The Man in the White Suit: The Stig, Le Mans, the Fast Lane and Me Read Online Free Page A

a twenty-five-minute journey we arrived at our destination. Mum adjusted my shirt and tie as we approached the front door. We were greeted by the boss, his wife and final y his daughter.
    ‘Ben, this is Stephanie.’
    ‘Fuuuuuuuuuuck Stephanie,’ I replied.
    You could have heard a mouse fart. After a little smooth talking, my parents dug themselves out of it and I was al owed in for chipolatas and cake.
    Dad kept his job with the company in spite of his feral offspring and we were invited back for a grander function a year later. The company was changing its vehicle fleet and new cars were dished out. I knew how disappointed he was not to be in line for a new Jaguar XJS, like the one the boss had ordered for himself.
    We piled into the Rover to the accompaniment of Dad’s favourite driving soundtrack, the jangling guitar riffs from The Good, the Bad and the Ugly .
    I was thoroughly briefed to avoid the swearing issue, but Dad was kicking off again about the Jaguar situation. Mum told him to put a sock in it.
    I didn’t talk much as a kid and they probably thought I wasn’t listening. I felt detached from the absurdity of the everyday. I stared blankly at the blurred stream of green and yel ow outside the window and dreamt of flying this low in a fighter jet. Secretly, I was in training.
    We duly arrived at the party and made it past the introductions without a single thirteen-letter word.
    The do was wel under way, with scores of business types mingling, networking and slurping their way up the corporate food chain. My old man was holding forth as ever, entertaining a group of young managers with a mixture of jokes and forthright discussions, interspersed by plenty of vigorous gestures and raucous laughter.
    Dad’s laugh was infectious. His eyes creased and his broad mouth spread into the enchanting grin that epitomised his joie de vivre.
    I was loitering around the food table like a time bomb waiting to explode. I was already programmed with the view that the world was populated by good guys and bad guys, and in this room ful of smal talk and grown-ups I decided to break free of my shyness and act on a judgement cal .
    The boss was breezing past when I caught his eye. He felt he had to stop and feign some interest.
    ‘How is school then … uh … Ben?’ he asked.
    ‘Why can’t my daddy have a Jaguar?’ I replied.
    He made some more talking noises that failed to make an impression on me, so I kicked him squarely in the testicles.
    A smal boy was ideal y placed for such an attack. What I lacked in firepower was more than made up for by the accuracy gained from being at eye level with the target.
    Judging by the way the boss’s legs buckled as he doubled over, I’d properly rung the bel on his High Striker. The second pain-wave swept across him, tears wel ed in his eyes and he dropped to his knees, straining to get his breath back. Something about the bel -bottoms draped from his parted legs on the Oriental rug made him look entirely ridiculous. The whole party erupted with laughter. The boss was as popular in the office as David Brent.
    The importance of being truthful and standing up for myself had been instil ed in me by my parents; I just added my own interpretation. Dad deserved that car and the boss was a trol under the bridge for suggesting otherwise. ‘Truth Tourette’s’ has stuck with me ever since. I can’t say that it’s made life easy, but I’ve enjoyed busting a few bal s.
    Dad didn’t get the Jaguar that time but he made up for it in later life. He changed cars as often as he emptied the ashtray. He must have owned about forty of the things. As soon as he could afford one, he bought it.
    In spite of the love of cars that pervaded our family, my sole ambition was to be a fighter pilot. I wanted supersonic speed and the superhuman reflexes to go with it. I read endless accounts of Jump Jets winning in combat simulations against scores of faster but less nimble American F-14 Tomcats. My bedroom