There’s a kind of charm that only comes with age, and in today’s jaded world nothing’s aged better than the Cheetah Classic. It’s practical, spacious, understated. It oozes red-blooded panache. You open the door, and you catch the smell of brandy and cigars on its breath. It’s eminently respectable, it’s constantly groping its secretary, and it doesn’t even feel the need to pretend it has friends from minority groups. Welcome to the old world.
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