Disg-race of Champions
When you get so used to losing that you begin to revel in it, winning is a peculiar sensation. Defeat has become so ingrained in the British sporting culture that we positively cajole its wicked, sensuous taste into our homes and gulp its customary, reliable stench into our lives. Victory is what those other sorts do, them with their siestas and their cappuccinos and their autobahns. We like order, we admire guts and we're bloody well partial to pluckiness. What we don't want is a bunch of sensible, seemingly grounded individuals suddenly becoming world-beaters. Enter the Race of Champions.
Now, we may think we think it is a good thing, a triumph for this great nation even, that Lewis Hamilton is formula one world champion. We might even believe we believe it is a fantastic achievement that our cyclists make the rest of the planet look like fish who have been training on bikes with no seats. But what we know we know nothing about is dealing with these successes. Take the 2005 Ashes victory. All tarted up and paraded around the streets, Freddie Flintoff and co reacted as the rest of England would have in their situation – got plastered then proceeded to slip back into mediocrity quicker than you could say Darren Pattinson.
This we can manage – a spurt of glory and a smattering of happiness before the trudge of mid-order collapses serenely caresses us back into our miserly sensibilities. The problem with Hamilton and the cyclists is that they show no sign of letting up. It is highly plausible that they could dominate their sports for the foreseeable future. There must be something we can do, it's an outrage. This must be the reason for the Race of Champions. However much it may look like it, it is not merely a desperate attempt to cash in on the soaring popularity of motor and pedal sports, by cramming every fan in the country into the capital and sticking anyone who has ever driven anything better than a Mondeo on the track in front of them. No, it is an inside job. The organisers are trying to make an event so shockingly ghastly that it puts us off our own thunderous-thighed heroes.
The posters look like Jeremy Clarkson threw up on the wall. THEY'RE GOING TO TARMAC WEMBLEY! Its capital letters scream manly British crassness and petrol-head testosterone. Yes, the Race of Champions is going to be Top Gear with added idiocy. What reasonable cause has Lewis Hamilton for racing in a car against Chris Hoy on a bicycle? Both of them are so depressingly clean, poles apart from those boozing cricketers and prima-donna footballers that we adore pretending to hate. They are such prime examples of hard work paying dividends that we are not sure what to do with them, except parade them as a circus sideshow with supplementary Michael Schumacher thrown in for good measure. The very idea is so irrational that it may have been devised as a final attempt from Jenson Button to appear superior to Hamilton, purely by not being involved in the drivel.
What's that? Oh, Button will be there too, thank goodness. Now there's a sportsman we can believe in. The man has won one race in his whole career and is in an event called the Race of Champions. Now we're talking, here's something to buy into. Isn't it eccentric, don't we do things differently here. We would claim the whole thing made us feel embarrassed to be British, but then we would have to admit that we secretly love our heroes to lose and our losers to be heroic. Also, there's that other nagging sensation we thrive on – jumping on the bandwagon. We can't get on the bike at the gym without thinking we're Bradley Wiggins and suddenly everybody has started referring to the tight corner past the roundabout as a chicane. Quick, book a ticket while you can, the Race of Champions is sure to sell out faster than an F1 executive.
When you get so used to losing that you begin to revel in it, winning is a peculiar sensation. Defeat has become so ingrained in the British sporting culture that we positively cajole its wicked, sensuous taste into our homes and gulp its customary, reliable stench into our lives. Victory is what those other sorts do, them with their siestas and their cappuccinos and their autobahns. We like order, we admire guts and we're bloody well partial to pluckiness. What we don't want is a bunch of sensible, seemingly grounded individuals suddenly becoming world-beaters. Enter the Race of Champions.
Now, we may think we think it is a good thing, a triumph for this great nation even, that Lewis Hamilton is formula one world champion. We might even believe we believe it is a fantastic achievement that our cyclists make the rest of the planet look like fish who have been training on bikes with no seats. But what we know we know nothing about is dealing with these successes. Take the 2005 Ashes victory. All tarted up and paraded around the streets, Freddie Flintoff and co reacted as the rest of England would have in their situation – got plastered then proceeded to slip back into mediocrity quicker than you could say Darren Pattinson.
This we can manage – a spurt of glory and a smattering of happiness before the trudge of mid-order collapses serenely caresses us back into our miserly sensibilities. The problem with Hamilton and the cyclists is that they show no sign of letting up. It is highly plausible that they could dominate their sports for the foreseeable future. There must be something we can do, it's an outrage. This must be the reason for the Race of Champions. However much it may look like it, it is not merely a desperate attempt to cash in on the soaring popularity of motor and pedal sports, by cramming every fan in the country into the capital and sticking anyone who has ever driven anything better than a Mondeo on the track in front of them. No, it is an inside job. The organisers are trying to make an event so shockingly ghastly that it puts us off our own thunderous-thighed heroes.
The posters look like Jeremy Clarkson threw up on the wall. THEY'RE GOING TO TARMAC WEMBLEY! Its capital letters scream manly British crassness and petrol-head testosterone. Yes, the Race of Champions is going to be Top Gear with added idiocy. What reasonable cause has Lewis Hamilton for racing in a car against Chris Hoy on a bicycle? Both of them are so depressingly clean, poles apart from those boozing cricketers and prima-donna footballers that we adore pretending to hate. They are such prime examples of hard work paying dividends that we are not sure what to do with them, except parade them as a circus sideshow with supplementary Michael Schumacher thrown in for good measure. The very idea is so irrational that it may have been devised as a final attempt from Jenson Button to appear superior to Hamilton, purely by not being involved in the drivel.
What's that? Oh, Button will be there too, thank goodness. Now there's a sportsman we can believe in. The man has won one race in his whole career and is in an event called the Race of Champions. Now we're talking, here's something to buy into. Isn't it eccentric, don't we do things differently here. We would claim the whole thing made us feel embarrassed to be British, but then we would have to admit that we secretly love our heroes to lose and our losers to be heroic. Also, there's that other nagging sensation we thrive on – jumping on the bandwagon. We can't get on the bike at the gym without thinking we're Bradley Wiggins and suddenly everybody has started referring to the tight corner past the roundabout as a chicane. Quick, book a ticket while you can, the Race of Champions is sure to sell out faster than an F1 executive.
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