As I circle the 33 Stradale bathed in Spring sunshine, in the courtyard of Alfa’s Balocco test track, I’m confused. My primal instinct is to sink to my knees and kiss its tyres while making grunting noises and flamboyant hand gestures.
This, after all, is a bright red Italian supercar with an Alfa badge on it, but I can’t stop thinking about those painfully glamorous fashion shows where models glide up and down the catwalk in artfully torn bin bags, the great wall of celebs watching on, enthralled by the genius of Jean-Paul Poopier’s winter collection. How much does the weight of a brand, or a designer, cloud your judgement?
