The Kill Cancer Death Rally

Just got some photos in and have to share them. Sweet.

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Driving down the motorway from Toulouse to Barcelona El Presidente, our trusty steed, approached the Crazy Golfmobile.

Little did they know that we’d bought two roast chickens, four baguettes, two bags of creamy pastries, a pot of mayonaise, various other assorted goodies, including a two day old festering bacon and vinaigrette piedmontaise salad.

It tasted like ammunition to me.

A one sided pitched battle ensued. We finally discovered the best way to get a hit was through the sun roof. Generallisimo Leo mounted El Presidente and did the honours.

Spaff!

There’s that moment when you fall in love with someone and you want to tell the whole world about it. You want to stand on a roof top, on a podium, with a microphone attached to some huge speakers and announce to south London “Yes, I, Tom Shelley, am in love.”

You want to write songs to be sung at campfires, when the beer is kicking in and the stars are coming out.

Creation must know that henceforth love means Tom and [insert name here].

Then you remember that you’re a man. An English man no less. You slap yourself around the face, shove a pencil behind your ear and find some shelves to put up. 

However, (don’t worry that “however” doesn’t mean I’m going to talk about love) if you go and have the most fun four days of your life, you are allowed to tell everyone. Which is just what I’m going to do.

I thought that I would enjoy myself on this rally. I never imagined in my wildest dreams it would be quite so good. From start to finish I’ve had the best time ever. And that is all down to the ralliers.

I don’t know what was put in the water in their home towns, or if they were born close to Sizewell B but, dear God, they were a cool bunch. Without you none of this would have been possible.

Thanks so much to the ralliers. Thanks so much to the sponsors. I think we’ve just done something amazing.

Where shall we go next year?

Written on Commandante Ian Napier’s Blackberry on the road to Barcelona.

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We’re just about to hit Barcelona. Life doesn’t get much better than this. Four smelly generals cruising through Catalonia in the coolest car in the world. The polyester might be getting a little (by that I mean extremely) skanky but when you’re in El Presidente nothing matters.

I can’t say how good the trip has been. We’ve had so much fun it should be either illegal or compulsory. I know that pride is a sin, and all that, but I’ve got a nasty case of it. I’m just so happy that it has happened. An idea has left the pub and become a four day charity surreality.

Thanks everyone.

And mummy if you’re in heaven – which I don’t believe in but where you deserve to be – I fucking wish you were here. I love you so much. Thanks for everything.

I’ll have to stop writing now because all this emotion chokes me up, gives me hot flushes and makes me itchy in my sailor’s suit.