It used to stand for British Touring Car Championship. But what does it stand for now?
British Touring Covid Cockwombles?
British Twat Chops Championship?
Britain’s Terrified of Catching Cold?
Fucking COVID. Fucking cowardly fannies that have totally taken over our society, our government and our media.
Oh sure, the racing was still good today, but everything surrounding it? Terrible. Repulsive. No atmosphere, no crowd, no pit walk, no celebrating the win, wall to wall mask cunts, unintelligible interviews conducted remotely, like defusing a bomb with a robot from a control centre in Swindon.
Do you know what I see when you broadcast an image of a man wearing a mask?
They may be showing this:
But I see this:
TAKE THE FUCKING MASKS OFF YOU CUNTS.
And just how is this going to be sustainable, without the hundreds of thousands of pounds of gate receipts, hospitality, merchandise and victual sales that the venues depend on, but aren’t getting a penny of? It’s possible the sport will never recover from this, even if we go back to the old actual normal by next spring. Which we won’t. The masks are going nowhere, and we will be expected to be grovellingly greatful for every concession that is made towards a simulacrum of actual normality.
The next person that utters the words ‘new normal’ is going to get a fucking pipe wrench in the face.
Yes I had a ticket for Donington, yes I was still optimistic I’d be spending the day trackside. Until the whole thing was kiboshed by the fucking government on Wednesday… 3 days before the event. Because spoiled middle-class women and super-annuated wealth sponge boomers are terrified of catching a cold, and Boris (PTSD Be Upon Him) is desparate to maintain the illusion that he has things under control and hasn’t committed the whole country to a penurious future merely due to arrogance, ineptitude and indifference.
And what’s left but to watch it on the TV, technically obliging me to put £150 in the pocket of those sanctimonious 5th columnist diversity cunts at the BBC?
Fucking come at me, TV licensing nonces.
Note, by the way that former champions – stalwarts of the BTCC – were not present on the grid today. Because of the effect COVID has had on the viability of the sport, neither Jason Plato nor Andrew Jordan is racing this year. But Nick Fucking Hamilton is racing, isn’t he? The rolling road-block… the black Frank Spencer… oooh Betty… first two races, into the gravel trap twice. Twice causing a yellow flag, prolonged by the fact that the crippled twat can’t get out of the car and out of danger – even when it’s on fire.
Do you remember F1 driver Pastor Maldonado? Do you remember how everyone pulled their punches and dodged criticising him for how shit and dangerous he was? No, you don’t do you, because it didn’t happen. Critics were unrelentingly brutal. But not with Nick Hamilton.
No-one is saying shit. He’s a danger to himself and others, and he is the cause of some kind of incident practically every fucking race. But no-one will point this out because of who and what he is. The half black, half crippled, half brother of Lewis Fucking Hamilton. Paying to play, with change found down the back of Lewis’s couch.
Here are his results from last season: He ran 24 races, qualifying 25th on average. His best finish was an 18th place but more normally, if he finished at all, it was right at the back of the field. Remarkably, he only DNF’d 5 times last year.
But here he is again in 2020, like a dalek on a staircase. He didn’t even manage to register a qualifying time this weekend at Donington. And yet it’s not viable for Plato or Jordan to be on the grid.
Well look, Nick Hamilton. I’m very sorry that life dealt you a shitty hand with that disability. It’s very good of your lucky and talented brother to bankroll your hobby, but it’s not going to work. The race track is no place for you, and you need to get off the circuit and out of the car before you kill someone.