There is a destructive element to my personality that I never realised was there. Who knew that watching old bangers pile into each other at high speed around a dusty tarmac track could be SO MUCH FUN? Stock car racing is a world away from U8 tennis. To participate, you will need:
- A mullet, preferably of the Eastern European variety.
- At least two limbs covered in tattoos.
- A chequered flag to wave at the flies attempting to land on your Magnum.
- A spectacularly loud finger whistle.
- Destiny’s Child lyrics to “I’m a Survivor“.
- Indulge the urge to scream “COME ON, PLONKER!!!!” at a Penelope Pitstop-style car with said moniker in pink spray paint on its buckled bonnet.
- Feel free to cheer at smash-ups that would make you weep if witnessed on a motorway.
- Nothing wet or faintly maternal must show as you watch 8-year-olds zoom by at 60mph in souped-up toboggans covered in chicken wire and sponsorship from Kitchins R Us (“We use child labour to install our lamminit worktops!”).
- On no account must your feet smell because you are on stands where there is no distinction between seats and footrests and you may end up with your toes near the nostrils of a large lady in frightening shorts.
- Be prepared to get hot and doused in the heady scent of engine oil.
And finally, when all the bangers have been smashed to bits and everyone is heading home with smiles on their diesel-streaked faces, do not squeal your shiny, undented, deeply middle-class and frankly dull car out of the car park and straight into a handbrake turn on the roundabout near the Aldershot Tesco. However grave the temptation.