Whatever happened to Gavin?

When I first heard the dulcet tones of Gavin from Autoglass explaining how my chip could turn into a crack, I couldn't help but think to myself "What an annoying twat."

For months now he has been telling me about this customer he had, that ignored a chip in his windsreen, and then had to replace the windscreen because he drove over a bump that turned the chip into a crack. Every 3 songs or so on Planet Rock, there he is. With his stupid jingle and his patronising anecdote. Fix yer bloody windscreen, yeah, we get it. Now bugger off.

Then he did bugger off.

There I was, gently nodding my head to another track off of Dad Rocks 3, which appears to be the album from where the entire Planet Rock set list is drawn. Just as I was thanking God that I had escaped Jethro Tull for at least another 3 minutes, that irritating jingle started up again. I prepared myself for Gavin and his secret resin that only Autoglass (and every other automotive glass fitting company) has.

Then I sensed a change in the atmosphere. I remember the next few seconds so clearly. I turned slowly to the radio and heard those words. Those shocking words that turned my quiet little world upside-down. The 9/16 spanner in my right hand fell to the ground. My blood ran cold and a shiver started up from the base of my spine. I will never forget that moment. The words hung in the air like the stench of death.

"Steve, 31, technician for Autoglass."

My mind was a whirl of thoughts and images but finally the biggest, most important one, came to my lips and I shouted it across the empty workshop; "Who the f**k is Steve?"

This Steve, this Gavin facsimile, this imposter, this monster that murdered poor Gavin, 29, technician at Autoglass, by filling his lungs with his own special resin, locked him in the boot of a Ford Cortina, and pushed it into the Thames. All that, just so he could steal poor Gavin's job.

That is Steve.

Steve who probably threw the stone to chip your window in the first place, then ran over your dog when he came round to fix it. That Steve.

In the half a minute it took for me to hear Steve's blatant rip-off of Gavin's Autoglass advert, I had forgotten how annoying Gavin was and I was seriously concerned for his safety. The plagiarism continued as Steve went on about his special resin. "Noooo!" I shouted at the radio, "No! That's Gavin's special resin!"

By the time we got to Steve's ham-fisted attempt at the "Oh, just one more thing..." part of the advert, which Gavin used to say with the grace of an experienced Thespian, I was livid.

"How dare he?" I asked the tool box. "Just who does he think he is?" I said to the scissor-lift

Gavin, mate, I doubt you can read this. But if, by chance Steve hasn't killed you. If, maybe, he has just locked you in a shed somewhere, bound and gagged with only a pot of Autoglass special resin for company, while he steals all your limelight. If somehow, by some miracle of fortune, you find yourself reading this. I want you to know, my readers and I are 100% behind you.

Your special resin has filled the chip in our hearts.

It doesn't matter how much Steve tries to coax or seduce us, you, Gavin, shall always be our window technician.

Keep the faith, my friend, keep the faith.

***All the crap you see written here is Kelvin's opinion and not that of his associates, race team or marketing partners.***

toothousandandeleven

I remember thinking to myself, as I looked at the #5 Roots V8 Racing Chevrolet sitting expectantly on the trailer, that it was a bit rude of the world to carry on like this.

I had escaped, you see. A deal had taken place that saw me flying to the United States to drive an ARCA Stockcar at Little Rock. I lost myself in the North Carolina sunshine, fell in love with the little half mile "paper clip" style oval and the hugely over powered and under braked NASCAR has-been race car. It is all the same as Euro Late Models. As ASCAR. As Speedcar. As the now NASCAR affiliated Race Car Series. That's what we tell everyone, isn't it? That we are a kind of NASCAR in our part of the world? But it isn't the same. Not by a long long way. Not even by ARCA standards which are still a long way from NASCAR Cup. I soaked up the heat, pounded laps and talk about a type of racing that very few people outside of America truly understand. I felt like one of them, even though I didn't quite talk the same. I felt connected. Wired. Home. I knew I would be racing in Holland the following weekend, but that was as far from my mind as you could imagine. The only things I bought from my life on the other side of the Atlantic were my race gear and the image of how proud Tony would be to see me driving this car.

The rain running down the aeroplanes porthole sized window washed away the warm glow of North Carolina and reminded me that this was my real home. England. A place too wet to run stockcars how God had intended them. I didn't unpack. I gave my house mates a hazy run down of what happened, still slightly shell shocked. Then went to Belgium to collect my steed, the aforementioned expectant #5, for the coming Dutch race.

