My Easter Moto-X Joy

There’s no better place to spend a long Easter weekend than surrounded by petrol, oil and mud. Well, except perhaps checking out Rio De Janeiro (random, yes) but with the budget not even stretching to a new pair of Louboutins right now, I had to settle for Finningly’s Moto-X meeting.

After getting lost about four times, screaming at my mother, nearly running over an OAP and almost smashing into the back of a learner driver (why DO they insist at driving about 10mph under the speed limit?) , I eventually drove into what looked like a scrapyard and ran straight over to the ‘toilets’ for a wee.

Now, I use the term ‘toilet’ pretty loosely there, because what I encountered was like nothing I’d ever seen before in my life, okay, maybe some of the places on ‘An Idiot Abroad’ are a little worse, but you get my drift right? No? Okay, well here is a picture of the artwork on the wall. Yes, that’s right folks, it could be mud, it could be poo… excellent.

Following that encounter, I thought the best bet would be to find myself a nice little area to watch the racing from, and cheer as loudly as I could for my cousin. Obviously being there as a spectator and not a marshal made me feel less ‘important’ and sitting down on the mud bank posed a problem to my hardly mud-friendly outfit… but after the suns rays took their toll and gales of mud had created a brown bra on the front of my t-shirt, I decided that trying to look good wasn’t really worth the effort, especially when ‘fit moto-cross boy’ was too busy constructing some garage to make an appearance! Typical.

On a positive note however, good old Gary Williams made his first-race-in-five-years comeback a bloody good one, securing victory in his first race, much to the joy of the hoards of Williams-Family supporters out in the Doncaster sunshine… people must have thought we were mental, but then again, we weren’t the ones wearing some blokes tracksuit bottoms, a swimming costume and UGG boots in the middle of summer. Were we?

Sadly it all went downhill in race two, when Gary made some flying twirly jump and deviated from the track, kicking off something plastic in his fury before retiring from the race during the next lap. Not so bad though right? He still had one race left… so I sat there in the sun, topping up my Piz Buin and eating a £1 ice cream (bargain). But as the minutes turned into hours, I was starting to wonder where Gary and everyone was, I was watching each bike roar past and asking myself “Is that him? Is that him?” before I decided an investigation was in order….

Pottering down to the ‘paddock’, or more specifically, a space in between all the rubbish they had managed to park their vans, I found a major problem… said cousin, and his bike, and his Mrs had all disappeared… and according to a man with no teeth who was clearly supping his 5th beer of the day… our Gary had “buggered off home.” Brilliant.

So, I had sat there, eating mud, getting all manner of shit tangled up in my hair, making small talk with people wearing Kappa jackets and he had GONE HOME!? Well, that just wasn’t good enough… I packed mother into the car and set off back to Barnsley to investigate this situation… but alas, when I arrived at his dad’s house, he wasn’t there… but of course, on the one day that I look like an actual homeless person, fit moto-x boy, who hadn’t been at the track like he was supposed to be, was there. Looking clean. I wanted to drive back to that bloody Biffa Bin yard, find myself a landfill and dive right in.

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