Time’s running out

A person who thinks a lot and a thinker are poles apart. A thinker would whittle down a thought to its core and string its chaff together to reason. I clumsily jump from the perch of a hap hewn thought onto the next toe hold offered. A whirlwind of outcomes, possibilities and eventualities twinkle, flash and blaze before me, some gently, others urgently. Like a blanket of stars in the darkness of the sky, they lure me. More often than not it is my fears and dreams. Some shine bright, some fade away. Good and bad.

Right now, I have a big fear. A very big fear. People have dedicated decades of their lives to get an opportunity to drive the latest and the best automobiles in the world. I mean, sure, this is pure sin; drive the best of everything and then nitpick about the colour of the door release lever? I think, Jeremy Clarkson, the Sultan of Brunei and a few others have had the opportunity to do so with complete flippancy. It’s not that I want to nitpick; I want to drive –the fastest, the meanest, the cheapest, the wildest, the most outrageous, the indescribable and the pathetic. One by one. But it seems that time is running out, for us developing world folk.

The embodiment of the Jekyll and the Hyde of the auto world – the Bugatti Veyron displays its viciousness to a select few, with hair-raising results. Ultimately obscene.

The great minds that introduced people to the seductive world of oil in all its forms were the very same ones that began counting down to the day the world would come to a grinding halt, crippled by the complete depletion of global reserves. And the time is nigh… There’s no way of escaping the inevitable, is there?

F1 has been the apex of the automotive pyramid, showcasing and developing the future of the automobile. The excess of this mobile laboratory is not being taken in a favourable light and is soon to be the forefront of economical development. Mad Max Mosley is already talking a new tune something about fuel efficient engines. Curse him, abuse him, picket his house for taming a hideously insane sport. Sensibilities be damned, 700PS and 600kgs does not make any bloody sense in the “real world” but makes perfect sense in my world! There’s enough fuel left for year 2200 and it’ll be a million dollars to the litre, so what?

But there’s no way out of it, as estimated world fuel reserves are depleted at an exponential rate things will have to change. Thanks to, in no small measure, the jerks that drive around all day in second gear and later don the garb of the almighty powerful, ominous “public sentiment” that roars at every upward spurt in the Rs/litre figure. Fix the leak in your house before you fix the world.

Public opinion managed to chase fags out of sports, and it could just drive excesses out of automobiles, all automobiles.

And ten years later when I walk up to a proper, lithe, heinous, insane experimental car… a car that the logical, sane world has forbid, blind sided... the one that’ll look me in the eye and dare me to get in; and all I’ll be able to afford is a solitary litre of 98 octane to quench my life long desire.....