It’s 1972. I’m a well-to-do businessman who likes to look a bit flash, but I need something I can also fit my wife and kid in. Naturally, I drive a Ford Capri, and it’s my pride and joy. The car I always promised myself.
Now it’s 1978. I’m an undercover copper with a perm down to my shoulders, a tan leather jacket and a chip on my shoulder the size of Deptford. I spot the bloke I’ve been hunting down for the last three weeks; I bring the Capri to a screeching halt in front of him, jump out, chase him across the bonnet and nick him. Job done.
Or is it, in fact, 1983? The perm’s gone, but there’s a chest wig there instead, and I’m off to Southend for a night on the town with the other ’alf. Quick...
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