“A Boo-gahdi? Are you famous?” On a packed Santa Monica Pier, sprawl of LA to the right, Pacific Ocean to the left, the pneumatic blonde - hair dyed porcelain-white, bosoms overinflated as basketballs, hot pants lacquered to posterior - leans over the Veyron’s door, inch-long eyelashes almost brushing my face. “Can I get a ride?”

“Er, no,” I reply. “I’m not famous. I’m… English. It’s not my car.”

Pneumatic Blonde’s demeanour switches, flick-knife style, from coquettish to caustic. “Then get off the frickin’ pier!” And away she huffs, six-inch heels stomping the boardwalk, in hunt of a man of true wealth and, eventually, a messy, profitable divorce settlement.

And in that instant it pops, the dizzy sense of euphoria, of utter relief, at having delivered a two-million quid, 260mph hypercar - the greatest car in the world, no question - on the biggest, daftest road trip in TG history, 2,404 miles from Chicago to the LA waterfront without damage, speeding ticket or the most retweeted crash in history. Seven days of heady, sun-drenched strangeness, and it ends with a verbal bitch-slap from a wannabe WAG made of 85 per cent aftermarket parts and with a cleavage running 55psi. But, hey, what great road trip doesn’t?



Pictures: Justin Leighton

This feature was originally published in the August 2014 issue of Top Gear magazine