Cars promise far more than they deliver, both as consumer products and as mainstays of manufacturing economies. They pledge the freedom of the open road, the wind in our hair and a guaranteed uplift in our sexual performance. Behind the wheel of a car every man feels like an alpha male – or at the very least a beta male if it is a Mondeo.

The reality is otherwise. Most car journeys are mandatory flogs rather than Kerouac-style Odysseys. They consist of commutes, school runs and business trips. Cars themselves, through convergent evolution, have achieved a peak of excellence that renders them uniform. No longer do they boast tailfins, half-timbering or gullwing doors. Rustproof and tamper-evident, their innards repel the attentions of the keenest amateur mechanic.

Yet still consumers love them. Governments too. Status-conscious premiers fear that unless they support something vaguely resembling an indigenous car industry, other first ministers will thump them and pinch their lunch money at the G20. On the domestic political front, the rule of thumb is that a redundant car worker is 10-times more tragic than a jobless bank clerk. An oily halo hovers over this horny-handed son of toil.