Bristols are not, nor ever were, intended for the common herd. They are for wilful iconoclasts; people who plough their own furrow, spurn the commonplace, and pursue the esoteric, the elusive and, above all, the exclusive, in everything. Bristol’s legendary guardian and leader, Tony Crook, was so committed to the cult of exclusivity that the closest most people could get to the interior of the marque’s sole showroom in Kensington was to press their noses against the windows and strain for a peek at the quasi-mythical automotive beasts inside. Viewings were very much by invitation only, with successful purchases pretty much dependent upon Tony Crook’s approval of the cut of the potential buyer’s jib. And if ex-racing driver and RAF pilot Mr. Crook didn’t think you were the right sort of chap, he’d be sure to let you know in the most forthright and brusque language at his command.

Even motor journalists were kept at arm’s length and their requests for cars to road test were routinely de...