The ‘Centenary’ Ghost that led to dodged punches | Thank Frankel it’s Friday

To celebrate, the modern Rolls-Royce had built a batch of 35 cosmetically tweaked so-called ‘Centenary’ Ghosts, in one of which it was my lucky lot to chase some dozens of original cars up and down some Alpine passes. Many of these had also driven from England under their own steam, and were in the middle of a journey that would number some thousands of miles by the time they were home again.

But Rolls had also promised me that not only could I spend a bit of time travelling in the only one of those works cars still to survive, but that its owner might even let me drive it a short distance. So, I sat next to him as he plied me with every detail of its history and its 7.4-litre straight six motor wafted us along at considerable speed, the gradient making very little difference to our rate of progress. Unbeknown to him, this was not my first Ghost experience, as I’d already driven AX201, the legendary ‘Silver Ghost’, so knew something of their ways.

He seemed extremely reluctant to hand over control – I’d have been the same – and then proceeded to bless me with a level of instruction a newbie prospective surgeon might expect before making their first incision in a real, live human being.

I did as I was bidden, recall no expensive noises emanating from its four-speed gearbox nor becoming stranded with what is known by drivers of properly old cars as ‘a box full of neutrals’ but from my tutor there was no encouragement, let alone praise. After less than five minutes he pointed to an upcoming layby and indicated my time was up.

Whatever test he had set for me and for whatever reason, I had clearly failed. It’s not often I’m glad to get out of such a car but I expect the only person happier than I to vacate the driver’s seat was its owner. The new Ghost pulled in behind and I gratefully fell into its welcoming midst.

All we had left to do was get some pictures of the new Ghost for my story. The photographer, Jamie Lipman, was an old friend and I suggested to him that my words would be livened up by an image of a rather large Rolls-Royce being pedalled rapidly through a corner. There was no private facility on which to do this, so we just had to pick the most suitable corner we could and get on with it. So what happened next was entirely my fault.

If anything, it went even better than expected. Perhaps because I was still annoyed, but mainly because I’d never seen a shot of a modern Rolls in an extravagant state of oversteer, I went steaming into the corner, gave a little lift as I turned in just to loosen the rear tyres, then a whole boatful of throttle to set them on their way. The Rolls took to it like a natural, drifting through the curve, always keeping well within the confines of the correct side of the road and powering up the hill beyond. I barely noticed the Opel Astra now descending said hill towards the corner.

But its owner certainly noticed me and my Roller (but probably not its Goodwood plate). I guess being presented with a Rolls-Royce at a distinctly jaunty angle relative to what might usually be expected was not a normal sight round those parts, and while he was nowhere near it at the time, it is fair to say he took some exception to what he had seen.

Showing considerable prescience, he saw Jamie standing in the field with an enormous lens sticking the front of his camera and instantly connected him with me. He stopped his car, marched over to him and started remonstrating in a language Jamie did not speak. I doubt it would have made a difference if he had, because the next thing that happened was he grabbed Jamie’s clothing with one hand, bunched the other into a fist and pulled back, clearly intent of re-arranging my friend’s features.

Jamie, however, is a perceptive cove and clearly recognised this threat for what it was. He also noticed this bloke’s mobile phone sticking out of the breast pocket of his shirt. Before a blow could be landed, Jamie had plucked the mobile from its resting place and hurled it into the field, figuring the bloke would be even more keen to retrieve it than lamp my mate. It was a gamble, but it worked. He released his grip and Jamie, needing no further invitation, legged it.

The first I knew of any of this was when I got a call from Jamie saying, “I wouldn’t come back for a while if I were you…” And that was that. Jamie lives in the US these days, but we still see each other a fair bit and, when we do, still chuckle over the incident. He’d had no idea what I was going to do, but professional that he is, kept his finger on the button throughout, the result of which, if not its aftermath, remains for all to see.