Features

Just today, I had lunch with Uma Thurman. Let me say that again, slightly differently. JUST TODAY, I HAD LUNCH WITH UMA THURMAN. And I was going well. I wasn't too nervous. I didn't stutter. I kept my dribbling to a minimum. And I didn't ask her if she'd really pulled Daryl Hannah's eye out, or if it was made up.

I think I even made her laugh a couple of times. But then, one of the other people at the table told her that I hosted a car show, and immediately the lights went out in her eyes. She had visions of me, in a track suit, driving a crappy old M3 at 270mph and talking of nothing else but camshafts and piston fizz. Moments later, she was gone.

And it's all your fault, Darren.

The problem is that at the moment, petrolheads fall into two distinct groups. There are those who like cars because they are an outward symbol that life is treating them well. We see a lot of this in Cheshire. In the Golden Triangle between Prestbury, Alderley Edge and Wilmslow, they park their Lexi and their Bentleys at the bottom of the drive (so they can be seen from the road) and walk to the house.

Then you have Darren, who likes cars for their ability to do extremely high speeds in extremely inappropriate parts of town. He thinks that by doing a handbrake turn in Acacia Avenue, all the local girls will want to catch some of his venereal diseases.

I know of no one who likes cars solely because of their design, no one who loves cars purely for how they look. This would be fine. This would be cool because it would be like enjoying the clothes you see on a catwalk.

I know of no one who truly loves cars for the freedom they bring or the views they afford. And no, please do not introduce at this point, people who love old crocks and classics. By rumbling around in an old Ghost or a Napier, what they're demonstrating is not a love for cars but a love for the past. Every single person with a classic car would like to see policemen clipping hoodies round the ear, and a return of National Service.

All this has to stop. Luckily, I have a plan.

In the early days of homosexuality, there was much prejudice and tittering. So those campaigning for more equality took it upon themselves to bring famous faces out of the closet, to say, "Look everyone. George Michael and Peter Mandelson are homosexuals. So you at the back stop sniggering, and accept that a bit of botty sex is fine."

It worked well, and I think we should do the same. We should out the people who are interested in cars but daren't say so for fear their neighbours will call the police.

Rowan Atkinson is one. And Nick Mason is another. Then you have Michael Gambon, Joanna Lumley, Steve Coogan, Chris Evans, and yes, even Rory Bremner.

All of you. Put down your copies of Autocar. Stop Sky-Plussing TG to watch in the middle of the night when everyone's in bed. Come out of the garage and tell the world you don't have to be an alpha male to like an Alfa Romeo. Because, with a bit of luck and a fair wind, we can convince everyone that liking cars does not demonstrate you have a pornographic hard drive and a wardrobe full of track suits.

Hopefully then, the next person who delves into the trumpet of my Lambo will be a bit less gormless and a bit more like Uma Thurman.