Here you go, apologies for it being wordy.
Dear Dad,
Here’s a bit of a write up of the weekend in Malta. I couldn’t be bothered to write anything about the other 11 days because they were dull in comparison! Enjoy…
Whilst sitting on the Ferry from Malta to Palermo I thought I would pass some time jotting down a brief account of some of the highlights of my experience and hope it might make you chuckle.
As you know, we have been going to Malta for a few years now – mainly to satisfy mine and Adam’s thirst for scuba diving – and I have always liked the Maltesers attitude to us Brits.
Since their independence in 1964 it seems as if they have struggled to really let go of their inbuilt respect and deference to us. They are truly independent and yet somehow still part of the family. Not blood brothers or bosom buddies, but definitely still somehow more related to us than their Italian neighbours. For instance, I was mixing with what are largely regarded as ‘the Maltese movers and shakers of business and politics’ and when a conversation between the locals began to get quite heated (something that happens a lot) they immediately stop and listen when a British voice is heard to offer an observation or opinion. It isn’t just out of politeness, it is somehow more than that, an in-built, deep rooted belief that perhaps their old governor’s might know best. I’m not sure that there is any justification for that belief but I like it. I like it a lot.
I also like the fact that as a nation they are as mad as a box load of frogs on a diet of Tabasco and Horseradish. The motor racing fraternity of Malta is the perfect example of this. Frustrated by the state of their roads, the general driving habits of the populous, and the impossibility of getting out of 2nd gear anywhere on the Island, the petrol heads and speed junkies of Malta formed a classic car motor racing group and promptly set about persuading the local authorities to let them charge about like Messrs Shoemaker and Button for one weekend each year. This, despite their obvious lack of experience ,very much appeals to my British adventurer spirit.
The last weekend was fantastic. We had the Concours d’Elegance on Friday in which I, of course, took the top award with my Aston. This was actually quite a surprise but the biggest surprise for me was the enthusiasm and competitiveness of the local participants. I was asked to judge the pre-war cars and popular classics, or old family cars as you would think of them, and you can’t imagine how much old nonsense I heard. One chap tried to tell me that the tool roll in his 1937 Rustbucket was the genuine original article and wasn’t at all dissuaded when I pointed out that his spanners were stamped with ‘Halford’s – made in Taiwan’.
However, the main purpose of the weekend wasn’t showing off the static cars it was to get their mighty metalwork out onto a clear stretch of road with an audience to show off to. Can you imagine their disappointment when on Saturday morning we awoke to black sky’s and very damp roads. Fortunately, the organiser’s had had the foresight to invite a group of experienced British motorsport names to take charge of matters. This included their Chief Steward and a few gentleman racers who the locals respected because they are Brits even if they didn’t know them. (Refer to my previous point on this subject.)
At the drivers briefing of Saturday the Chief Steward introduced himself and said “Don’t worry, we are going ahead with the event and the British drivers, who are quite used to these conditions, will lead each practice session so watch them closely and take it easy. We’ve put extra Marshall’s on the track and additional straw bales on the worst corners. Drive carefully and make sure you come back. Oh, and by the way, we have to make sure the track is clear between 3pm and 4:20pm because there is a wedding!”
Well, the start was delayed by about an hour – not bad by Maltese standards for anything – so this gave the competitors yet more time to rev their engines and tell each other how much faster they were going to be than last year. Looking around the paddock it was as if the only things these guys have watched on TV since they were 4 years old is the Duke’s of Hazard and the Cannonball Run. There were supercharger’s in Mini’s, 7.4litre engines in 70’s road cars, and a Rolls Royce with a turbocharged V5 Saturn Rocket sort of thing under the bonnet. It was crazy - like a Stately Home being used for a rave. One owner was really chuffed with a new red lighting scheme he had fitted to the interior of his car that switched on automatically when he hit the maximum rev limit and bathed his car in the light you get in a submarine at defcon 3.
The moment came for the first timed run’s and the British guys swivelled their eyes towards me and shook their heads. It was obvious that the locals had no intention of taking it easy. One guy pushed his helmet on, leapt in through his window and with a cry of ‘Watch this,’ which, as we all know is the international precursor to all big disasters, slammed his foot down and shot forward at such a pace that a small child standing behind him was knocked flat by his exhaust. He then set off like an out of control firework into the first corner, spun wildley knocking the sponsors advertising hoarding flat, and then roared off down the track. No one expected to ever see him again but sure enough he came back with an almighty grin on his cheeky face, waving out the window to an appreciative crowd, and was then ceremoniously bollocked by the race steward who I thought was going to explode. Fantastic!
One guy in a tuned up 1980’s Mercedes Taxi didn’t even make 5 laps before stuffing it into a roundabout with a broken diff. I stood at one corner watching and every Maltese driver coming uncontrollably towards me had wide eyes and goldfish mouths but it didn’t stop them doing the same next lap. Totally crazy but brilliant. Five cars went home on recovery trucks after the first 2 hours.
The second day was dry and us Brits were very restless. “If they drive like that in the rain what on earth are they going to be like in the dry?” one wise old racer asked. Slow nods all round. Well, matters were delayed for a while because a local farmer had stolen a load of the straw bales overnight. But after this was resolved and the Steward had threatened the Maltese as if he was the Mother Superior of their childhood convent school, they set about fettling away with spanners and screwdrivers to eek out a bit more noise.
As it happens the Sunday was much safer because one by one the loonies cars broke down and retired. They seemed enormously disappointed but I think that the cars had somehow saved their owners lives – at least for now, because I didn’t find one competitor who hasn’t already started planning for next year. I'll be back for more - it was infectious.
See you soon. Love you.
