Goodness Gracious

If you hide memories away in the dark at the back of your mind they will tend to huddle together. Then if you let one out it will bring a friend along with it. Yesterday’s story about fire has reminded me of another incident from my past, one which again will not feature proudly when they come to make the film of my life (which is only a matter of time – I see George Clooney playing me, though Charlie Sheen may be a more realistic option).

The Tinman in today’s tale is older than in yesterday’s story, since he owned a car, and thought that he was cool in that he both smoked and drove very fast. On the day in question I was belting along at my customary 70 miles an hour when I decided I needed a cigarette. I fished one from the packet and, having no lighter, slid open a box of matches and extracted one match, while all the time watching the road. I then placed the cigarette in my mouth, held the matchbox in one hand and the match in the other. I have no idea what I was steering with, it may well have been my teeth.

I struck the match, it burst into flame, broke in half, and the lighted half dropped between my legs.

The reason for the post title should now be clear.

Formula 1 drivers like to think they’re cool, yet will tear into the pits at the slightest sign that their tyres might be showing signs of wear and will absolutely panic if it starts to rain. I think it would liven up the sport immensely if they had to drive with their bum off the seat like a jockey urging on a horse, steering with one hand while flapping frantically at their crotch with the other.

Believe me, Michael Schumacher, it isn’t easy.

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