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Formula Ford racer through London
TG suggested Ford make a road-legal version of its racer and let us drive it on real streets. They did…
Problem. My cash is in the back pocket of my jeans, on the other side of my bottom which is on the other side of a six-point race harness pulled so tight that my testicles have been relocated some way north of my stomach. I try to fold my left hand behind my back to extract the fiver, but this only results in my arm becoming irretrievably trapped behind my ribcage. The van behind me honks as I flail at the harness buckle with a half-frozen right hand.
Twenty seconds of midriff poking and the buckle releases with a clack, sending me springing up out of the cockpit and my genitals thumping into the base of the steering wheel. I squeal and sheepishly proffer up the crumpled fiver to the cashier, who has watched this scene unfolding impassively. He blinks slowly. "Ketchup?"