My best friend Graham and I both had Ford Escorts when were about 18. They were our first cars
and we loved them. His was bright yellow and mine was a lovely dark maroon colour, like vintage
red wine. My car was much nicer with it's rally headlights, super four-speaker stereo and electric
airhorn.
We both had girlfriends who lived in the suburbs of London, in what they used to call the Green
Belt. It took us about half an hour to drive out to see them, which we did a couple of times a
week and always on Saturday night. It was an unwritten rule; Friday night out drinking with the
boys and Saturday night dancing with the girls.
I think it was about 3 o'clock in the morning, while driving home from the night club when I saw
Graham's yellow Escort upside down at the side of the road. He wasn't drunk, he'd been drinking
Coke all night, but somehow he had swerved off the slip road leading down to the motorway and
rolled the car down a small hill. He and his two friends were fine, just a few minor bruises and a
bit shaken after the tumble. The police came, eventually, and we all went home in my car.