Our Grumpy Old Man Bill McCarthy turns his attention to the directors of MG Rover, Jeremy Clarkson and motor bikes.

A slight change of tack this week with some things that make me angry for doing them and things I am upset I never did -  like  becoming a director at MG Rover.

It might not have sounded like the greatest bit of business at the time, but no doubt those shrewd Germans sitting in Bavaria must have thought all their birthdays had come early after the Phoenix Four bought MG Rover for just £10.

I don’t know what the German for “there’s a mug born every minute” is, but I’m sure that must have been what the BMW meisters must have been thinking.

Many years later thousands were on the dole and MG Rover had closed, but the four were living the high life, despite now being banned from holding future directorships. It shows the British can teach those Germans a thing or to about making money.

Being Jeremy Clarkson

No, seriously. I know it probably seems ridiculous to anyone with half a brain cell, but think about it.

On top of all that clever wit and charm, he is clearly a handsome hunk.

Forget any of those spurious rumours about his private life,  just look at the loving way the strategically placed, attractive women on the Top Gear set gaze adoringly at this motoring icon.

As the wealthy ex-public schoolboy to continues to rake it in, I suppose the question could be asked: “What attracts you to the millionaire Jeremy Clarkson?”

Things I wish I hadn’t done – Buying that scooter

It seems it is again fashionable to be riding motor scooters.

Back in the sixties and seventies, it was all the rage to ride a scooter, even if you secretly preferred a Harley Davidson. It was the mod chic of the time, with many  of the desirable Lambrettas customised to the nth degree, with more mirrors than a posh brothel.

That was if you had plenty of spare cash. Or like me, you couldn’t afford  a Lambretta and had to settle for the deathrap hairdryer on two wheels that was the Vespa 90 – technologically inferior to Noah’s Ark.

Far from looking hip in expensive Parka and shades, your’s truly looked like something from the Somme, with an old Greatcoat and second-hand skid lid, goggles borrowed from Biggles and a pair of my mum’s gloves.

That first motor bike

Finally having graduated from the scooter, the Triumph Tiger Cub seemed, well, a  triumph. But the battered skid lid remained. Trouble was, the ‘handbuilt cub’ felt like it had been assembled by a partially-trained chimpanzee.

Cables stretched and snapped, chains stretched and broke and it deposited more oil than an exploding BP oilwell.

No wonder the Japanese like Honda and Suzuki were rubbing their hands with anticipation.