Jack O'Ferrall
Former UKGPL Moderators
Full Member
Posts: 904
|
|
« Reply #10 on: August 04, 2008, 01:09:03 AM +0100 » |
|
REED, MARQUE, LEARN: THE JACK O’FERRALL STORY
Oulton Park August 3
“Wise men say only fools rush in But I can't help falling in love with you Shall I stay? Would it be a sin? If I can't help falling in love with you”
With the local boy about to become champion there was a big crowd at sunny, leafy, Tarporley for the August Gold Cup. The bunting was out, they had men with jetpacks strapped to their backs demonstrating the future of commuting, and Elvis impersonators with “Go Bernie” suits…. ‘Jim?’ ‘Oh, hello Jack, something need checking? Be with you in a few minutes.’ Off he launched into the next chorus. Elvis was into leathers, he would never get into threads like those, sort of a mechanics outfit with spangles and flares added. Wise men also say that madness brings to light the real problem. 'The drivers are what Reed Racing is about, Jim.' No wonder they criticised Bell’s H-16 for having a high centre of gravity. Tom sauntered past. ‘Nil desperandum, Tom,’ I saluted him, which I'd got out of Loot’s book, it means without worry, if you don't know Latin. He was still a git, but it was difficult not to enjoy the sunshine. He smiled. ‘I'd avoid water as a subject if I were you Jack.’ What the hell was he on about? ‘Hill crashed into the pond at Esso the other day, Loot'll imagine you're trying to put one over.’ So two of them had gone crazy, must be the English sunshine and the end-of-season atmosphere. I wish having a team of crazies would make a double crankshaft engine more efficient! He seemed relaxed enough though. ‘Bell's been on at him as well, says a great engineer needs a great test driver, so he wants one for next season. Ian wins races- you do what, exactly? Dodge the local constabulary?’ Sit in front of the white hot heat of Bell's take on the future of British technology, if Tom's marketing was to be believed. Not that Tom was bothered about the patriotic side of it, he'd still be wearing tailored suits if the rest of England had been replaced by bio-robots driving Heinkels. ‘Or you've met up with some motor racing fans, they've been throwing rocks at you?’ He was just upset because I'd refused to be involved in any of his stunts this week. The distractions had cost me places and points, and I wanted a hundred points this season, get that off my back. The rocks jibe was probably a sly reference to my famous ancestor, who, when he wanted to build a city in the marsh, refused to allow stonemasons to work anywhere else! Simplicity with genius. ‘It's just jealousy,’ I said ‘Peter the Great invented the beard tax.’ This riposte left him in some confusion. ‘P- off Jack.’ However, after this merry banter, he had some serious news. Loot was also concerned about my credibility as a Reed driver. Crunch time.
My heart was thumping. When the flag drops, as Brabham would say… In feudal times, the start of a battle would be signalled by the planting of a banner. This was no different. ‘Mr. O'Ferrall? Milord will be pleased to see you now.’ It's always troubled me that Britain is famous for butlers. Fiery passion, sexy women- that would be a reputation worth fighting over. Even rapid pizza delivery, like the Americans, had some merit, if you were a race driver. Which I was and hoped to continue to be. However, I might have underestimated Loot's disappointment with this season. ‘O'Ferrall, you are trite, vain, and hopelessly inept behind a wheel. Reed Racing is better off without your sort. Drink this.’ I gulped it down and tasted it afterwards. A goldfish beginning to dissolve in neat whiskey. ‘Not fast enough. Take your top off.’ What and leave my pants on? They would only cramp my style. I grabbed the remaining broadsword just in time to parry his first drink-fuelled lunge, though I was forced to cede some ground. He whirled his sword around his head ‘This is for taking both my cars out at Rouen.’ That would have hurt. ‘This is for Monaco.’ Handy these antique torch-holders, while they lasted. I was forced out of the hall into the corridor, then out of the corridor into the gardens. He pressed me back against a wall with the sheer vehemence of his attack, and I had no further space to run to. I could see the detestation in his eyes. ‘All I wanted out of racing,’ I gasped ‘was that they call me “Fast” O'Ferrall.’ It was only a dismissive, angry laugh, but the slightest of respites gave me time to take stock of the situation, and when he came in for the kill I surprised him further by switching to my left hand. ‘You’re not a left-hander,’ he rasped, before I hit him over the head with a fence post, which some untidy servant had thoughtlessly left lying around. And I had saved my drive for another season, by all the laws of the land recognised by those of blood and noble breeding.
With the grid shrunk by us having gone on into summer I was on the second row, though I then made possibly my worst start of the season. Ian had pole, but lost the lead and a few laps later got tangled up with an out-of-sorts Burt, and I passed them for second- and kept it, then happened upon a recovering Bernie. Would Jack O'Ferrall pass the champion on his home track for a first win? No. Would the vengeful Burt retaliate for the success of the Soggies without him, by ambushing Bernie late in the race? No, Burt had already quit. Still, it was the more likely option, and I kept hoping for it to the flag. Champagne for Bernie and the Soggy Bottom Boys, a championship won in style. I had a second podium, Reed were third, we'd have better pits next season, that had to count for something.
Great God this is an awful place. ‘Hang on,’ said Tom. You can't write that.’ ‘It’s the end Tom, the author gets to reveal the machinery of his devices, all the best stories have it.’ ‘All you know about machinery you got from one article on my engine,’ Bell objected. ‘Otherwise you couldn't tell a bore from a Lockheed oleo-pneumatic strut.’ ‘This isn't an awful place, this is Cheshire,’ Loot observed. ‘Newcastle, that's an awful place, they're malicious and deformed, in league with demons that want to exterminate the human race. Or Liverpool, they're worse. Cheshire is amiable enough. Pleasant even.’ I just wanted to make the point that writing, like gaming, is a form of exile from the self, and that previous generations have faced the same challenge. ‘Get on with it then.’ I do not think we can hope for any better thing now. We shall stick it out to the end, but we are getting weaker, of course, and the end cannot be far. It seems a pity, but I do not think I can write more. It's been a fabulous season. Thank you very much.
|