This must be the ultimate no-brainer: a beautiful young woman slides up to you at a cocktail party and asks, “Would you like to drive my Aston Martin at the weekend?”
That just ticks so many boxes for an old dinosaur like me. It could only have been better if she’d been wearing a Tottenham Hotspur football strip at the time.
The occasion was the party thrown by the UK consulate in Dubai to celebrate the queen’s birthday last week. The young lady was Sophia Wineinger, assistant to the regional boss of the legendary British car firm, which is now controlled by Kuwaiti investors. How could I refuse?
So it was that last Thursday I revved up the six-litre, Aston Martin V12 Vantage S, humming James Bond movie themes as I prepared to take off from the Al Quoz service centre.
“Take off” is absolutely the right phrase, because as soon as you hit the gas the engine – growling with the menace of an unhappy Rottweiler while idling – is transformed into an F16 fighter plane. The roar makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end.
I’m not really a petrolhead. No Jeremy Clarkson me, except perhaps in all-round grouchiness, Mrs Kane says.
But Aston Martin is a name that even I recognise as one of the greats of motoring.
I remember watching Sean Connery as Bond in the movie Goldfinger as a young lad, marvelling at the DB5 model with all the gadgets – machine guns, ejector seats, smokescreen. And Shirley Eaton on the other side of the gear stick.
The Vantage, sadly, didn’t have any of those additions. A machine gun would come in handy sometimes on Sheikh Zayed Road, and Shirley would be welcome any time. But what a car it was. I took it for a spin from Dubai to Abu Dhabi, just to let it “stretch its legs” on the E11. It was difficult to keep within the speed limit, simply because you could almost feel the car willing you on from 120kph.
The great delight was overtaking. Even at high speeds the Vantage had so much in reserve that just a gentle touch on the gas pedal got you round anything in the outside lane in a second or two.
It was great fun to linger there for a while and wait for the tailgater to approach, flash his lights – and then see him dwindling in your rear-view mirror as you hit the gas. Very satisfying indeed.
In town, the car was an even bigger thrill. Not for the speed, of course, given the very sensible limits on virtually every Dubai road now. But for the attention.
I’ve never before had my photograph taken while waiting at traffic lights, but the tourists outside Burj Al Arab obviously found me irresistible.
The admiring looks from the valets outside big hotels in Jumeirah were gratifying, as was the fact that you were guaranteed a spot on the forecourt, rather than the underground car park. And I lost track of the number of times I turned down invitations – “you want to race?” – on Beach Road on Friday night.
On Sunday I hung on to it for a few hours longer than agreed. Sophia called me and asked if there was a problem.
“Well yes, there’s some bad news I’m afraid,” I said. This was followed by a sharp intake of breath from Sophia, fearing the worst.
“I don’t want to give it back, ever.” She laughed, thinking I was joking. I was not.
fkane@thenational.ae
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