A number of advertisements have started appearing in the British motoring press enticing amateur thrill-seekers to enter the London-Dakar rally next January. The rally has one proviso - entrants are allowed use only standard showroom production models, be they 1400cc hatchbacks, 4x4s or pre-1972 classics.
Set up as an alternative to the infamous Paris-Dakar, it's a far less hectic affair altogether. Now, I have great fondness for the Paris-Dakar, for it brought me much childhood glee when that witch Margaret Thatcher lost her idiot son, Mark, in the desert for six days in 1982. The evil dictator was said to be "very upset and very distressed" at her errant child's disappearance, which was a source of great joy to me and millions like me.
The London-Dakar will offer no such schadenfreude for me. I can't really see any of the Ahern girls heading off into the desert in a Peugeot 106 for a month, can you? (Maybe that Westlife fella married to one of them could be tempted though).
To an aspirant adventurer such as myself, at first the London-Dakar sounded like a lot of fun. I was nearly tempted. Blasting through France and Spain to the Sahara desert, chugging through Morocco and Mauritania, eventually arriving in the Senegalese capital 18 days and nights later, presumably to the amusement and bemusement of the locals more used to seeing grizzled beardies in vehicles with specifications that would put your average US army tank to shame. Who wouldn't enjoy that?
But then I thought about it. I get nervous driving, AA membership card clutched tightly to my heaving breast, as far as Co Meath in my precious ancient Bavarian princess. How would it cope with the wilds of the desert?
It'd be inhumane to even risk it. And then there's the small matter of me being a pasty-skinned Gael whose skin peels and blisters like a plum in a microwave if I sit under a 100 watt lightbulb for too long, never mind the relentless African sun.
So I'll have to pass. In fact, I'm more likely to get myself a scalpel and join the Little Sisters of the Immaculate Gender Realignment than undergo that particular feat of endurance.
There is another alternative. Affectionately known as the Ultimate Banger Challenge, the Plymouth- Dakar appears more my style. The conditions of entry to the ranks of the participating collection of motley maniacs are simple: the car has to be bought for less than €150, on top of which you are allowed spend a whopping €20 on modifications.
Any cars successfully completing the 3,000 mile trip to Banjul in the Gambia, a few hundred miles past Dakar - and, believe it or not, last year there were plenty who made it - are auctioned off and the proceeds given to charities in Senegal and the Gambia. Dozens of teams, with such names as the Desert Prats, the Dastardley & Muttleys, the Six Pistons and Team Nikki Lada competed last year. And nobody died, which is a result in itself.
There was even a car entered by someone called Tony Hadley, so if you fancy rubbing shoulders with someone who may or may not be the ex-lead singer of Spandau Ballet, this trip's for you. You could sugar his tank for warbling that Across the Barricades nonsense and for holding his microphone like it had been dipped in something highly unpleasant while he was doing it.
But there's a catch - once you get on the open road, you're on your own. No trucks laden with spare parts, no helicopters tracking your whereabouts, no ambulances at your beck and call. Nada. Just you and your wits. So, sad to say, that's me ruled out, being the witless eejit that I am.
