As Cian so incisively pointed out, while it is all very well "composing scathingly incisive critiques of Japan's political establishment" (his words), there comes a time when you have to put down the pen, pick up the car keys and burn some goddamned Goodyear rubber!!
YEAH!! ALRIGHT!! WHO B DE MAN?! U B DE MAN!!! etc.
So it was earlier today when World Rally Championship came to hitherto sleepy, suburban Muroran. For those of you who have the terminal misfortune to come from a country where driving in elongated circles 500 freakin times is regarded as the ultimate in automotive accomplishment, WRC is basically legalized high speed car chases down narrow, windy country roads.
And it is big in Europe. Yes, Europe, that continent of molly-coddled social welfare recipients and eh, Greece. So this, parkour and hurling is how we get our rocks off in the old world.
It takes cojones my Yankee friends, la boule, liathróidí, great big brass ones.
Anyway, me and Cian, proud genetic bearers of the Gaynor liathróidí (though a shout out to the Moss man down Clon way. And to John up in Helsinki. Maith na fir), hit the open road this morning in preparation for the start of next year's championship in Monte Carlo.
By coincidence I had just rewatched Bullit the night before and, as it turns out, the hills of Muroran make a fair substitute for San Francisco.
Topographically speaking.
In all other aspects Muroan and 'Frisco are as about as far apart as, well, two cities on opposite sides of the Pacific Ocean.
Those of you easily alarmed should look away; those of you who believe that the only place for the pedal is firmly down on the metal, should clink on the link below.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rdhadmldP2c&feature=youtu.be
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