Here are Hammond's comments, posted in the May 27, 2005 edition of the Mirror:
GET THE HELL OUT OF DODGE
Will flogging lime-green Charger make me look like a cowboy salesman?
MY first car was haunted by a malicious spirit, possibly a poltergeist.
It manifested itself whenever I tried to sell the car, which was often, as I couldn't really afford to run it and needed the money for baked beans.
It would work perfectly well until a potential buyer arrived, at which point it would refuse to start, catch fire or dump all its oil in the road.
You may have seen the film Christine in which a car becomes possessed by a demon and roams the streets killing people.
Well, that was almost certainly based on my 1976 Toyota Corolla.
I tell you this to explain my last-drive-ophobia. You've done the deal and now it's time to take your old friend on that final journey - they know, I swear it.
There's a sulky, pitiable look they give you. Years ago, I was forced to sell my motorcycle, having run out of other stuff to flog and my credit cards maxed out.
I rang round, got the best price and went to collect the bike to make that final journey.
As I opened the garage door, I promise you it cowered - it actually hid in a corner and whimpered.
This week I had to do it again. My beloved Dodge Charger and I are to part company.
It's through no fault of the car, which delivers on all fronts - colossal power, more noise than God in a temper and an ability to turn heads from 10 miles away. No, we must part because my new Morgan is due to arrive and there are only so many comedy cars a man can have in his life.
Craftily, I decided to sell it on eBay, the online auction house, thus avoiding the final drive to the dealer.
But it was decided that my home in Gloucestershire is a little too remote for anyone wanting to have a look before bidding.
After all, there aren't that many people out there who really need a lime green 60s American muscle car.
I have to do anything I can to give it a sporting chance of making the best price, so I decided to sell it from a mate's house in London. Now I know this car works. I've had pretty much every bit of it rebuilt, but still, the journey to London was terrifying.
This is a massive, butch muscle car, the seven-litre V8 engine sends flames spitting from the exhausts, but I drove it like it was a pampered piece of fragile Italian exotica that could explode at any moment.
I made it, but I know that when the auction is over and the new owner turns up to collect it, my heart will be in my mouth as they insert the key, turn it two clicks clockwise, feel the resistance as it prepares to switch on the ignition and send the charge to turn the starter and then...
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