LIKE clockwork, at 1:30am the insomnia devil taunts me awake. I quickly realise he will not piss off until I wander the house and balcony like a ranga-cropped wraith. My little mate Rastus the Jack Russell knows the drill, so he throws back his blanket and whacks on his blue singlet to keep me company.
We decide to watch a film. Rasty wants to watch Convoy (again), but I find Star Wars films next to our nerd box so I whack ’em on. Rastus sits on the armrest of my recliner, close enough to show his support but not intimate enough to offend his macho Jack Russell image.
So we watch a few Star Wars films, and I start to see a pattern forming. Every time Han Solo pulls the trigger on his Millennium Falcon to kick it into hyperdrive, it coughs, splutters and carries on like a Phase III with a steaming radiator and cooked brakes. I am sure many Falcon owners know the feeling: like an XF with a wet towel on the intake and a gutful of Warragamba whisky.
Why does his Millennium Falcon always play up?
Being the universe’s fastest four-door must really suck when Pete Skywalker buzzes straight past in a tiny XU-1-Wing.
I guess with a name like Han Solo it was predestined he would own a Falcon; I mean it sounds like an activity a GT Falcon owner does on a lonely Saturday night in front of a full-length mirror while wearing an Autolite decal and 375g of whipped cream.
Maybe if Han Solo owned a Millennium Monaro instead, Princess Leia would have put her landing gear down for him. But I guess if he had a Monaro his name would be Titty McMoneyshot, not Han Solo.