I'm the lyrical Jesse James

"Summer afternoon, summer afternoon; to me those have always been the two most beautiful words in the English language" Henry James

The British summer, capricious and fickle with her sunbeams may dissapear at any moment. Perhaps this explains why the public are wont to grab it with both hands when it does arrive. When the sun is beaming down on Albion the scent of coconut milk is heavy in the air, and swathes of puffy white flesh are brought forth for pinkening.

Perhaps that's why cabriolet's are more popular in Britain than anywhere else in Europe. It certainly isn't because of the handling improvements lopping the roof off brings.

The ragtop speaks of a youthful joie de vivre, a sun-kissed embrace of summer, just as a folding metal roof indicates that you do highlights and permanent waves for a living.

All this makes a certain kind of drop top all the more inexplicable. The large blousy Peugeot, Merc and Volvo type offerings, as dashing and attractive as a middle aged divorcee in short shorts. For god's sake put it away. Only one adult has managed to pull off the 'grown up in the back of a large open car look' and that person I'm afraid was Hitler.

But most most puzzling of all. The number one mystery that daily tortures my enquiring mind as I travel the glorious highways on a hot sun-kissed day with an enthusiasts eye is...

Why in Christing Fuck have you got the Cunting roof up? Twat! What type of fucking weather are you waiting for?