what did you go and do, paul?

My favorite beatle has screwed up, again. Paul, oh Paul. Again. Was it not enough with Mull Of Kintyre and Linda McCartney and… well, just about everything you’ve done since the end of The Beatles? Don’t you force me to turn to that mean bastard John for comfort.

This time Paul is squandering his Beatles-fortune on a divorce settlement. We know that he married ex-model Heather Mills four years ago, and that they also had a baby, and we thought, hey, good for you, Paul.
However, now it turns out that Paul turned down a pre-nuptial agreement that Heather Mills proposed. Heather, you are pearly and I must love you! Paul, on the other hand, found it “unromantic“… and refused to sign it. Hey, good for you, Paul. Good for you…

It could cost you about a million pounds per week of marriage, say 150-200 million pounds, total. Paul, oh Paul. Fool, dear fool. While you were out riding the pink clouds with red roses in your eyes, the pre-nup that Heather offered you was true love, and that and nothing else is the most romantic thing I have ever heard.

“…you never give me your money, you only give me funny paper, and in the middle of negotiation, you break down…”


According to UK mag Auto Express, this is the new Fiat 500 in Abarth trim. It’s due for a 2007 launch, said to debut at next year’s Geneva Motor Show. The nuovo 500 Abarth is rumoured to be powered by a 150-hp 1.4 liter turbo… va va ooomph!

And I want one so bad-bad-badly! Having searched high and low for a worthy successor to ol’ UKC-12, I have now at last found it, no question about it, no doubt in the skypie. This is the smart man’s car, light and compact, low on fuel consumption, hopefully cheap yet still relatively fast, and definitely high on cool & chic. This modern world baby will run circles around Minis… anyone, for that matter.

I feel a deposit slipping away from my account…

san marino shuffle

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.

Voilà, 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…

frog music

It is the year of the frog. Raining from the sky. One would think that seventeen albums of Serge Gainsbourg would satisfy most men. But. Not this one. No. Sirree. Punctuation is a weapon of mass destruction. And music sung in French is the total opposite…

…so I branched out and hit the heavens with little happy fists of lulu joy as I came upon gems like Charles Trenet and Georges Brassens and Jacques Brel, dusty treasures of silly accordion glee wooeee.

I always figured Edith Piaf brought the best rollicking ‘r’s to the table… but Jacko Brel is a rolling ripping rotund riot of the French ‘R’. His tongue must be alien. It is strrrrrruggling for its life to get out. ‘Dans le porrrrrrt d’Amsterrrrrrdam…

Breakdance my heart!

serge gainsbourg

I have discovered Serge Gainsbourg! The world will never look quite the same again.

This is my second time coming into religious Gainsbourg belief. The first one was when I, as an easily impressionable young boy, heard ‘Je T’aime Moi Non Plus‘ for the first time. Uh ah… an important milestone on that rocky road of adolesence… you know what I am talking about if you have heard this heavy-breathing song. If not, please, do yourself a favour. Such wiz, such wit.

Je vais, je vais et je viens
Entre tes reins
Et je
Me re-

However, and ‘scuse my pun, this time I have penetrated his material in a deeper way… there is so much more to Serge Gainsbourg than that song – which also was his biggest hit in the States, where it, by coincidence(?), stalled the pop charts at number 69. How quaint.
As I was saying, before I got distracted, there is a wealth of even better Gainsbourg out there. I should know; I now have 17 albums that I hold close to my warm body. The dirty man of French popular music is a genius of a composer, producer and provocative performer. He was also the lover of Brigitte Bardot. Oh BB! (even her initials are sexy; full and juicy like plums) What more could you ask for?

Gainsbourg: a modern Baudelaire.

By all means, try ‘Histoire de Melody Nelson‘ and ‘Bonnie and Clyde‘. And I know you want to listen to ‘Initials B.B‘ and ‘Serge Gainsbourg and Jane Birkin‘. It seems sad and hard to realize that you really haven’t been taking out the corners in life before you’ve heard sweet la petite Anglaise Jane Birkin singysing the song ‘Orang Outan‘…

I fall in love. How I fall in love.

a series of series

You need to know this, and it is my self-appointed duty to tell you.

