Aw, bless. You have to take pity on some members of the older generation because they can become so easily confused, don’t you think? Especially the men, I find. In fact not just men but male drivers. Well, male racing drivers actually. Well, OK male racing drivers called Stirling Moss. Oh for God’s sake, Ok then, older, male racing drivers called Stirling Moss who ejaculate sexist blather like perverts rubbing themselves against stolen nanny goats.
See, Moss – whose name rhymes with toss – has been all over the news by bleating about how he thinks women aren’t fit for racing cars. He’s said, “I think they (women) have the strength, but I don’t know if they’ve got the mental aptitude to race hard, wheel-to -wheel. The mental strength, I think, would be pretty difficult for a lady to deal with in a practical fashion. I just don’t think they have the aptitude to win a Formula 1 race.”
Now the only way I get my head around any of this oral turdery is to assume that, after a lifetime around cars, Moss had had his brain poisoned by exhaust fumes. Oh, that and the fact that he is now as relevant to modern racing as the Penny Farthing is to the Tour de France.
Actually, he gives away his staggering inability to understand women at all when he insists on referring to persons of the female persuasion as ladies. I dunno, perhaps he thinks us women are shit racing drivers because we struggle to manoeuvre our crinolines around the gear stick and can’t fit our bottles of smelling salts in the bloody glove compartment.
Which leads me to his inexplicable notion that women are so feeble minded that we barely have the mental capacity to operate a pedal while staring straight ahead. Now, Mr Toad here really does have to be shitting me on this one. If he thinks parping around a one-lane race track in a Red Bull advert is pressure then he as sure as shit hasn’t had to transport 300 passengers through a thunderous storm at 30,000 feet while doing 600mph. Yet that’s what female airplane captains do every day, usually at the same time that their female counterparts are performing brain surgery, storming drug dens and going to war. And all while sporting an active vagina, may I add.
That’s why the Moss Theory, as it will now be known, makes as much sense as washing your face in battery acid. Moss actually thinks that the pressures of driving a fast car are greater than any pressure any woman has ever known. Has the man never heard of childbirth? He clearly as no idea of the amount of mental strength it takes for a woman to see a screeching human head emerge from her conjugal nook without becoming so deranged that she chews her way through her own bed. Big, foaming bollocks to taking a right-hand turn at Silverstone. Instead I’d like to watch Moss’ reaction as the human equivalent of a Thanksgiving turkey squawks its way through his exploded rectum.
Anyway, Moss has never met me. Seriously, I would drive myself off the edge of a cliff in a horse and trap if it meant beating the arse-faced cockwomble who’s revving in the Saxo next to me at the traffic lights. In fact I display such levels of mental aptitude when behind the wheel of my car that I make Neil Armstrong look like a vitamin-deficient monkey punching a cheese grater.
So no, Moss. Just no. You want to bang on about tootling about in your Fiat Punto, you go for it, but leave women’s capability out of it. Mind you, I will thank Moss for one thing, albeit one thing only. When I see him on the street and deliberately run the fucker over at least I’ll have the defence of lacking mental aptitude. Looks like the guy might have done women a teeny favour after all.