Keys on the table – I grew up hating the Testarossa. It seemed to exemplify everything I detested about the Eighties. Four-wheeled cocaine for the personality deficient; a Ferrari for whom saying they owned a Ferrari was more important than driving one; (questionable) style over substance – the opposite to a tuned Cossie. However, much as you need to be of a certain age to appreciate certain things – oysters, whisky, Pink Floyd – your first proper experience of a Testarossa will blow away any preconceptions. It’s sheer theatre – yes, there’s no getting away from its hedgerowtroubling width, but it’s also low, very red and festooned with the era-defining accoutrements we simply don’t get now. Pop-up headlamps, side strakes, antennae-like mirrors? Pass me the pastel shirt and loafers.
