed dial and that he'll be reading about how he performed before he's actually finished performing. But she's so cute. And she wants to bring her friend along. The dilemma.

I have toyed with the idea of a Mustang ever since I was old enough not to need reins while out shopping. I like the way they look, and the way they sound. I like Steve McQueen's car in Bullitt especially.

But every time I drive one, I'm left with an abiding sensation that I'm in a dustbin lorry. It has a Seddon Atkinson-quality feel and it handles like it's towing a fully laden skip. And this is true: I do have a weird feeling that if I buy something American, I'm in some way supporting George Bush.

So no, then. No Mustang. And yet I still want one. Or a Charger. Or a Corvette. I'm not bothered. Just so long as it's a car with a big set of muscles.

I'm not alone either, it seems. Quite apart from the footballist, there are plenty of others in the same boat. Plenty of others who've grown up with Beemers and Benzes and now want something orange. With a Confederate flag on the bonnet and exhausts big enough to sleep in.

I know this because the value of anything loud 'n' proud is accelerating faster than the stock market. Three years ago, a 1971 Plymouth Hemi Cuda would have fetched a million. Last year, according to CNN, they were changing hands for twice that.

Of course, the Hemi Cuda is an exception - only 11 were made. But lesser, more common stuff is outperforming the stars from Ferrari and Maserati in the auction houses. Just the other day, a boggo Mustang 500 convertible went for $550,000. Why?

Well, of course, in the olden days, glamour came from the race tracks and every boy grew up wanting a Ferrari or a Maserati. Ferris Bueller's dad had a Ferrari. Ferris Bueller would have no clue why.