take their track sparring to the screens, via little
home-based game stations… all linked in to race
together… virtually. So, while the mechanics were
no longer required I daresay some of the top
guns of the game may have made other “I need
assistance here” calls. Calls to wider family, where
some screen and game savvy 13 and 14-year-old
kids could give them some critical “riding” tips.
“You’re holding it all wrong uncle Val,” one
bambino will declare. “Atsa easy for-a you to
a-say,” Uncle Rossi would reply indignantly, as he
adjusted his grip on the control box thing. “No
no no no!” little bambino nephew would then
cry. “The track… eeza go the other a-way!”
Another grumpy DNF.
I noticed too that the Indycar brigade had also
introduced a virtual racing competition for real
race- starved spectators to check out. Which
included our chap Scott McLaughlin who has, in
these circumstances, realised one of the great
ambitions in his racing career without having to
worry about managers, officialdom and whatever
legalities are involved in “the real thing”. Then I
shivered a little… when I say ’shiver’ it’s ok, I’m fit,
fine and partially sober at this time so nothing
more than a shiver of anxiety. Because crikey, if
this virtual racing drags in more viewers than the
real McCoy then the flag marshals and hot dog
sellers may also find themselves sidelined.
Naaa, for trying to formulate the sound of
howling hardware and the aromas of fuel and
crisped- up batter is impossible. Some things
will never change. We’ll battle through this shit
like our forebears battled through terrible
times of illness and war. It comes right. Like
dear old Vera Lynn told us that the birdies and
brightness would soon return “tomorrow, just
you wait and see,” And yep, it did. It’ll take time
but we’ll do it… as long as everyone obeys the
orders of stay home, unless it is an essential
outing (where you keep your distance) for
medicine, food… and lager. And like anything,
there’s an upside. We won’t have anyone
coming to our door trying to sell us something
for a month. That’s worth toasting… now where
did I put that bloody opener?