It’s 3AM on a Sunday and I’m standing near the Mulsanne turn, happily breathing in the smell of burnt rubber, hot oil and exhaust fumes as a Chevron B8 and a Ford GT40 nip at the heels of a Porsche 908 which, once it’s back in a straight line, spits the two rivals out to the tune of a spinetingling howl from its flat-eight engine as its tail lights fade rapidly into the distance. You’ve guessed this is the Le Mans 24 Hours, but what year – 1968, ’69 maybe?