Originally I had been asked to drive the #77, but later it was decided Chris Roots would do this. News I was very pleased to hear. Tony's car should be at Venray, and it should be a Roots driving it. Chris would drive the #77 and I would drive the #5 rental car. It would be a hard weekend for all involved. Especially for Lynne and Chris. I wasn't much help to them. I got the #5 on the podium a few times, running out of rubber while everyone else was bolting on new tyres. I proved that Roots V8 Racing have good rental cars, but that was all I could do. What we needed was something else. Maybe something not found on a race track. Something to change. Something that meant Tony was still there. Sometimes I could feel him there. Sometimes he feels so close you could touch him. But I know he isn't there. I know how much it effects me and I feel guilty. It must be ten times worse for Chris, Lynne and the rest of the family. I am so ashamed of my inability to support these people that I love so much.

Back at Venray, I can't even look Chris in the face when he is seeking comfort from a bottle of beer in his race hauler. I go to bed early. I get out of bed late. I pause only to hug and kiss my house mates who have come to support me. I put my lid on and race. That is pretty much all I can tell you about the best oval track in Europe. Sorry if you wanted a review of Venray. Go back to Google and try again.

The following Late Model races I used the #77. I took an easy start position somewhere near the front to win at Warneton, feeling like I was borrowing a life that wasn't mine to borrow. I raced Tony's car before, but back then I was just keeping it warm for him. Make sure it was race ready for when he comes back. But on the final laps of that heat, I knew he wasn't coming back. That he would not race this car again. That I couldn't phone him after, and tell him how well his car had gone. Or compare set-up notes. Or talk. Or anything. Christof stood by the drivers window until I had composed myself enough to get out of the car. "The crowd are waiting and you still have a job to do." said that little voice that allows me to turn off Kelvin and turn on that guy that smiles and waves and talks to the race fans and gives the kids his trophies, chats, shakes hands, tells the jokes and puts on the show. As I got out of the car, Christof whispered "For Tony." I nodded, took his chequered flag and waved to the Belgian crowd. I took the car to the pits and when I saw Lynne again, it was all over for that smiley flag waving guy. I would have given anything for the whole world to just crumble away. I am ashamed again. Selfish. I break down in Lynnes arms instead of supporting her with her grief. We are not sharing a victory here, we are sharing a loss. This is what we race for now. Winning here will never be the same again. I don't want to do the next heat. Or the final. Or the next meeting. I'm not sure I want to race at all. I go and sit in the camper and stare at the window. I watch my friends, colleagues, fellow drivers. I should be out there with them, showing them a strong front. But my legs wont work. My mouth is too dry when I go to speak. I make sure it is too close to race time for them to engage me when I leave to get back in the race car. I am failing them.

By the time we are going to Ipswich, I have completely lost the plot. There has been an accident which means we can't use the M25 and must drive through London. I am on Tony's computer finding a route as I have done many times before. I need to take charge. To sort this minor problem out and get us under way. But it wont come. The person that won three local road rally titles in his rookie year, now seems incapable of reading a map. I stare and stare at the screen, but it is just squiggly lines, none of it makes sense any more. I now have a blinding headache. I screw my eyes shut. "Concentrate. You have done this a hundred times, just get on with it." But I couldn't. Every time I looked at the printout it looked wrong. I tried cross referencing maps and even looking at pictures of the junctions on Google Earth, but it may have well been another planet because I recognised nothing. On the road it was no better. Lynne had to guide us through the first bit, then we found our old friend/rival Jimmy, who guided us back to the motorway. I wasn't even in proper control of the hauler. Then I started telling myself I shouldn't be driving. Not the hauler and certainly not the racecar. But that would let even more people down. I needed to try to get it together.

A race at Silverstone in August with my dad's team bought back some memories of times before I became a stock car driver. It was relaxed, I drove neat and cautiously, racing is expensive here. It was a lovely weekend, I miss racing with my dad and his team, but not enough to drag me away from the ovals.

I started planning a way to get the #13 back on the grid at Warneton for 2012, and when I could see no way to make it possible, I got a Sprint Car instead. I couldn't finance the Late Model. It was too expensive and too far to travel. I needed a change.

It was all excuses. I ran away.

But it's ok because now Chris will race the #77.

Except Chris got a new car for Superstox.

Tony would have been ever so proud to see Chris and Nick racing together in Superstox. Especially when Chris goes on holiday and young Nick "Borrows" his dad's race car and knocks all the wheels off it...

But I guess that still means less time for the #77 Late Model, a car that Tony also loved.

Here we are, both skirting the issue that someone has to race that car. Someone has to shine that light in Tony's series. We can't run away. We have to go back.

I have to go back.

I have to do more for the series and for Roots V8 Racing.

I will make sure the #77 will win at Venray, on the track that Tony was so looking forward to racing on and never got the chance.

