Simon de Burton

A reputation for excellence has long maintained the status of everything from French wines to Scottish tweed – but globalisation has disproved the myth that the best of any particular product can only come from one country. Cuba is no longer seen as the source of the finest cigars thanks to the increasing dominance of its near neighbour, the Dominican Republic.

When Land Rover finally axed its ‘old’ Defender in 2016 and promised to replace it with something better, traditionalists shed tears as readily as their beloved old-school Landys dripped oil. And the arrival of the ‘new’ Defender in early 2020 did nothing to help: ‘too expensive’, said some; ‘too complicated’, said others. ‘Too precious’, they moaned. ‘Not a real Defender’, they concluded. Oddly, it seemed, such people really did want to carry on driving a car based on a 70-year-old design that was bereft of safety features, as aerodynamic as a breeze block, as draughty as a shed, rusted readily underneath and with the turning circle of a tanker.

‘A new girl drops in at the palace,’ announced the London Evening News on the front page of its ‘election special’ of 4 May 1979. The accompanying image showed a beaming Margaret Thatcher (pre-implant teeth in evidence) waving from the rear seat of a ministerial car, on her way to meet the Queen and receive her official invitation to form a new administration. Another ‘new girl’ (or boy?) might be dropping in at the palace soon – but if he or she wants to do it in the same car, it will cost them.

In a 1965 issue of Playboy magazine, the late Sean Connery said: 'Bond is the invincible figure every man would like to be.' If you’re such a man (or woman) you’ve probably left it too late to step into the Crockett & Jones chukka boots worn by outgoing Bond Daniel Craig in No Time to Die – but you could buy his Barton Perreira sunglasses from the film, or even that grey Tom Ford suit he made such a mess of during the motorbike and train chase sequences. Both are up for grabs in a forthcoming charity auction organised by Christie’s and EON Productions that could prove to be the highest-grossing sale of Bond memorabilia ever staged.

With the 37th America’s Cup a mere two years away, a small number of the world’s billionaires are busily pouring vast quantities of cash into building the AC75 monohull racing yachts that will skim across the sea off Barcelona at speeds of up to 60 mph, all in pursuit of a trophy colloquially called ‘the Auld Mug’ that the winner will be allowed to take home, but not keep. The America’s Cup is possibly the most bizarre and arcane contest in the history of international sport, having started at the time of the Great Exhibition in 1851 when the Earl of Winton, Commodore of the Royal Yacht Squadron, gracefully invited members of the fledglingNew York Yacht Club to pop across the pond and make the most of the facilities.

As this year’s Wimbledon Championships will demonstrate, tennis has moved on a bit in the past half-century: rackets are no longer wooden, ‘Hawkeye’ settles the ‘You cannot be serious’ moments and the winner of the ‘gentlemen’s singles’ competition will trouser £1.7m (compared with the measly £5,000 Stan Smith took home in 1972). But what happened to those great outfits from the days of Smith, Bjorn Borg, John McEnroe and Jimmy Connors? The striped shirts, the short shorts, the groovy track tops. Where did all the style go? The answer dates back to the late 1990s when the organising committee tightened-up the dress code, side-lining the previous protocol requiring clothing worn on court to be ‘predominantly white’ in favour of a ’90 per cent’ rule.

'Moisture is a car’s worst enemy, Gerald. So why are you washing it?' So says Julie Walters in the 1985 comedy Car Trouble in which she plays frustrated housewife Jacqueline, whose pernickety husband has transferred his affection to an obsessively pampered Jaguar E-Type. The Sunday morning scene in which Gerald lovingly polishes the car’s famously phallic bonnet (Jacqueline refers to his ‘penis substitute’ more than once) is one that once took place in streets and suburban driveways the length and breadth of Britain. But now the sight of someone cleaning their own car with foaming water, sponge and chamois leather is a rare one.

As a pubescent teenager back in the late 1970s, I was delighted to once find a discarded copy of The Sun newspaper on a tube train, handily folded back to reveal page three. Having admired Miranda from Epping my eyes shifted to the report of a court case in which a retired brigadier had been stopped on the M1 motorway for driving his sporty Rover 3500S at a reckless 102 mph. His defence?

The best part of a decade elapsed between Land Rover's unveiling of the 'DC100' concept at the 2011 Frankfurt Motor Show and the first 'New Defenders' hitting the road two years ago just as Covid struck – prompting suggestions that the beefy SUV had arrived 'just in time for Armageddon'. During the interim, thousands of column inches and hours of video were dedicated to predicting what the production version might look like, how it would perform and debating whether or not it could ever truly match the rough-and-ready utilitarian charm of the time-served original.

