The auctioneer stutter raps the microphone at a million beats per minute. Around him guys in black jackets and red ties survey their identically dressed colleagues in the bidding pit and grandstands beyond, the beer bars and VIP platforms, looking for a signal. In a dark, distant corner there must have been a nod. Activity ripples outwards from that spot. A Mexican wave crossed with a Chinese whisper communicated via the medium of racecourse bookies’ arms radiates outwards as the red ties go into overdrive and semaphore the bid to the stage. The auctioneer, somehow, goes up a gear.
We know car auctions. They’re either grotty places populated with car-dealing tyre kickers looking for stock amongst unloved ex-rental repmobiles, or they’re ultra exclusive, sip champagne
