‘Its easy Bozza. Yes, it’s old, but it’s automatic. Easy as riding a bike!’
Ken gave one of his trademark grins as Boris clonked it into ‘drive’ and hit the accelerator. The 1970’s burnt-orange Mini jerked forward and sped up the road, clipping a wheelie-bin with its door mirror as it sped passed and began to climb the steep slope of the lamp lit cobbled street.
‘Why do we have to call you Bozza?’
‘Because, if I’m recognised when I’m out engaging in espionage with you chaps, my career will be over. And I could certainly kiss goodbye to ever being Prime...