Yes, the clutch is pretty evil, the synchros obstreperous, and the gearbox will terrify anyone who’s grown up with a paddleshift. The turbos spool up in a dramatically old-school way, kicking you in the back and whooshing in your ears. But when it all gels, the human lump behind the wheel is suddenly transformed into a key part of a chain reaction Einstein or Oppenheimer would have appreciated. The steering wheel writhes in your hands; the tyres squirm for traction on the tarmac. Has any car ever felt so alive? God knows, I wouldn’t want to try it on a wet Wednesday in Wales, and the brakes aren’t great but, you know, wow. Accelerating hard in an F40 reminds me of that bit in Pulp Fiction when Travolta plunges the hypodermic of adrenalin into Uma Thurman’s chest.