Jack O'Ferrall
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« Reply #7 on: April 14, 2008, 12:43:28 AM +0100 » |
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REED, MARQUE, LEARN: THE JACK OâFERRALL STORY
Spa April 13
âŚ. âHow about a pre-race night out?â Ian asked. âIâve been in touch with the mags, you could meet April Bosoms.â The mechanics were happy too, itâs become something of a tradition at REED that we stay at a âcheap hotelâ on the away trips. He took me to see her manager, who seemed eager- he handed me a mask and asked me to stand behind a curtain. âThrust it aside angrily on the cue,â he told me. âWhatâs your name?â âBruce,â I told him, pleased with myself- quick thinking after a session with the larger glasses followed by a few Weslakes. Best to draw a modest veil over next fifteen minutes, but afterwards her manager beckoned me over âWeâve got a Bruce, âBig Bruceâ, so youâll have to be âJackâ, if thatâs okay.â I was incredulous âYouâre recording a fifteen minute session?â âEverything Miss Bosoms does must be recorded for posterity! She is a diva!â First time Iâve ever been too swift. I bumped into the enigmatic ronin, shiojiri-waza, on the way out, as well. âWhatâs he doing here?â I asked Ian. âThereâs always a Japanese- you never seen Belle de Jour?â
Rubber having entered the consciousness, as it were, next day I went to see Bell about tyres. He looked tired. âHey Bell,â I said, âThe organisers have got our tyres down as âunknownâ, whatâs up with that?â âWe use three types of tyres,â he said. âDunlops for the P83, Firestones for the P261, and Goodyears for the P115s, which is the vehicle you race. You could have tried a more technical approach, the tyres are on the sides of your car. They have a blue stripe.â âSo why three types of tyres? Which is best in the wet?â âAn engineering question, Jack? Dunlops won us a championship, the Firestones were on offer, and we save on the costs with Goodyear because the other teams use them. None of them are any better than the others and you shouldnât worry about the wet anyway, unless you mean your drinks parties, in which case whichever involves taking your clothes off quickest, presumably. Jack, donât worry about design. Drive, write your autobiography âEnormous Big Jobsâ about how hard you are, and finish off by complaining about Italian drivers on the television coverage.â
Loot likes to stand with his drivers before the race and survey the scene, glass in hand. Itâs when he gets his âatmosphereâ. âDear boys,â he began âDanger. Excitement. Risk. Thatâs what racing is about. Boys, I fear for our future. They want us to breathe into little plastic bags, to prove we are not drinking. It should be the other way around! The constables are decent enough these days, they recognise the privileges of the nobility, but in the decades to come! The lawyersâll have them scraping part of your tongues away! Where will our motor industry be then? British cars need British courts, damn them!â I once claimed to be a descendant of Peter the Great, on Lootâs legal advice. However, we were spared the rest of his mighty peroration, as he was distracted by the antics of the CrashânâBurn mechanics practising pit stops with their limited pit space. âMore cars, more prize money,â he mused. âI must have a word with Tom.â Then he ambled off, boozily, past âRusty McCluskeyâsâ garage. I was going to make an apposite remark on the marketing element of American-style saloon racing, but Ian was gazing over at the Phoenix pits. âLook at that,â he murmured. âWouldnât that be just the ticket?â All I could see was last yearâs champion, wearing his rather gaudy âProâ jacket, with the âProâ spelled out in gold lettering on the back. Shit. It was the jacket. âNo crashes, no overrevving, no points for a dodgy finish. Respect. Class.â Being last. In a slow car. Still, Ian had got me an invitation from the enchanting Miss Bosoms. âAlright.â Pro racing it was to be. The genuine article.
Spa. Speed. The back of the grid. Somehow we had again contrived it so that I was in front of Ian, though this time I was certain that Eau Rouge was going to be the end of the âpro racersâ, so what did it matter? By some miracle I lasted a lap, and I still seemed to be in contact with the Ferraris ahead, until one of them decided on a quick stop in the middle of Masta, and I came into rather too much contact with it. At least the car was upside down, so all the petrol drained out, and I was left with the flask Iâd substituted for a heavy spanner that Iâd found taped to the wheel. So this was pro racing, cheers. Ian made it to the finish line, he claimed to have a Steve Cloyd setup, as well as a self-imposed handicap. Bernie won, champagne for him and the Soggies.
I was left alone at the track after dark when I heard one of our mechanics strumming a guitar. âI shot a man in Reno, just to watch him die." I walked over, he was by a campfire, all the disappointment of the race seemed to return to me. âPerhaps you might want to drop some, ah, ÂŁsd ?â he suggested. I may have been overtired, between ourselves, even a little maudlin. âYou know âWhereâs Captain Kirk?â" I asked. âWas it me was it you, as we went warp factor Two?â
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