Formula 4 champ Abbi Pulling proves you don’t need testosterone or neck like birthday cake to be top racing driver
THERE have been many attempts over the years to get women into motor racing. And nothing’s ever really worked.
Women-only formulas were introduced, but with limited television coverage, and sponsorship was hard to find so they withered and died.
And all the time, I’ve been sitting here wondering why women should only compete against women.
It’s not like boxing or rugby, so why can’t they compete against men as well?
The question was brought into sharp focus last weekend when a baby-faced 21-year-old from Lincolnshire called Abbi Pulling, won a Formula 4 race at Brands Hatch.
Not against a field of women. But against a field made up entirely of men.
Now, Formula 4 is a long way down the ladder from Formula 1, but it doesn’t matter — Abbi was competing against a field full of budding Lando Norrises. And she beat them fair and square.
Arm wrestle
I’m not surprised, because motor racing is like Scrabble.
You don’t need to be a brick lavatory block with a neck like a birthday cake to do it well.
I spent half my life hurtling round race tracks at more than 200mph and only once — in a Nissan GTR, if you’re interested — did the G forces cause me any discomfort. And it’s not like I’m fit.
I’m certainly not strong.
In an arm wrestle I’m fairly certain I’d lose to Holly Willoughby.
But it doesn’t matter.
You don’t need strength to sit down and turn a steering wheel.
What you do need is aggression.
Some might argue that this comes from testosterone, which is more of a man thing, but I don’t buy that.
Look at Boadicea.
She was a woman who decided to take on the Roman Empire.
Then you’ve got Joan of Arc and Mrs Thatcher — who I’m fairly sure would have been able to give Max Verstappen a run for his money.
She certainly would have been able to outgun me.
In one of the races I did, I realised that my car was faster than the car in front.
Which meant that in the braking zones I was duty bound to try to overtake.
But the idea of this frightened me so much, I went down the straights with my foot not quite on the floor.
To the crowd, it looked like I was trying my hardest, but in the car I was simpering like a scolded dog.
Some might say girls aren’t particularly interested in motor racing, to which I say: “Pah!”
Forty-six per cent of the people who watch the Netflix series Drive To Survive are women.
And the grand-stands at F1 races these days are more girl heavy than a Vogue fashion show.
All around the world, millions of girls are hooked.
And I refuse to believe that among this massive army there isn’t a handful with the guts to go out there and sock it to the boys.
It’s been 32 years since a girl took part in an F1 race.
That needs to change and I’m certain that soon it will.
So go, Abbi. Be the first.
Oh for folks sake
AS we know, America is full of people who say they’re Scottish or Italian, and I heard Tom Cruise this week saying he’s Irish.
So what does that make me?
I was born to British parents, in Britain, so I’m British. Or am I?
I have beautiful, sexy blue eyes, I’m tall, with masculine shoulders, and I’m from Yorkshire, so maybe if I go back far enough I’m actually a Viking.
Which would make me Norwegian.
But further back from that, my ancestors, like yours, emerged on the plains north of Johannesburg.
Which means that I’m South African.
But then again, if I go even further back, I’m space dust.
Which makes me an alien.
It’s probably better, then, that we stick to the current system.
You are what you are, and not what your great-great-great- great grandparents were.
Biden’s Zed of roses
SOMEONE woke Joe Biden up this week and, having been guided on to a stage, he said: “I’ve never been more optimistic about the future of our country.”
Really? Never? Surely, Joe, you must remember the mood after the Civil War ended.
That must have been pretty optimistic.
And what about when you stepped off the boat from Ireland with nothing but a hammer, a saw and a heart full of hope.
I bet you were optimistic then, too.
Now, though, you’ve got school shootings, cities in decay, China on the warpath, an Israeli problem you can’t solve and the very real possibility that soon you will be beaten to the White House by a man who can only campaign when there’s a break in proceedings at his trial.
Not that you’ll ever realise.
A JAPANESE woman sued the British university where she worked, saying that she’d been offended by a colleague who said: “I like sushi.”
But the judge threw out the case, saying she was being “hypersensitive”.
This is annoying, because I was going to sue a friend who came for Sunday lunch recently and said: “These Yorkshire puddings are great.”
THERE’S been a lot of brouhaha about the nation’s second most-watched streaming show this year, Baby Reindeer.
And I can see why.
Despite his hideous and unloved face, I watched Piers Morgan interview the lady who’s been outed as the real-life stalker in this supposedly true story.
And then I watched the stalkee, Richard Gadd put his side of the story in a month-old interview on This Morning.
One of them is telling the truth. And one of them is therefore lying.
And I’m buggered if I can work out which way round it goes.
I’d be a terrible judge.
Driver error
WE were told this week that 18-year-olds could soon be allowed to drive trains.
Which, in case you haven’t seen one for a while and can’t remember what they look like, are long things that whizz along with lots of people in the back at 120mph.
Naturally, I’m worried about this proposal.
In my experience, 18-year-olds are even less likely to turn up for work than the 46-year-olds they’d be replacing.
Who is UK’s sexiest? Nope, wrong – it’s me
FOR the second year on the trot, a poll of 2,000 women has revealed that the sexiest man in the UK is . . . me.
I’m sexier even than Idris Elba and Cillian Murphy and King Charles.
And a lot sexier than Piers Morgan who limped home in a pathetic 40th place.
I think he was even beaten by Joseph Merrick.
Obviously, I’m amazed by the result but only because so many people say they’re surprised.
It’s all gone bong
WE were told this week that a quarter of those killed in a car last year were not wearing their seatbelt.
Twenty five per cent? Really?
I don’t know anyone who doesn’t wear a seatbelt.
In fact, in a recent survey, 96 per cent of those questioned said they buckled up on every trip.
The other four per cent I can only presume are deaf.
Which brings me on to my main point.
All those people who didn’t clunk and click.
How did they drive along with that infernal bonging going on?