For reference:
Lotus: will get nicked.
TR7: garage around it is more likely to get nicked.
There used to be a bloke, let's call him Morgan*, an ex-student from Brunel who had over the years made a habit of coming back at weekends to help out with the ticket office for Weekend gigs. As far as I can tell he'd been doing this since he graduated, either in the early years of the university or the late years of the technical college it grew out of.
Morgan was in his mid to late fifties, ugly, moon faced, double chins beneath a receding chin, a conspicuous overbite, with horn rimmed glasses that had been out of fashion for 50 years, balding with a terrible comb-over, generally describable as greasy and sweaty. He wore checked jackets with a bad tie, over-tight collar and those shit brown polyester trousers that only existed in the 1970s and were four inches too short exposing argyle socks and brown suede Hush Puppies. He used to refer to any female students helping out as "his girls**" and against all reality gave every impression of thinking of himself as some sort of "lady's man". He used to drive a TR7, and when I see or think of a TR7 it's "Morgan" that I immediately think of.
The direct relevance is that he used to park his TR7 on the road in front of the University, a place no one in their right mind parked as the mean "parking to theft" time there was on the order of 1 to 2 hours. Nobody ever touched it.
* I don't know who I think I'm fooling by changing his name. Anyone who knew him will immediately recognise the description.
** He once made the mistake of describing my mate Caroline thusly within her hearing. The dressing down was something to hear, including phrases such as "impotent greasy old pervert".