D
espite firing off a broadside
of begging letters it became
apparent that no-one was
prepared to lend MotorPunk
a priceless classic to
participate in some racing
at the Goodwood Revival
this year. Even if Ferrari
had coughed some keys to a 250GTO our lack
of celeb’ credentials meant we wouldn’t be
rubbing chrome with Rowan Atkinson and that
chubby northern Chef, thingy, what’s-his-face.
Sat in the Press tent, watching the real journos
hammer out race reports you’ve probably
already read in WHSmiths, Dr Octane and I
hatched a plan combining our two favourite
things: drinking and racing. Starting in the
press tent we were to each take a drink in
every bar on site with the winner being the
first person to reach the Speckled Hen tent, in
a one-lap dash.
The man from ‘Ferrari Fawning Weekly’
kindly dropped the flag and we burst out
of the tent and took a hard right, both Dr O
and I sauntering through a paddock of Lotus
Cortinas. Yes, sauntered. Neither of us was
going to show a lack of decorum by actually
running; PE is a sweaty and unpleasant
business and therefore this race would be won
on cunning, guile and bladder capacity. My first
stop was the Veuve Clicquot marquee for a cold
glass of bubbly; this took longer than hoped
for as I insisted on a glass champagne flute,
not a half-pint plastic beaker. I had already lost
Dr O. Perhaps he had been refused entry; his
tweed did have the unmistakeable aroma of
charity shop; I must be ahead already!
5