And I will build a new Late Model to race with my name over the door.

This is my 2011 confession.

So...

Does anyone have an old Ascar chassis for sale?

***All the crap you see written here is Kelvin's opinion and not that of his associates, race team or marketing partners.***

"Don't quote me on that..."

On French cars:

"It doesn't annoy me that the French make such awful cars, what is annoying is that they don't keep them to themselves. They impose these shit-box contraptions on the rest of the world."

Explaining the dangers of Ralling:

"Sometimes, on the Rally Africa, the people that live in the villages try to touch the cars out on the stage and lose their fingers. Mechanics are forever picking out bits of finger from the grills of their race cars. But it's ok, because the people that live there are not, like, real people."

Post race at Ipswich:

"I had a perfectly balanced car. It had no grip at the front and no grip at the back."

On his questionable cooking prowess:

"If God wanted me to be good in the kitchen, he wouldn't have made me so damn attractive."

Post qualifying at Silverstone:

"I discovered Copse wasn't quite flat when I left the track backwards."

To the E.L.M.S fans who voted for him to win the 2011 Ipswich race:

"Thanks everyone, I love you, but the question was who do you THINK will win, not who do you WANT to win."

On his attitude:

"I'm not arrogant, I'm just really really good."

On the death of Ryan Dunn:

"I believe it was Ryan Dunn's God given right to kill himself at high speed in his car. May he rest in peace. Spare a thought for the passenger he murdered whilst you're writing your tributes though."

Asked how the team predicts the weather for car set-up @Warneton:

"You can tell it is going to rain by the cows. They will all have their umbrellas up."

On Hentai:

"I drew Melfina from Outlaw Star naked, then I felt bad when I looked in her eyes, so I drew some clothes on her."

To the parent of a child who wants to be Sebastian Vettle when they grow up:

"Sounds fair. He wants to be better than Jenson Button and he isn't black enough to be Lewis Hamilton."

On food:

"Al dente. That's Italian for not bloody cooked."

Explaining motorsport terms to a journalist:

"Understeer is when you hit the wall with the front of the car. Oversteer is when you hit the wall with the back of the car. Horsepower is how fast you hit the wall and torque is how far you take the wall with you."

On his home:

"Brighton. I am sure someone told me it was the home of diversity. Yet, it seems to me that for every bohemian you can find in this city, I can find you three intolerant assholes wandering around town looking for a fight."

Passing judgement on the TVR Griffith 500:

"Fast, flashy, high maintenance and temperamental."

Team mate:

"Yes, you are, but what did you think of the car?"

On the Brighton Argus:

"I feel sorry for the ten year old girl on the cover of the Argus who lost her dad, because everyone is going straight to the sports pages to read about how wonderful I am."

Post race at Hednesford:

"I don't think of myself as someone special, I am a normal person like you and everyone else, just that I have wicked skills and I am better looking."

On facebook:

"I don't understand why facebook gives me the option to like my statuses. Of course I like my statuses, I'm fucking hilarious."

On food:

"Another top tip. When you are choking on a piece of cheese, don't try to dislodge the blockage with more cheese. It doesn't work."

Post race at Lydden:

"I don't have a championship campaign, I just win as many races as I can."

On BMX:

"I don't do trails in the rain. I have enough trouble staying on the bike as it is."

On life:

"I have, since the age of eleven, solved most of the moral dilemmas that crop up in my day to day life by simply thinking "What would Nikki Sixx do?"

Asked by house mate if it would be better to buy a bed than a BMW:

"Don't be stupid. How can you go drifting with a bed?"

About his sick sense of humour:

"It's not a sick sense of humour, it's a test to see if I like you."

On his random singing:

"Sometimes I hear myself singing and think 'Why haven't I released an album yet?'"

On media appearances and interviews:

"I hate the sound of my own voice so much, you think I would just shut up."

On knives:

"I don't like the word 'knife'. It sounds all violent and stabby. From today, all knives will be called 'Cuddle Spanners'."

On fashion:

"I look better in John Morrison's sunglasses than John Morrison."

On the ASI Charity Kart Race:

"I'm racing Ben Collins on Thursday. Does anybody have a shirt that says 'You were the Stig'?"

On the F1 2011 game:

"The new F1 game for the PS3 is so realistic. Codemasters have really captured the essence of the sport. It's boring, tedious and makes an annoying noise that gives you a headache."

On his blog:

"Reading my blog is the new doing something worthwhile and interesting."

On the close of the racing season:

"Close season is when we use our fireproof underwear to keep heat in rather than out."