Despite having to cope with family strife, a partying prime minister, the unctuous musings of BBC Royal Correspondent Nicholas Witchell and, most recently, a bout of Covid, our Queen conducted herself in the only way she knows how during the first two months of her platinum jubilee – with the utmost dignity. But 'dignified' might not be the first word that springs to mind in regard to a commemorative 'timepiece' launched this month by plastic watch pioneer Swatch. The £83 effort designed to appeal to the proletariat is decorated with a cartoon Queen flanked by an eager-looking Corgi – and dressed in an outfit that changes from red to yellow to green as the days go by thanks to an adapted cog behind the dial that more usually powers a date display.

Aside from Icelandic whale testicle beer and Korean wine made from baby mice, there are probably few drinks which the observation 'It's an acquired taste' is more applicable to than whisky.And with Burns night upon us, you can rest assured that there will be plenty of people who are already dreading the moment when the time comes to raise a glass in honour of Robert Burns, the 18th century 'heaven-taught ploughman-poet' whose birthday will be celebrated around the world on the night of January 25 with haggis, neeps - and, yes, whisky. Lots of whisky.

Readers of a certain age might recall the days when people 'went for a drive' as a form of pleasure. Yes, as unbelievable as it sounds now that combustion-engined cars are demonised, fuel prices are at an all-time high and unwittingly straying into a 'low emission zone' can cost you the price of a plane ticket to New York, there really was a time when people got behind the wheel and went somewhere simply for the joy of it. And do you know what? I still do. Yes. I am shameless. I still love that feeling of slipping into the driving seat, shutting the door and heading off on a vehicular adventure.I don't mean, I hasten to add, some soul-destroying commute into London in which every tedious mile is overshadowed by thoughts of Sadiq Khan's looming visage.

The so-called 'gin craze' of the early 18th century is said to have led to 'mother's ruin' being made available in more than 7,000 specialist shops up and down the length and breadth of England, many of which experimented with delicious special ingredients such as turpentine and sulphuric acid in an attempt to tease-out a few elusive extra flavours. Fast forward 300 years and, save for the killer extras, the gin craze has come full circle. And it's no longer confined to England or even to the mainland because, in case you hadn't noticed, 'island gin' is now all the rage. That's gin, made on islands. Where distillers claim elements such as salty maritime air, storm-tossed samphire and bits of 'hand harvested' kelp give their gin the extra edge that mainland producers just can't supply.

The British have a long-standing reputation for coming up with great ideas, executing them quite well – and then leaving others to really run with them. Such is the history behind what is officially the best-selling two-seat convertible sports car of all time, the evergreen MX-5 made by Japanese marque Mazda. The story goes that the MX-5 was born out of a conversation held 45 years ago between Mazda's former head of research and development Gai Arai and US automotive journalist Bob Hall. The latter had been bemoaning the impending demise of the simple, open-top sports car after it had been threatened with extinction during the late '60s due to US safety legislation on sales of conventional convertibles.

It's not so long ago that old watches used to turn-up at car boot fairs, charity shops and jumble sales (remember those?), usually in the form of unremarkable models set aside to be 'got rid of' after the grim reaper had called time on their original owners. Back then 'watch collecting' had yet to benefit from the turbo-boost of the internet and remained an esoteric hobby enjoyed by scholarly types who had put the work in to discover the varied histories of all the best brands in the old-fashioned way: by reading books. To everyone else, one second-hand watch was very much like another, regardless of the signature on the dial –unless, of course, it was a Rolex.

When the famously gloomy British winter starts to tighten its icy grip and spirits begin to wane, a tangible reminder that the sun will shine again always provides a fillip. And I find watching David Niven in the 1958 film Bonjour Tristesse usually does the trick. The movie version of Francoise Sagan's famous novel about a young girl called Cecile who lives with her rakish father, Raymond – effortlessly played by Niven – is based around the family villa on the Côte d'Azur, from where Raymond cruises the corniche in a silver Bentley S1 Continental drophead while looking tanned, relaxed and unspeakably sophisticated.

Many of us have reached the conclusion of late that the world has gone mad, so it will come as no surprise to learn that it's now possible to sign-up for a run with an entry fee that's proudly claimed to be 'the second highest in the world'. To those who have long regarded running as a) something that you would pay not to do or b) an activity that's appealing because it's one of the few things left in life that's free, entering the four-day 'Highland Kings Ultra' might seem like an odd way to blow £15,499. But, according to organiser Primal Adventures, 'a significant number' of the 40 slots for the April 2022 event are already filled.