I had already done over an hour in the gym, but I got on the cross trainer to watch the exciting last six laps of the Big Prize motor racing contest (I am English and xenophobic and so insist on calling it by its English name). I don't know what the Big Prize actually is, but it must be something good after all that driving around in circles in different cities all over the world.
Lewis Hamilton, the man from the short-sighted, premature aging disease afflicted, boot polish smeared familly, had to come at least 5th to win the Big Prize (or as my friend Phil Fry used to call it - the grand pricks - maybe that's the prize: a penis enlargement), but it had started to rain and he and his team had to make a decision as to whether they should put on tyres that worked in the wet, or stick with the ones they had. If he had been in my VW Golf Automatic he would have been much better off. My tyres work in both dry and wet conditions. Nearly everyone else changed their tyres too, because they didn't want to spin off the track, but one of the driving men (I think he was called Glock or Spock or something) decided not to waste those valuable seconds and see if he could get round on the tyres he had. As a result he moved up into fifth place and Hamilton was in sixth and it looked like his dream of having grand pricks for himself and all his familly would be crushed beneath the dry condition tyres of the car ahead of him.
Indeed the sense of disappointment was palpable in the Virgin Active gym as the final lap began and Hamilton still trailed. Of course he would lose, that was the British way. He'd end up missing out on the Big Prize equivalent of goal difference, having blown it at the last minute for the second year in a row. We are used to this kind of thing. In fact we expect it and would be slightly confused if it was any other way.
But then, just as all hope was lost, at the last possible second, Herr Flick (or whatever he was called)'s decision to keep his dry tyres was shown to be ridiculous. He lost some grip or power or something (look I don't know - go to a dedicated sports website if you want a proper report) and Hamilton overtook him and took the coveted 5th position. Yes! England had come 5th, which would usually be par for the course. But this 5th meant we'd come first. How the Spanish racists must be reeling now. That a short sighted, grey haired man with boot polish on his face had beaten all those superior white people. Not since Hitler had to watch Jesse Owens shitting all over his Aryan master race (and though the Nazis had some nice uniforms, look at the fellas in charge if you want to see further examples of shameful physical, rat-faced, short-sighted specimens of humanity), had ignorance been so squarely slapped in the face. England had won the Grand Prize. My fellow gymites were happy and yet confused and slightly underwhelmed. We didn't know how to react. We had not experience of this kind of turnaround.
But in the post race coverage I had a slightly embarrassing revelation. When Hamilton's family came out to congratulate him, it turned out they had ridiculous grey hair, comedy thick glasses and some kind of skin pigment condition where their faces and nothing else were black as boot polish. They were also wearing home-made, mis-spelt T-shirts saying "Hamilton's Familly" and waving their arms around in a stupid fashion.
Those people in the crowd in Spain hadn't been racists at all, merely impressionists and they had got the Hamilton familly off to a tee. Except after this victory they will have to add one more detail to the costume. All the familly members will have gigantic cocks.
Which if they'd been any kind of racists they would have had on the original costumes anyway. Really, I am miles better at being racist than those idiots.
In actual fact I only say Hamilton's father, who not only doesn't wear glasses, but is pretty much bald. I really wish those Spanish racists would do their research.
