Top TT Traits

The Isle of Man is either unknown to mankind or seen as a backwards land on which inhabitants are part of a cult that sacrifices mainlanders in a Wicker Man-like situation. I’d like to specify that that’s only happened once to a person we (tragically) mistook to be Nicolas Cage.

When asking if someone has heard of the Isle of Man, the conversation will go down one of three paths. The first: ‘Oh yeah, the Isle of Man, that’s the one down South with nice weather, isn’t it?’ To which I reply ‘no. It is not. You’re confusing us with the Isle of Wight. And, despite being majority white in people, we have no nice weather’ before smacking them in the diaphragm with an atlas.

The second; ‘Oh yes, I have a mate from the Isle of Man, perhaps you know them. Juan Quayle?’ To which I labouredly point out the Island actually has 84,000 people living on it and we don’t ACTUALLY all know each other, thank you very much. But yes, I do know Juan. He’s my husband.

The third and final is the wonderfully original ‘Aren’t you all incestual over there?’ I always reply ‘only on a Friday.’ 

However, once a year an event is held that stamps the Isle of Man’s place on the world map, trumping local headlines of ‘shoe found at side of road’ shortly followed by ‘shoe put in bin.’ It is, of course, the T.T. Races. Below is a list of important information (outside the racing itself) for local and not local TT enthusiasts put together by Gef.

Flight/Ferry Prices

From the last week of May to the end of the first week of June the ironically named Easyjet (Not-so-Easy-Jet) will charge you the price of private hiring Switzerland for the twenty-minute flight from the ‘mainland’ (yes, I know, STOP SHOUTING) to the Isle of Man. It roughly works out at about £200 a minute throughout the journey. Although, it’ll work out cheaper than that if you take into consideration the inevitable seventeen-hour delay.

T.T. Attire

This time of year is Christmas for the TT merch shops. Everywhere you look, people are swanning around with their TT merch bags jovially swinging by their side like an accessory. TT T-shirts, jumpers, coats, hats, facemasks, gloves, bum-bags, corsets, socks, gimp suits, slacks, and adult nappies are sold by the millions. All made of leather. For two weeks the Isle of Man is filled with more men in leather than a 1980s Elton John birthday party. And it’s not even gay. Unfortunately. There seems to be a secret spectator rule of thumb that one needs to be wearing at least thirty items of TT attire at one time so you have plenty of material to soak up the opened floodgates of sweat from wearing so many layers.

The Roads Close

For many locals, this is the first experience of real life rush hour. Never before have locals found themselves facing the dilemma of which object to urinate into during the eighteenth hour of traffic. Until TT, traffic jams in the Isle of Man consisted of three cars waiting at the Quarterbridge roundabout for someone to go first. I was not mentally prepared for such a surge in traffic. On one of my more successful experiences of TT rush hour, I found myself on a gridlocked access road in a line of traffic the length of the Canadian border, devouring an Elsa from Frozen birthday cake I’d panic bought from Tesco for the journey, crying as I tried to figure out how to tell Nan I’d relieved myself in the thermal flask she’d lent me. It had been 10 minutes.

Seagulls

With the rise in population comes the rise in the number of people buying ice creams and chips, cheese, and gravy to accompany their peaceful strolls along the prom. Little do they know they’re bringing Alfred Hitchcock’s ‘The Birds’ to reality. Manx seagulls are the thugs of the bird world. I see them hanging around bus stops trying to intimidate pensioners. Screaming at them if they get a whiff of a tinfoil-wrapped egg-cress butty. These brutes don’t just go for the odd dropped chip. They wait until you’re mid-bite before swooping in to punch you in the face, simultaneously taking the food from your mouth which is hanging wide open from shock. They’ll dismember you in the process just for fun then throw your food back up in front of you as a power move.

Bushy’s

For weeks, some say months, after the Bushy’s tent has packed up and gone, people remain stuck to the ground. A trapped reminder of what once was. Sealed solidly to the spot by an ocean’s worth of spilt, superglue-laced vodka Red Bull. I wave at them sympathetically as I pass by. They used to wave back. But have now turned bronze and look like the BeeGees.

Home Stay

Due to the overload of people, hotels quickly fill to the brim so locals open up their doors for a small fee. My parents included. All recognition of me being their first-born child is squashed at breakneck speed in the face of some extra pennies and I am booted out of my room for the duration of the TT. The following two weeks involve awkward run-ins in the hallway and me with a glass to my bedroom door, listening to make sure they are out before I sneak in to get clothes. By the end of the two weeks, everyone is in high spirits, mum and dad have made a quick buck, the visitors leave with happy memories and I am left with a room that smells of other people.

The Fair

The Isle of Man’s very own Blackpool Pleasure Beach minus the pleasure. Rides are put up with artwork, nuts, and bolts from 1972. With nothing but the Laxey Wheel to compare it to, locals willingly pay £72 for a ride that lasts about as long as the quickie had with some of the festival workers behind the port-a-loos. (50 seconds). Excitement is doubled by knowing whatever ride you choose to go on, there’s a 50/50 chance of either inheriting a life-threatening disease or death by the bolts finally giving way and being whizzed off into the sea like a human frisbee. The inquest will show the cause of death wasn’t by impact but by sewage inhalation from Douglas sea water.

The Weather

Practice week lures us all into a false sense of security of glorious sunshine and sunburn that makes dragging the leather over more painful than a GCSE performance of Les Miserables. Then race week begins, bringing with it weather that would even make the angriest of gods say ‘that’s a bit much’. Tents are flooded, races are cancelled and the aroma of sick pungently wafts on the breeze from the ferry. (Seacat. The Manxman hasn’t sailed.) This year my father witnessed a chap trying to dry his drenched sleeping bag underneath a hand dryer for an hour and a half. It might have worked better if he’d switched it on.