Driven: the awesome Icon Bronco
I'm at the wheel of a 1972 Ford Bronco, darling of middle America, workhorse of the masses, an off-road vehicle before the SUV tag was even a glimmer in a marketeer's eye. The driver's window is open, my elbow is propped on the sill and I feel at home, years of driving early-series Land Rovers providing a notional allegory to this Yankee cousin. There's a meaty V8 glub-glubbing up front, a heavy, mechanical five-speed manual 'box to wrestle, and a view out over a bonnet that hasn't changed in 40 years.
I swear that somewhere I can hear the gentle picking of banjos. And it feels deliciously, unquestionably right. But all is not what it seems. Because it never is. Around one corner, there's a stupendously fat man in a wheelchair paddling himself along the sidewalk with his feet, straining flesh bursting through the gaps in the seat. He's carrying a cardboard sign that reads ‘Hungry like a WLOF' printed in childish capitals, and he appears to be singing softly to himself - something bluesy about fried food and chicken feet. This, it seems, is what a naked, derelict Dalek might look like.