Lament for the Boy Racer

They are the twenty-first century's equivalent of the 1960s trainspotter - but with less cool. Addicted to the fading glamour and nostalgic regret of a soon-to-be-gone transport mode, they linger round shopping centres in the early evening, pumping out the latest cover CD from Mixmag, showing off the latest free gift from Max Power, wearing their Peacock's hoodies (made in Slovakia), their Matalan jeans (made in Belarus, £5 a pair) and their Woolworth's trainers (made in Malaysia). Their lower-middle-class angst directed at anyone that resides outside their peer (pressure) group, they sullenly crowd around their 17th birthday present 'customised' Ford Focuses, music turned up to 'almost loud' whilst doing wheelies round the car park on their Kwikfit tyres, yelling 'whatever' at each other, before checking their watches to make sure they get home before nine. This is the face of rebellion in 21st century Britain. Cars! Aren't we cool pretending to be interested in cheapo chunks of characterless metal and plastic, leering at the girls who would rather be home watching the Antiques Roadshow, swooning over Hugh Sculley, a real man.

As hoodies morph into anoraks, customised morphs into practical and young men morph into premateurely balding and flabbing 23-year-old middle-aged junk food junk telly addicts, we cool types will be planning for a post-oil world, sans cars, sans boy racers.