I picked up my mother on Friday and woke up with a bad back on Saturday, had to go to a racetrack on Saturday morning waking up at 5:55am for the priviledge, the sat nav took us to a shopping centre in Banbury, which obviously wasn’t a racetrack and so we tried again, postcode, and address, then both together and finally it took us to the racetrack, 20 minutes away with 22 minutes to spare. Had we got there earlier the wait and whole operation would have been even shorter. Got to the old airfield, hangers storing granite kitchen warehouses, and high octane fast car shit. One of which we were there to get involved with and we do’t need granite, just yet. Although the fitters possibly didn’t seal out white work top which stains to fuck with tea and red wine, had they laminated it then maybe we wouldn’t be using “Pink stuff” to scour the fuck out of the untreated material, no longer waterproof, no longer protected, the rock is no longer protected. So with tens of children and their parents creaming themselves over the supercars we queued as British folk archetypal do, not waiting for a Lambo, or a Prancing horse, but for a Mustang, not because we wanted one, but because some idiot (me)  waited until October to book the trip purchased 10 months previous. And in Bicester, that was the last location too, last car, last track. We’re expecting great things.

The wind is whistling across the airfield, hangars standing tall and bleak, and, as I discovered when A set off on his 4 laps or 10 minutes (whichever is the less) completely obscured any parents view of the Fastspring, thats why we came, right? We signed forms and ticked boxes, the wankers had taken money from us in waivers and insurance prior to meeting face to face and so any picture of the kids in the car or videos of the road ahead were extra, and christ know people pay for that shit. After A’s 9 minutes 25 seconds the last thing he wanted was a film to show him how he drove around the corners of the track hidden behind the hangar. The £40 insurance waiver to cover any wound he may sustain whilst driving around a track at 30mph, but more likely to cover the fractured spoiler of a Ferrari Daytona (I had one as a child, no idea). 20 mins queuing, 5 minutes waiting on a plastic school chair with MUSTANG scrawled on the back and then 9 minutes and 35 seconds driving around a track, invisible to the parents and guardians, no Gambon turn for us. I didn’t even get a coffee from the van because I was so in tune with not being ripped off by these people. I’ll write a trip advisor review if I had the inclination, but maybe this is what car track days are all about; inherently shite spending a lot of time standing around. Without having an inside track (scute the pun) on things, I’d say thats exactly what track days are like, but let some fucking lunatic petrol head be our guide,

We left after a total of 48 minutes, I found a hat on the runway which I like but need to wash, its mustard colour and once its had a spin in the tub I’ll be opening myself up to my family and friends.