The strange Sunday ritual of self-flagellation continues. Oh dear, what a drag. I am talking about Formula One – or rather, the world’s most expensive queue driving & formation forming. Not counting the opening lap, did anyone notice a single bold overtaking manoeuvre during the Imola GP? I sure did not. Maybe I wasn’t looking hard enough? I’ll make sure I bring my looking glass the next time…
I only titled it a ‘shuffle’ because I like the sound of the word. I do tricky stuff like that sometimes. Do you know, it sounds much like ‘waffle’. But, really, the meaning of ‘shuffle’ is not present here; I’d go as far as to suggest the cars stayed very much ‘unshuffled’.
I am now completely convinced I could win a F1 grand prix in one particular three-cylinder 1.2 liter Volkswagen Polo Trendline – if Sir Bernie the bionic demi-god lets me pull the holeshot. Then I could just keep the car in the middle of the road, check my mirrors, and amuse my brain with soft thoughts of dousing the podium babes in champagne. You see, they can not pass me!
No matter how slow the car in front of you is, the curse of modern F1 is the impossibility of overtaking. I watched Fernancy Albundy nip at the heels of Ol Shue for probably 30 laps, but I knew that the distance between the two was as irrelevant as the cup of tea I did not have this morning. Praise the lord for motorcycle racing…
Still, since I stupidly and stubbornly watch every F1 race much like the fool who waits for Jesus to return, I feel that something should be done. Something should have been done ages ago, of course, but despite the multitude of moaning, nothing has yet to come of it. Well? What can you do? Moan more, naturally. When in doubt, moan.
Take note, you useless FIA sack of scheisse, and implement. Implement! I hereby offer, gracefully and completely gratis, my solutions to fix the Castrol-bleeding patient:
– ban the god damn ad boards… sorry, I hear they call them ‘rear wings’.
– bring back the phat slicks.
– stop fucking around with the fuel-loads. You run qualifying on light, and before the start of the race you put enough soup in the tank to finish the race. Basta. Pronto. Strategy drives me silly! Is this an accounting practice, or a motor sport? Come on, people. Let’s sign petitions. Let’s put Ross Brawn out of a job.
Should that not work:
– nitro button! You are allowed to use it once a lap…
– punish drivers severly (revoke superlicence, dock pay, shoot them, I don’t know) if they do not perform at least three passes during the race.
– let me (and not boring Hermann Tilke) redesign some of those circuits, particularly Imola. I will bring back the jumps…
– hire me as a driver – I promise you lots of overtaking action… (wow, if there ever was an opening for a cheap shot).
– make me the president of FIA. Read my lips: no new taxes! Ups, that was my other speech…
– spice up the cars with some Bond gadgets. I miss you, old Q.
VoilÃ , now I have done my duty and good deed of the day; I have moaned in a manly fashion. Besides, it is part of a man’s psyche to badmouth FIA, vehicle of faschismo. It is pavlovian. Yes, it is. I personally think that talking insanely ill of FIA should be made part of the curriculum in school. Yeah, would ever I excel in that… straight A’s and no B’s, buddy.
Yes, there was a race at Imola this afternoon. The sounds of engines kept me awake. A tidy golf applause to old champion M Schumacher, who managed to position himself in front of my target for hate, Ferblundo Algore. Swell steering, Ol Shue! You are still the man. I bow my head in shame because I am so unworthy.
More importantly, Ol Shue, you finally nabbed the last record in the history books all for yourself. 66 pole positions. Is that the new number of the beast? I’ll call you later, dog. Anyway, if I could just semi-control the white-walled river of words for a few more minutes (Great beginning of sentence… Sorry. I’m trying, for god’s sake, I’m trying so hard, but the words just come and come, invade my mind, penetrate my personal space, violate me forcefully, they just come and come and there’s no ducking, dude, I take ’em on the chin and spit ’em out here, like this!), I’d just like to say that you, Ol Shue, are now the best ever, and there is no denying it. Uh. That was very hard for me to admit. You know, I don’t like you, Ol Shue, never have and never will, but at least you can count on my respect. That crap ain’t cheap, either. You are the big chief. You are the long-fingered thief. Go on, grow old with me, keep on keeping on, stealing away the wins (especially from the Spaniard. He’s evil & up to no good).
But, in lieu of this cosy vis-a-vis, Ol Shue, let me be the first to let you know that I know that you lied yesterday. The reporters asked you what it meant to grab Senna’s amazing record. Your answer was remarkably nonchalant. You said that it didn’t really mean a lot. I was watching you, Ol Shue. You lied, man. Oh, you lied…