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other driver and

pedestrian we

encountered utterly

gobsmacked and

rubbernecking as

we whooshed away

into the horizon.

These cars can

be tuned to over

300BHP and have

Lambo shaming

acceleration, which

I nonchalantly

informed Aston

Martin Plowman

I would be using

to humiliate him

when he tried to set

a better lap time

than me around the


Didn’t seem too

troubled, I have to

say, but he was probably still just a touch mortified

and ashamed about getting himself lost earlier.

Steve explained that groups of up to 20 people

hire his track and his buggies to race around. It is

muddier than The Somme and makes for some for

some hilarious entertainment with pile ups clumsy

enough to make Wacky Races look elegant by


We would be going round the track individually this

day though, so as to see who could set the best lap

time and thereby cement his eternal status as the

fastest man at J’AIME.

As a gentleman I allowed Aston Martin to go first.

And he took his time for the first few laps but was

soon thrashing it around the track, mud and gravel

rooster tailing spectacularly all over the place as he

hung the little car’s tail out and mashed pedal to

metal in the ruthless fashion only a race car driver


He set a blistering pace but then came into the pits

early because he had to dash off to his sewing circle

or embroidery class or some such nonsense. And so

he left.

And then your correspondent from Titan stepped

into the arena and I admit I had the highest

expectations that the snake belt glory days would

soon return and I would have a new swagger in my


I had watched and learned from Steve Adams’

faultless tuition, had watched Aston Martin do his

bit and I had amped up the adrenalin in myself to

such unprecedented levels I might have easily been

mistaken for Caster Semenya.

Pumped, psyched, focused I had the eye of the

tiger as I strapped myself into the bucket race seats,

ready to tear hell-for-leather around that track,

leaving Aston Martin’s time trailing in my wake and

eating my dust and I set off with the tyres of the car

seeming like they were on fire, Steve Adams beside

me chuckling nervously as I threw his perfectly

weighted vehicle around the track.

On my fifth round of the track I reckon I had

mastered the art of going sideways very, very

fast and I hammered the loud pedal in my bid to

utterly thrash Aston Martin. I was heel and toeing,

balancing the car on a knife’s edge and, I sincerely

believe on the verge of true greatness and glory.

Right up until I stuffed the wee car painfully and

unceremoniously into a frickin’ hedge! Which

seemed to appear out of nowhere, if I’m honest and

I’m not going to suggest this could have been dirty

tricks on Aston’s part, but, y’know, I’m just saying.

That was that though. The end of the race. The end

of the event.

But anyway, I’ll be magnanimous in defeat and all

that and congratulate Mr Le Mans, well done etc etc,

(gritted teeth) and, of course, I’ll buy you a Peroni

one day.

And no doubt you’ll be happy now too, McLatchie,

won’t you?! You and that wee weepin’, bed wettin’

Desdemona! After all these years, you’ll be getting

hiiiiigh tonight in celebration!

But just mark my words, dear readers - crash or no

crash, I have lived to fight another day and this is by

no means the end of the matter. I’m just not one for

letting a grudge lie. You have been warned.