A satirical piece about Boy Racers.

After the supermarket shutters close on the daily shopping masses, a different type of battered trolley rolls into the car parks. Piloted by 17-year-old boys in full pubescent swing – the nocturnal hours signal the rise of the Boy Racer…

Tonight we follow 17-year-old Trev – a strange ferret looking creature surgically attached to a genuine fake gold chain – the reason for the trickling blood flow to his starved brain. Trev has spent the last two weeks at his 30-year-old dad’s garage modifying his £150 Vauxhall Corsa with aero parts from the local scrap yard.

Today Trev is adding the final additions to his ride, straightening out the chicken wire grilles and touching up the poly-filler with Dulux finest gloss. He screws on his personal number plate: 1MA CNT, and with his tank filled to the brim with siphoned petrol, he buys a quarter of ‘skunk’ from his old man. He is ready for a cruise.

The place to be tonight is the floodlit forecourt of ASDA car park. In attendance since lunchtime is the regular 15-year-old throttle totty – dancing to Nokia ring tones while sharing a half-empty bottle of Lambrusco. The distant roar of a sports exhaust, designed to mimic the mating call of the blue whale, signals the arrival of Trev.

As it’s Friday, Trev’s female passenger has made an extra scowling effort, wearing week-old pink pyjamas and bunny slippers, a three day build up of Boots hair spray and an extra layer of make-up to protect her from the harmful rays of the moon.

Trev has had treads on his tires for over a day, so he makes his entrance in style, flexing his cars non-existent power with a performance of hand break pirouettes, masterfully undertaking a collision with a stray shopping trolley. He commences a lap of the car park, blazing from zero to maybe… eventually.

Cleverly designed to look as plastic as they are, the streamlined Lego appendages, consisting of an improbable wing that NASA hadn’t noticed missing, flatters to deceive, creating the aerodynamic efficiency required to negotiate the tricky speed bumps at near-stationary velocity.

His Kenwood digital theatre system is set all the way to 11, blasting a narrow variety of indistinguishable beats – the sonic boom box pounding seismic ripples through the earth’s core. His passenger seems almost hypnotised by the stationary display of the monotone graphic equalizer.

The underneath of the car is illuminated with blue lights, the purpose of which is to help find any drugs that are discarded if the police arrive. There are rumours that the pigs are venturing beyondDunkinDoughnuts tonight, in search of a vehicle containing a suspicious item, believed to be a tax disc.

Trev takes his place among the other 42 boy racers, all sporting alloy wheels bought from the same eBay seller. Signalling his intention to go EVA, he fixes his poloshirt collar, dons his baseball and steps outside. Choking on the clear Lynx free air, he complains to the other petrolheads about not being to afford ASDAs new congestion charges, he’s been saving up for his driving test so will have to hang out at KFC car park – where the Emos skateboard.

He is starting to look unwell, his eyes aren’t glazed over and his completion is returning to its rare gravy brown smear. After one coherent sentence too many, he puts on his official counterfeit shades and returns to the neon-tinted cocoon of his ride.

His passenger has sold four Mayfair cigarettes and two cans of Strongbow to the throttle totty, raising enough cash for them to share a donner kebab before going dogging. Trev rubs the two loose ignition wires together, bringing the Vauxhall Corsa to life. He rolls a joint on a stained MAX Power magazine, lights it up and toots farewell to the totty, leaving in a trail of intoxicating smog. He may lose his virginity tonight.


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