Inside my head, some heavyset men are attacking the seventh circle of Hell with gusto … and sledgehammers.
I try to move, but someone has removed my bones and replaced them with PAIN.
I open my mouth and out falls the manky crotch of an onion farmer's underpants.
I peel open my eyes. They've been sandpapered and rubbed with burning oil …
Hang on a minute … burning motor oil in my eyes? The scream of racing engines pounding through my head? My breath an unsavoury reminder of too much good organic food and wonderful local beer?
Uh-oh …
It all comes flooding back. It's the morning after another Goodwood Revival Meeting.
Roaring around my head, kicking my bleary consciousness into a shuddering first gear comes the vision of countless millions of pounds worth of vintage Ferraris, Maseratis, Alfas, Jaguars, Astons, Lolas, GT40s, Cobras, Corvettes; Lotus, Brabham and BRM Formula 1 cars, TT bikes and pre-war Brooklands racers, all tearing round the old Goodwood Grand Prix circuit like there's no tomorrow!
Goodwood is great! I go every year with my brother, Phil. Everyone dresses in period clothes from the heyday of motor racing. Tens of thousands of people in fancy dresss. It's really trippy, like Pepperland, only with insanely loud motor racing. There are wartime uniforms, British and American; beautiful women in forties, fifties and sixties dresses (and hairstyles), spivs, mods, rockers, toffs and peasants, vintage mechanics … All around the track are fifties ice cream vans, sixties hot dog stands, WW2 bars with live swing music, an old fairground … even the recovery vehicles on the racetrack are classic trucks. Next year, if it's sunny again, I'll take a load of pictures of the general hallucinogenic weirdness that goes on all weekend around the periphery of the racetrack. This year it was too cold and windy to do it justice.
If you love vintage motorsport, this is the best weekend of the year.
Even when the weather's shite, like this year (it's been sunny the past three years, so not a bad record for the end of a British Summer).
As always, the best drivers and riders in the world are racing, from modern Formula 1, Le Mans and Indy stars, back through the likes of Stirling Moss, Wayne Gardner, Alan Jones, Derek Bell, Phil Hill, Jackie Stewart, Jack Brabham, Bobby Rahal, and way too many more to mention. Every one of 'em going totally nutjob out on the track. Stirling Moss spinning out on the straight; three priceless cars in the gravel at Brooklands corner; one of them belly up (all in one race); a fifties Ferrari completely trashed in the tyre wall at St. Mary's, and brilliant lunatic racing action; every race going right down to the wire.
Never mind that it's blowing a force 8 storm with horizontal rain; the sky is full of Spitfires and Mustangs; behind the grandstands the Yanks in their Jeeps entice local girls with nylons and the racetrack is full of mad old guys in goggles, desperately sawing away at steering wheels as their cars slide sideways around the wet, twisting circuit at insane speeds. Wonderful … even if I feel like crap this morning …If you're not a fan of vintage car racing, here's some homework to keep you busy:
Today's phrase you must use in your next telephone conversation: I think I'd like to try a same-sex relationship.
Today's track to track down: Monkey Gone To Heaven by Pixies. Because it makes me dance round the room like your dad, only worse.
Today's reading assignment: On The Road by Jack Kerouac. Go on. You know you've been meaning to read it for ages; now's your chance.
Today's fact: As men get older, their dancing becomes more sexually alluring … To what, however, is still a mystery.
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