The kettle boils
08 Sep 2026A couple of years ago I almost saw Sébastien Loeb race. I wasn’t going to miss a handsome new Lancia in the World Rallycross. I was excited to see Loeb drive in person, along with Kristoffersson, the Hansens, plus our favourite Catie Munnings in the support races. We packed up the wagon and headed for Lydden Hill.
it’s a bloody long drive from where we were living, Thruxton at the time. Lydden is so far east you pick up French radio. As you get nearer this sort of event you start to spot other attendees along the way. Car stickers that give away some niche motorsport knowledge. Particular enthusiast vehicles. The concentration of likely rallycross fans grows as you near the track. Unfortunately on this day it condensed into a pretty solid jam. Worse than that was the weather. It had been pretty clear when we set off but now there was a grim looking sky, plus a nasty smell, chemical, unnatural. We rolled down into the venue and there were fire crews there, multiple engines, a scene of destruction across the other side of the circuit.
Lydden Hill, on a brighter day.
We happened to be a couple of cars back from one I knew well. A camper van with a blue Lancia on a trailer. John Cross, my favourite of the retro contenders. I’ve spoken to John a few times (he’s a bit gruff but not unfriendly, just has his own way of communicating) and so I figured he might have an idea of what was going on. He had indeed spoken to the organisers and they had asked him to get his car down there quickly. Something will be on track, he assured me, and so they are going to have to get everyone round to the paddock and the camping pretty soon.
Time goes by and we’re able to get in and park up. I trotted down to the paddock when they started allowing spectators in. One of the Lancia cars had ignited while they were being charged. The team had lost everything, both cars, all their spares and tools, the generators, their trailers. No one was hurt but it was the end for this squad. Loeb was nowhere to be seen, I presume he didn’t leave the hotel. The entire site had this chemical smell in the air, it was horrible to breathe and you could feel it in your eyes and chest. The fire crews remained on site for some time. Apparently the battery pack kept reigniting. Once these things start burning, you have to stand back and wait for it to conclude.
We didn’t get to see Loeb drive a lap, or Johan Kristoffersson, or the Hansens or any of the World RX racers. Actually that’s not quite true. We saw Timmy Hansen cycle past and my son Victor told him he had a cool bike. There was a real sense of despair that day. We overheard the normally mild-mannered Munnings sharing frustration. “You’re saying if the battery pack vents then I won’t see it, hear it, smell it, but I must stop the car and get out immediately?” We packed up the car and headed back west. Didn’t want that atmosphere for a camp.
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I usually go along to the pride parade here in sunny Southampton but this year I skipped it. Feeling wiped out after a really intense few months, I wanted to sit on the sofa in peace. Honestly last year I was angry at how bad Southampton pride was. Everything had a logo on it, everything was sponsored. It felt like we were being farmed. Kettle queers in an area and extract all their cash. Usher the shoppers around the other way. I nearly boiled over.
These council organised pride things are so templated, they have such a limited and narrow view of gayness. It’s drag, it’s glitter, it’s camp, it’s disco, it’s cocktails and feather boas and rainbows. You know the deal. It’s an event designed by someone who thinks it’s all just lovely to have inclusive things and what a fun party it is and they really loved High School Musical or whatever. It’s corporate sponsor friendly. It cheers up the concrete hell of Southampton for a day. It’s wrong.
There is a deep darkness at the core of pride. It’s not a music festival. It’s two fingers up to the rest of the world. Our shitty parents. Our classmates who laughed and kicked the hell out of the faggot. Even in the UK the police raided gay bars in living memory.
I keep seeing stories about people calling the cops on trans people who are trying to follow the stupid law. We’re in a society built on hate and then the local governments try and seize and sanitise protest. That burning rage hasn’t subsided. Last year I went to Waterstones (incidentally increasingly Waterstones is a queer hangout just FYI) and had an espresso and flick through a book and seethed. This year I opted out altogether.
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I might have noped out of Southampton gay pride but I did find myself in the middle of something greater. We were driving in to London just the next day, we had tickets for Earl Sweatshirt and Mike. We’re rolling along in the Skoda with facemelting metal at a hundred decibels, regular traffic on the A40, but we can feel huge bass outside the vehicle. We were in the Notting Hill area and hadn’t known it was carnival weekend.
Carnival dancer. Nikon F-601, 50mm f/1.4, Harman Phoenix II.
There was no way I could resist experiencing this. I had never been to the carnival and I would like to be prepared next time! The floats and dancers, the sound systems and the Caribbean food. It was noisy and busy, thousands of flags waving and I was absolutely buzzing at being lost in the chaos. Everyone looked amazing and seemed so uninhibited, free to throw themselves into the party.
Carnival is also really a protest march, a show of solidarity. There were hundreds, perhaps thousands of police present, which seemed intimidating but the event felt safe. It’s about identity of all kinds, cultural and sexual and ancestral too. It was wonderful and I wish it could be bottled and shared around everyone everywhere.
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Motorsport is dangerous, it says so on the back of the tickets. The biggest risk to competitors or spectators is always fire.
It feels to me like the fire has gone out with pride and with social justice generally. We’re in a country where fascist thugs can shut down Dover but protestors calling for peace in the middle east or recognition of the true and obvious environmental facts are beaten up by uniformed bobbies or political fronts.
It’s time to rediscover that fight, to recognise that money is being poured in to take the heat out of progressive campaigns. No amount of rainbows and glitter can hide the rotten core of injustice in our society. Every day I see fresh news that makes me angry, gives me the urge to take to the streets and make a noise. But why not stick some feathers in my hair and shake my arse at the same time?