*waving a pendulum*

You can not resist me. It is for your own good. Trust me. You need to know. Give in. Embrace your destiny. You suddenly feel very very sleepy… so sleepy… so so sleepy… so so… zzzlp…

“Stop blocking the airwaves. Stop watching ‘Lost’ right now. Stop watching ‘CSI:pickyourtown’. Stop watching ’24’. Stop it! I have seen the light and it is shining from the illuminated screen in front of me. Soon it will shine all over you; turn around, look behind yourself, see the shadow of your sceleton against the wall.”

[1]. Life On Mars. A BBC quality British cop series, set in 70s Manchester. Perhaps you think it sounds square? Tsk tsk. There is nothing square about this series, except for the fist in your eye if you stand too close to the screen. They have only made 8 one-hour episodes; I am on my knees bitchin’ for more, having watched four to this date. How cool is full-speed reversing a bronze Ford Granada through a narrow brick alley with a half-eaten ham sandwich in your mouth, eyes wild and tie sloppy, knuckles feverishly anticipating the jaw of the thief? DCI Gene Hunt, everybody. He’s the GUV. He is also the hardest man in cop history. Vic Mackey, eat your heart out.
There are no beautiful people in this series, no tanned teenage OC flesh to sink your teeth into. That is part of its enormous appeal. Life On Mars (from the Bowie song) is gritty, rough, and loaded with attitude. The close-ups come with bad breath, warts, gaps in teeth, packing tingling emotions of anger, despair or drunken debauchery. 70s Manchester is a man’s world, sexist and wonderfully real, clothed in the surreal garb of that forlorn era. The acting is insane, stylish, the characters weird and perfect. They smoke and drink all the time. I love it, I do do do.
And if these hymns does not sell you, the soundtrack will finally tip you over the edge and into the abyss of tv love. Bowie, Bolan, The Stones, Led Fucking Zeppelin.
I can only say, there is life on mars after all.
(Don’t wait until it’s on tv – you might end up waiting in vain. Sneak it off the net, today. You can thank me later).

[2]. Entourage. This is one you may have heard about. But that is not enough. You gotta watch it, live it, become a wanna-be like me. It is everything that Life On Mars isn’t. De facto, it is the ultimate contrast, a wet dream of wild fame. In Entourage, they buy the Maserati Quattroporte you wanted. They sleep with the sexiest poule des luxes you only find in Vogue. They live the dream; your dream. Yeah, your. At least, now you can watch it. Join Vince and his gang of Eric, Turtle, Drama and crazy agent Ari in Hollywood. Along the way you will meet Jessica Alba et al. I mean, et al! Entourage is packed like sardines with familiar faces and other nekkid bodyparts.
Sceptical? You should know better. It is not Spelling or Bruckheimer – it is quality, it is HBO, produced by Mark Wahlberg. It shows the inside of the movie industry in a satirical and oh so funnybunny way. You will enjoy, laugh. I offer my personal guarantee. (I am not selling refrigerators…)
Forget about Luke Perry and Jason Priestley. The actors in Entourage are seven miles ahead in the sweepstakes of cool. Kevin Dillon as Drama will blow your little mind into lots of h’s before a’s, h’s before a’s. Jeremy Piven is absolutely… Gold… as aggressive loudmouth agent Ari Gold ( he answers his phone with the adorable: “You got Gold!”).
Go on, book a place in the sun. Give in to temptation. Watching Entourage is as effortless but rewarding as sitting on the beach in Biscarosse, watching the topless girls run and run and run and run and run and run and run and run and run and run and run and run and run and run and run…
(Entourage is not out on Finnish tv yet. Get a head start and steal it from the net. Because you need something to talk about when the days come around. Me? Seen every episode made, ages ago).