On being single:

"I have yet to learn the fine line between cuddling and holding someone down so they can't get away."

***All the crap you see written here is Kelvin's opinion and not that of his associates, race team or marketing partners.***

Elms_Venray.flv

***All the crap you see written here is Kelvin's opinion and not that of his associates, race team or marketing partners.***

The pizza conspiracy.

Now, I am not one to complain as you well know. And as far as paranoid goes, I am so far from it, I can barely see it! However, I have noticed recently that our pizzas are being sabotaged.

It all started when I ordered a Chicken Sizzler and ended up with a Mighty Meaty. Not the most horrendous of errors, I grant you, but suspicious non the less.

For those of you not familiar with the Domino's menu, I shall explain. The Chicken Sizzler consists of an Italian bread circle smothered with a tomato sauce that Domino's like to describe as secret. It is then littered with the carcass of a brutally murdered battery hen, caked in cheese (That's one of your "five a day") and topped of with chopped chillies to mask any taste the chicken might have left.

The Mighty Meaty on the other hand is more of a quiz than a meal, as you try to guess what noise each of the random chunks of animal might have made when they were alive. Was it a "Moo"? Or maybe a "Baa", perhaps even a "Woof". Domino's even try to make this task harder by turning some of the animals into sausages and then thinly slicing them before using them to garnish your pizza. Other bits look like the animal was shot with a 12 gauge and then the bloody chunks scraped off the wall and straight into the oven.

The point is, both of these pizzas are excellent in there own right. But there is a time and a place for each, you see? Sometimes you just want to kill chickens and sometimes you want to kill every fucking thing in the barnyard.

On this day I only wanted to kill chickens, however the man who misread my email was a bit overzealous with the bolt gun and I ended up with the contents of Noah's Ark splattered around my pizza.

It was nice, but I couldn't help feeling like I was eating innocently slaughtered animals, while the guilty ones were still crammed in cages, being force fed and pecking each other out of frustration.

But, I am a cool customer, so, Like Father Christmas that time when he shot Prancer's legs off for a joke just seconds before the reindeer landed on a frozen lake, I just let it slide.

Last week, worried that those battery chickens were getting it all their own way, a couple of friends and I ordered three Chicken Sizzlers. That should be enough to wipe out a fair chunk of chickens and, indeed it was. It was closer inspection of the pizza that led us (mainly me) to believe that someone at Domino's was out to get us. One of the pizzas contained a pudding. That's right, my friends, some sawn-off little shit stick had put pineapple on one of the pizzas. What sort of sick, depraved person would do such a thing? A saboteur, that's who. Some sneaky Russian ex KGB cossack bastard.

Or do you think it's the cat? Could our cat have someone working on the inside of my favorite eatery?

Or the caterpillars! They have been quiet for months, but I saw one in the workshop today. They could be phoning up, saying they are me and changing the orders!

Or my bed sheet! Could my bed sheet be in cohorts with a man that provides my food? This could be disastrous!

What if it is something to do with all the black cups that my house mate bought home the other day? Yes they have Star Wars on them, but black cups are controlled by aliens! I keep telling people this, but it is like no-one listens! You will all be sorry when the aliens take over your cup cupboard! Mark these words!

***All the crap you see written here is Kelvin's opinion and not that of his associates, race team or marketing partners.***

My bed sheet is possessed.

As if life wasn't hard enough, with caterpillars in the bathroom, ghosts on the stairs, no spoons, no money and a love life that largely resembles a board game, it now appears I have a possessed bed sheet.

The bed sheet in question, isn't actually mine. It was lent to me on a permanent basis by my house mate.

I say house mate, she is actually the head of our household. She is our illustrious leader who must be obeyed.

Feeling the instigation of some kind of pecking order, my other house mates and I, all vied for the post of second in command. She reviewed our applications for the job and, after some careful deliberation, bought a cat and gave the position to him.

The cat now rules us with a rod of iron fists. he makes us open doors and windows and fetch kitty treats from the kitchen. If we don't do his bidding, he tells his master and she then makes us stand on our head in the bath until we drown. We have lost many a house mate like this.

I myself, have drowned several times since living here.

I have even tried to lead a rebellion! Several times I have left the cat around the neighbours house with a note around his neck saying "Adopt me!" but they keep sending him back.

With a note saying "No."

Last week I put a tin of Whiskers on the far side of the busy main road outside the front of our house, to coax him into the traffic. But he wouldn't cross.

Only yesterday, during his daily "sit on a box" exercise routine, I tried to push him down the stairs. My house mates stopped me, fearing the repercussions from the great one. Too many house mates have lost their lives from bath drownings lately.

