The idea was to teach me as much about motor mechanics as possible, and boy did it do that. At the time, I was living in Swaziland and it would regularly let the terrain get the better of it. On one occasion, the rear axle dropped off.
It was the U-bolts which broke, proving how well I got to know all the oily bits on that car. Other times, it was the climate, rather than the terrain, which defeated the old Oxford – it would overheat so badly that the radiator needed to be replaced more than once Yet despite all the problems, I loved it.

Which is probably more of a relief for the upholstery than it is for me.. MY WORST car was my first car, which I fell in love with. Like all great love affairs, it was bound to be a painful experience and end in tears. I feel like death, but I now have a certificate to put on my toilet wall, which I can gaze up at between rounds of vomiting.

“Would you like anything else?” asks the waiter, sarcastically.Back home, I’m still sneezing, and rather sceptical about the idea that eating like a pig will cure a cold So I round off the day’s toils with a wafer-thin mint Unlike the man in the Monty Python film, I don’t explode. But there is so much that it feels more like an ordeal than a meal. By the end, I’m reduced to squashing up the chips and concealing them under the surface of the tartare sauce. I even consider hiding a fistful in my napkin and slipping them into my satchel, but there are too many people around for this to be a viable option. Someone might grass me up to the waiter, and then I might be stripped of my honours at a later date. With the aid of a cup of tepid Yorkshire tea, I slosh the last few chips inside me. The mushy peas are nice and vinegary; the batter is deliciously crisp.

He explains the terms of Harry’s Challenge: “You merst eat everyzink Not on ze table, not on ze floor” Moments later, dinner arrives. It is a gigantic deep-fried version of the Krypton Factor assault course. There is a shovelful of chips; two large ramekins of mushy peas; a big pot of tartare sauce. Most frighteningly, there is a monstrous battered halibut that hangs over the edges of the plate.Feeling a little like Captain Ahab going for the kill, I tuck in And it’s good Very good, in fact. To my surprise, I realise that the man in the seat parallel to mine is Irvine Welsh. I think about asking his advice on excess and indulgence, but I’m still a bit queasy from the pizzas, and don’t want to run the risk of puking over a celebrity.I’m disappointed to find that the waiter at Harry Ramsden’s in Terminal One is from France, rather than Yorkshire.