From the February issue of Car and Driver magazine, an article by Ken W. Purdy that originally appeared in the August 1957 issue profiling upper-class twit the Marquis of Portago. Here is the opening paragraph:
"Don Alfonso Cabeza de Vaca y Leighton, Carvajal y Are, Conde de la Mejorada, Marquis de Portago, was 28 when he died at Guidizzolo, a few miles from Brescia and the end of the Mille Miglia, on the 12th of last May. Portago had been a flier, a jai alai player, a poloist, a steeplechase rider (the world's leading amateur in 1951 and 1952), an Olympic bobsledder and record holder, a remarkable swimmer, and he was at his death one of the dozen best racing drivers in the world. He had never sat in a racing car until 1954, but he believed he would be champion of the world before 1960, and most of the men he ran against every week thought he very well might be—if he lived."
The rest of the article carries on in a similar vein, extolling the virtues of this "incredibly brilliant athlete" and speaker of four languages. I suppose, grudgingly, I must accept that it's a product of its time, when playboys were still regarded as somehow admirable; the Lindbergh Syndrome, let's call it. Still, nothing brings out the misanthrope in me more than reading these paeans to the idle rich, as though there was something impressive and virtuous about someone who spends his life being good at games, pastimes, hobbies. Essentially, their entire lives are wasted on frivolities, no matter how seriously they take them. Today, of course, they'd be circumnavigating the world in a balloon or a boat or crossing the Antarctic by snail.
When I read that Portago had died at the age of 28, I confess, the first thing I thought was, "Good. Here's another candidate for the Darwin Awards whose stupidity and recklessness was no doubt the result of ceaseless inbreeding amongst the European aristocracy." The second thing I thought was, maybe Formula One isn't so bad after all. After years of thinking it was mindless driving in circles, I've missed the real attraction it holds for so many fans: the possibility of some upper-class half-wit driving into a wall at 150 miles and hour. It's the French Revolution in commodified form.
I think I'll take up knitting.
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2 comments:
It reminds me of a comedian I saw circa 1990 (in fact, I think it was a benefit for the Guildford 4/Birmingham 6 campaigns, but that's by the by) at the Hackney Empire. Member of the Communist Party was this comedian - Bob Bowton, I think his name was.
Anyway, he says: "Formula One racing is a great working class sport, aint it? You get thousands of working class families having a day out, sitting on the grass verge with their tinnies ... all in the hope of seeing some upper class cunt get smashed to bits or, even better, getting burned to death in their fucking fancy cars."
I laughed!
Excellent! I trust they weren't driving home after consuming alcohol, mind you. Keep danger off the roads and on the racetrack, that's what I say.
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