Sad sad business. What was I talking about? Ah yes, this bed sheet.

It is a cunning device with elasticated corners which allow it to grip the mattress. Saves all that "tucking in" nonsense. It should be easier to make fit than an epileptic in a disco.

It, however, isn't.

Being human, or at least having a passing resemblance, I only have two hands. A mattress has four corners. Don't just take my word for it, go and look at your one now.

This means that, at best, I can only fit half the bed sheet at a time. I then have to stretch the other half over the mattress before the first half pings off like a cheap pair of C&A knickers and shoots across the room like some kind of intercontinental bed sheet missile.

Just the other day I was making my bed with the window open. My bed sheet shot out of the window, decapitated the postman, crashed into a Ryanair flight ended up in the fast lane of the M23.

When I do finally tame the bed sheet and get into bed, I generally sleep like a log. I really tired one. But it is at this point that strange things start to happen.

Despite the fact that I lie perfectly still when I am in bed, as any of my former lovers will testify, my bed sheet moves around on its own.

My bed sheet tries to kill me in my sleep.

First the corners unhook and then it wraps itself around me until I look like some kind of sausage roll. Except with me instead of a sausage. And a bed sheet instead of the roll bit. A sort of "Me bed sheet". That doesn't really make any sense, does it. What did you mention sausage rolls for, anyway? We was going fine before you said that. This isn't a bloody buffet you know.

The bed sheet wraps itself around me whilst I sleep and tries to smother me. Fortunately, I always wake up in time before it finally chokes me to death.

I only realised it was trying to kill me recently. Now it knows that I have worked out its devilish plan, I think it is going to up its game. I spot it giving me evil looks when I get dressed in the morning.

I am so scared, I might start sleeping on the sofa.

Why do all these things try to get me? My life is so difficult.

fml.

Think about that if your having a bad day.

At least your bed sheet isn't trying to kill you.

***All the crap you see written here is Kelvin's opinion and not that of his associates, race team or marketing partners.***

Cold, Cat and Spoon

I am ill.

I have a cold.

Except it is much more serious than that.

This is the kind of cold that wiped out the dinosaurs.

Not many people know that the dinosaurs were wiped out by a cold, but they were. Trust me. I was there. Seriously, have you ever had a bad cold before? It is like having death tap dancing on your chest. Massaging your throat with his scythe...

Sometime I want to saw my own head off to make it stop, but just as I get hold of the saw, a coughing fit starts and I end up chopping chunks out of the kitchen and dismembering the cat.

This raises all sorts of important questions. Why is there a saw in the kitchen? The answer is simple. When we order a crusty loaf, we don't ponce about. Why is there a cat in the kitchen? Well, we ran out of crusty loaf.

Cats do not make very good bread though. Firstly, you need to try and get them in the bread bin. This is not a precision job, as a cat has a surprisingly large leg span when you are trying to get it in a hole that it doesn't want to go in to.

Removing the cat from the bread bin is far easier, if slightly more dangerous. A cat who has been kept captive in a bread bin for a while is liable to pounce at whoever opens the bread bin and give them a lively slap around the face with a claw. The trick here is to get a second person to open the bread bin from behind and, as the cat pounces, give it a fair old swing with a cricket bat. That usually takes the fight out of them.

Chopping your cat into slices can be very difficult if the cat is moving about, and you wouldn't want to nick your finger, now, would you? If your cat is still wriggling, give it another slap with the cricket bat. Now, when you chop your cat, the middle bits tend to run out everywhere. Some people like to freeze there cat first to stop this happening, but I find, if you go quick enough, you can get the slices to a plate without too much escaping.

If it is a cat sandwich that you are making, then the next question to arise is, what filling? For this, I like to use more cat. Think about it for a moment, the cat is already out, if you wanted anything else you would have to go to the fridge or the cupboard. Making sense now, see?

Lop yourself off another slice of cat for the filling and then top it off with a nice slice of cat!

The purrrrrfect Cat Sandwich! Or Catwich as I like to call it.

If you didn't freeze your cat, I recommend a spoon to eat it with.

Not that I would know what it is like to eat a cat with a spoon.

I bet you are you dying to know how many spoons we have in our house. Have a guess. No, you're wrong. The correct answer is eight. That is one each, if there were eight people living here. Or two each if there were four people living here. But there isn't. There are five people living here. and that means one of us must go without spoons.

Probably me.

Life is always taking away my spoons. Everyone else in the entire world has two spoons and I have none. I am the boy with no spoons.

I am exactly two spoons short of a full set of spoons.

Did I tell you about my cold?

***All the crap you see written here is Kelvin's opinion and not that of his associates, race team or marketing partners.***