The Sprint King

It’s 1984. On a hot summer’s day in rural England, in a dented little hatchback,
sit three men wearing heavy tracksuits, towels around their necks. The driver zips himself into a voluminous puffa jacket and pulls a woolly hat onto his head. He starts the engine and cranks up the heating, windows wound up, fans on full. “Fucks sake Dandy!”.