Remember when Hollywood used to produce the odd “fun” movie—in somewhat the same theme as “the Grand Old Opry?” A young guy (our hero) would be motoring along with his girlfriend in a sports car, usually a MG TC or similar, and suddenly he sees a sign telling him that there is a “Grand Prix“ in the next town. Naturally, our hero detours into town and pays his entry for the race. You knew what the event was by the huge banner stretched across the street. The full supporting cast was there, from the local newspaperman, with a Press sign stuck in his hatband, to the Race Announcer who delivered a line of chat worthy of the best muscle-car auctioneer, and of course the Mayor who, at least in his own mind, was the most important personage, all of them excitedly shouting about “The Grand Pree.”
With no need for inconveniences such as practice and qualifying, our man could just drive up to either the first or second row of the grid, then suddenly produce a crash helmet of the upturned chamber pot variety, which he plonked on his head, but naturally did not deign to fasten the chin straps. Lots of revving engines, the Mayor steps forward to drop the flag, and off they all go. The scene then changes from town, to countryside, to dirt track. Many are the troubles and challenges which befall our hero, not least from a couple of rascally opponents, one who looked like a Mexican airline pilot, with pencil moustache, and the other the customary tall, dour, gay Englishman driving a Jaguar (Jagwah).
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