The blazing midday heat sears the tarmac around me. The acrid smell of gasoline plays a potentially combustible game of tug-of-war in my nostrils with the lingering fumes from last night's Singha beer, fusing into a throbbing disco beat inside my head.
A flag flutters, but the teasing breeze, all too brief, moves on, bringing little respite from the simmering tension.
Behind me, I hear a familiar grunting and panting. My rear-end is vulnerable. I close my eyes. Oh Lord, I'm back in the dimly-lit, velvet-curtained Spartacus. A single bead of sweat trickles slowly from forehead to upper lip. I curl my tongue upwards and lick it slowly, savouring the sweet saltiness. My limbs are aching and my pulse is racing.
And, with a sudden drop of the flag, we're off, a snarling, revving, roaring mob, moving tightly round the first corner and racing down the straight to get a nose in front at the tight second turn. A reckless brake, a too-sharp twist of the steering wheel and a driver spins off, crashing into rows of tyres and sending blinding clouds of sand and dust billowing into the thick, sultry air.
At the back of the grid, and unable to find second gear, I revisit the previous day's round of golf, when Team Dripping (BP, Ians B&G and the Beast himself) edged out Team M (J, CA, DB and the exceedingly venerable AM) in a thrilling Texas Scramble dual played over a lush Loch Palm course set among the rolling hills of Central Phuket.
After a solid front nine, IG tired, but still managed to put in enough to take one of the post-match awards. Skipper GH, another award winner, drove his team with astute tactical nous and some good all-round golf, while "rookie" BP was King of the Greens. For the opposition, AM and DB, clear winners of the Golfer's Tan award, and C "Air Shot" A proved something of a restraint on single-handicapper JM, whose patience was tested but never snapped.
Back at the Phuketring, a fierce and frantic battle for the lead has brought the small crowd to its feet, but with little sense of the drama about to unfold.
Out front, DB is tiring, or he is too comfortable knowing that the pedestrian and occasionally erratic (small) CA is holding up his main challengers, GH and C "Five Car" S. Suddenly, CA spots an ATM trackside and is distracted long enough by the mirage to let GH slip past. CS follows in his slipstream and both are in hot, full-blooded pursuit of an unassuming DB.
CA shrugs and urges himself to go faster ... to go faster ... to go ... toga. He shuts his eyes and is swishing and sashaying among Spartacus' gilded, bronzed and statuesque patrons. He takes a tentative sip from the silver chalice held to his quivering lips by a cloaked, tanned and willowy ... and sees HC looming large in his rear-view mirror.
With one lap to go, DB has sensed the chasing duo fast approaching. The crowd has gone wild. Suddenly, GH barnstorms through on the outside, but loses control and ends his race smashing into the trackside tyres in a flurry of arms, legs, sand and spray. CS sees his chance, seizes the initiative and makes his move. He, too, charges past a now hesitant DB, but, again, his lead is short-lived as he over-steers and barrels into the tyred-barrier in a hail of bravado, expletives and vodka/Red Bull fumes. DB cruises round the final bend to take the chequered flag.
Leaving the go-kart track with only four working karts, the BC touring party, pumped high on adrenaline, heads back for a pre-match lunch at the Royal Paradise Hotel, "the focal point of the gay scene offering everything from saunas and restaurants to a busy gay disco". Thank you, IB, for arranging this.
Sadly, after all the drama of this sporting carnival, the BC's tour match against the British International School of Phuket came a tame, lame third.
On a pitch longer than Soi Bangla after several barrels of Singha, and without any pitch markings, the BC team, with just two-and-a-half substitutes, kicked off determined to turn the tide of four touring matches without a win.
Less than two minutes later, that task grew a little more difficult after Niko Kranjcar's nephew had put the hosts ahead, turning one of our defenders and smashing a volley from outside the area past goalkeeper CS, whose positioning was as suspect as his madcap driving earlier in the day.
The sun kindly took shelter behind some trees.
The BISoP "staff" side -- swarthy Australasians, the Croat and assorted Spartacus ringers -- were quicker, stronger and, arguably, technically more proficient. Ceding an average 10 years a man, the BC struggled to kick into second gear and gave away a second goal on 12 minutes when a defensive lapse left Kranjcar Jr with an easy tap-in.
Five minutes later, and the game was as good as over as Kranjcar took advantage of some defensive miscommunication to tee the ball up on his thigh and crash home a looping drive.
Trailing 0-3 and with the opposition's goal too far away to see, the BC tourists finally settled into a shape and rhythm, playing the ball short at times, but lacking a final killer pass. Danish stopper KR and the Croat made light of the fact that this was a friendly match, indulging in a brief bout of Scandi-Balkan "handbags", but the game overall was played in a good spirit, with a keen, competitive edge.
CA came deep and grabbed the ball ... and is rewarded with a delighted squeal as his mannequin-sized companion prances teasingly between the Doric columns. C, wearing tight leopard skin, trots off in pursuit, admiring the uplights that silhouette the polystyrene discuses and spears that adorn the club's walls.
The second-half was much better. The bustling, barging JM went close, stopped only by a brave diving save by the BISoP keeper. DB, the BC's Man of the Match, did get the ball in the net, but a free-kick had already been awarded, with KR's dipping shot parried, and AM's beguilingly deceptive cross-cum-shot narrowly missed the left upright.
DB was busy throughout, cutting in dangerously from the left and right flanks, supported by AM, CA and WH at full-back. GH, KR and BP rotated in central defence, "protected" by skipper-for-the-day IG, while TB and JT put in sterling work across the middle. JM and HC ran selflessly up front for little reward and the older CA worked hard in more than a cameo role, wearing the BC colours for the first time in more than an injury-plagued year.
Ultimately, the BC squad was two or three players short for a game of this pace on a big pitch, but the spirit was good and the work rate commendable. Hope JR got his homework in on time … and we now know who wears the pants chez CP.
Thanks, IB, for the managerial preparation, Churchillian inspiration and timely substitutions though, in all honesty, we couldn't see you in those cunningly camouflaged shorts.
Get thee behind me Spartacus...
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