There’s no doubting it, you’re nippy in the Nissan round Neasden. Darting here, zooming there, you’re a beast. You’re proud of the 9 points on your license and wear them like a badge of honour. It’s been literally months since your last accident. You like hot women. You’re loaded. The writing’s on the wall.
But stop. Not at the lights stupid, stop and THINK. Motor racing isn’t all 24 Hours of Le Mans followed by a night burning rubber with a crotchless French hottie. Go in cold and you’ll come a cropper, getting beheaded at Brands Hatch or sacrificing your sacrum at Silverstone. You need to do some research. I take it you’ve read “Driving to win through Driving” by Nigel Mansell? “Life in the Fast Lane of a Road” by Stirling Moss? Surely you’ve got a copy of Alain Prost’s “Simply Zee Best”?
Once you’ve read up it’s time for the driving and written test. If you’re afraid you’ll fail, get a lookylikely to do it for you. Next find a sponsor. How do you get on with your newsagent? Your doctor? How about the Ocado delivery man? I bet he’d love to see his name on your bodysuit.
Now choose a championship. It takes at least two months to break into F1 so you might want to start a couple of rungs down: I hear the Goldaming Farm Karting Club is always looking for talent.
All you need now is a mechanic-come-chef, a pair of fire-proof socks and a car and you’re away. You’re about to live the dream. So enjoy it. Afterall it’s not everyday you’re granted the freedom to behave like a small child and do exactly as you please. Unless you’re a banker of course.