I’ve fucking burnt myself. It hurts, a lot. And it’s not my fault, I wasn’t courting the sun, I’m not one of those simpletons who feels compelled to lie down, flesh out, and expose their organs to a perpetual nuclear assault. I can’t remember the last time this happened, it certainly would’ve been accidental as in this instance but I would’ve recalled the pain sufficiently to date my last encounter with The Hot One, this means that I’ve burnt myself worse than anytime in my history, fucking ‘ouch,’ yeah.
The weekend began very suddenly when Jamie appeared at my soon-to-not-be-gaff and we instantly fucked off on the tube to Clapham Common and made out way to a pub facing the common (it has a discreet roof terrace largely free of the arseholes that frequent that part of London.)
After almost planting an entire pint of beer on my front cock and bag when I sat down on a broken seat, Jamie and I settled down in the warm sunshine and caught up. Frank joined us and we remained outside until cooler air forced us down into the belly of the hostelry where we were joined first by James and then Rob with his missus in tow. Things get a bit vague here on in, at some point Jamie, Frank and I went home via the Lebanese Café for a shawarma, I do recall that it was fucking lovely, and then we went back to mine and made a load of noise, because I’m leaving and I don’t give a fuck, or rather, I didn’t then. Frank left and Jamie played guitar (he’s very good by the way, unlike that knuckle-dragging horror of connective tissue and gristle that survives below me on rudimentary mental facilities) and I woke up at 4 am on my couch with the day starting.
Jamie left the following morning and I remained asleep for a while before succumbing to my weekend. I was extremely aware that IC was away and was determined to make the best of my circumstance, perhaps even celebrate what may be the final Saturday I spend alone in chez Piqued? So I did some sewing. Not sure how this happened but I find sewing therapeutic, I like it enough to have a college qualification in textiles, which is basically posh-sewing. I shoved on The Iron Giant (someone said it was good, it’s fucking brilliant!) and made good a pair of IC’s jeans that I’d volunteered to repair. Feeling very homely with myself I decided to spurn the world and after visiting the shops for a paper and milk shut myself in for the rest of the afternoon and evening that revolved both happily and fractiously around the ongoing issues with the tattoo-to-be. I ate, watched a thrilling but completely shit movie, and sank a bottle of wine, all the while pondering the bloody ink design. It’s coming on nicely now you’ll be delighted to hear.
Sunday I was out by 10.30 the Black Bitch and I flew to the folks. My niece is now talking and it seems this has helped her overcome her fear of Uncle Nasty. Dad and I drove to Brands Hatch in his beautifully restored 1972 MGB, he bought it for a song a few years ago and has spent a great deal of time fiddling with her private parts, it’s now immaculate and best of all, convertible.
I should imagine this latter point heralded the beginnings of my burning. It was a beautiful day, warm and sunny, perfect to be in open-top British Sportscar, we burbled happily there in under an hour and arrived in time for the first race, classic Formula 2 which isn’t really my bag, bit too processional. The Supersport race that followed was fantastic though, massive 5000cc cars that are louder than Motorhead at 5 feet inspiring goosebumps and envy at not being given the chance of a go. All the while I’m outside in a vest with the sun beating down on me.
The Historic Formula 1 race was a bit of an anti climax though I did get to see the sublime Lotus once driven by Nigel Mansell screaming through druids, but the biggest pisser of all was The Orwell series, 8000cc Supercars and the race dad and I were looking forward to the most.
The cars look stunning, almost cliché-macho but achingly beautiful with voices to match, a sweet screaming rumble that lasted for 2 laps before a French driver planted his BRM (possibly the only one left in the world ) into a tyre wall at 140 mph. The resulting delay signified the worst; no news of someone’s condition is bad news as it’s the protocol when a fatality occurs. Dad and I couldn’t see what had happened as it was in the entrance to paddock on the far side of the circuit but we knew he’d hit the wall with such force only the two rear two wheels were in daylight. He’d also collected a Chevron driven by a Japanese fellow who’d flown all the way from Tokyo to enjoy one lap before having his pride and joy smashed up like an egg.
After almost an hour and the excellent news Frenchie was conscious and talking, the race resumed. This time, on the first lap, a chap in his heart breaking Lola got out of shape at Clearways and smacked both the nearside tyres into his chassis and wound up crunched and steaming right in front of us. It was a dismal sight, the proud, brutal machine slumped awkwardly from which the driver alighted shaken and devastated at not only killing the race but the thousands of pounds worth of damage accrued subsequently. And that was end of that; they didn’t run them again due to time. Blast and shit.
The 70’s saloons that followed went some went to making up for it, Imps, Coopers, Jags, Anglias, Cortinas, all in full race spec sliding and buzzing over the track… by now I’d the vaguest inkling that I’d taken on too much sun, it was getting late but the warm sunshine maintained it’s fiery gaze. Dad and I left and headed home after 5-ish, the roads were clear for a Sunday and we sat digesting the day with the Kent countryside framing our passage. Back at the folks I grabbed the Black Bitch and returned to my gaff after a brief stop at Tesco to collect some ingredients for something Italian to eat, I had a craving that had to be satisfied.
After an agonising bath and a spot of culinary know-how, I ate spaghetti and meatballs in a sensational tomato sauce watching Top Gear, did a spot on the Tat and watched the Moto GP. By now I was Ducati-red and regretting ‘what?! Fuck that!’ to dad’s suggestion I stick on some sun block… still, it wasn’t my fault I got burnt was it? No, any fool can see that.
