
DURING a previous life I worked for a few years as a motoring journalist. It was certainly one of the easiest and most over-privileged jobs imaginable.
Once a week at the very least, all the main motoring hacks (plus as many hangers-on and blag merchants who could make it) would be flown to Southern Spain, Italy or the French Riviera, put up in a top class hotel, issued with a brand new car to drive with abandon and generally treated as if the sun shone out of their proverbials. Not bad for a job that essentially boils down to saying “The latest model is a bit bigger, a bit better and a bit more expensive than the one it replaces” in anything from 500 to 1,000 words.