A shout goes out to my buddy JCK, who watches more bad tv-series than Quentin Tarantino. However, once in awhile, just like Tarantino, JCK finds the nuggets in the sauce – then passes them on to me. The two on offer here are prime beef. The man at the forefront has come through again.

*snapping fingers*

You can wake up now. But remember what I said. The next time you pass your tv by, show it some love. I happen to know that if your tv could talk, it would beg for mercy from reality shows like Big Brother and Survivor and the endless and infinite number of similar mind-numbing shit…

melbourne demolition derby

Early bird gets the the worm. I saw Monty spin on the warm-up lap, and broke into dawn-breaking laughter… set the tone for the rest of the race. It looked very slippery out there; people were running wide like they were suffering from double vision. One person who ran like a ragdoll was Old Shue – then it finally bit him like a bee in the ass and he put it in the wall in an array of Ferrari carbon fiber shards. I would have given anything to see that during the long hard years… now it only emitted a mild chuckle from me, figuring it was karma payback for all the punishment the old regenmeister has put me thru.

In the meanwhile, Big Eyebrows ran away with it – no matter how many times the pace car tried to stop him. I dislike him partly because he is insufferably indecently infallably good, partly because he is an idiot. Please note that the latter part is not just a cheap-shot personal opinion – I am obviously referring to his huge illusions of grandeur onboard a motoGP bike, and his comments about Vale Rossi. (Speak ill of dio Rossi at your own peril; my firstborn son will go by the name of Valentino…)

I digress. The Oviedo native Big Eyebrows has a couple of strengths that make sure he has already locked the 2006 championship. (Yes, he has. Why fight the truth?)
[1] His car. It is fast and it never breaks.
[2] His starts. Why even bother with qualifying? I am sure he could pass 75% of the field to the first turn.
[3] Smarts. He is tactical, calculated, relaxed, and almost as cool as the Iceman, which is a considerable achievement for a Spaniard. He is also a master of pace car trickery.
[4] He is lucky. The Renaults do break down – but his, no never his R26. I get that r e a l l y frightening Schumi vibe here…
[5] Oh, almost forgot. He is rather quick too; quicker than everyone else bar the chosen one. (My chosen one, that is).

A few sentences on the loose: It’s a shame about not Ray but Nico. Two broken Ferraris? Where has all the magic gone? I am impressed by SuperAguri, by the way. The car was built during the Industrial Revolution, but no one told Banzai Sato. Lemon award of the day – Rubinho, your time is up. (Besides, have you ever heard such an oxymoron as a “boring Brazilian?”)
Now I want to return to the old continent, to heritage, traditions, champagne with alcohol in it, circuits with real names.

Until then, let us all warm our hands at the bonfire. Twenty meters from the end a Honda burns, burns, burns…

mal, très mal

I wasn’t even going to write anything, since I couldn’t really find anything nice to say. Butt, butt. To think I got up early for this. You know what I am talking about. It happened on TV, so therefore it is true. Before I had time to blink, Kimi was out. Just a bit later, Nico joined him on loser street, shame avenue, rue de la crap, boulevard of broken technology.
Then I started praying for a monsoon to sweep the rest of the cars off the circuit. Of course, my connection with God is usually off-line, and that failed too. Not even my most evil voodoo and bleeding goat heads did anything of importance, so eventually I had to settle for turning my brain off and watching the sweaty French cars win.

Why don’t they just hand the championship trophy to Fernandez Alfonso straight away? Then I could just relax and take it easy one race at a time, instead of feeding on anxiety until, say, late summer when he will clinch it anyway.
I am happy for Fisico, but what I really want from him is to give up his seat to Heikki Kovalainen at the end of this season.

I am also playing with the thought of Kimi going to Renault, simply switching places with Fermento Albino. If you read this, Briatore, you have my support. Bring your biggest checkbook, thou. And your best champagne and the finest lap dancers…
As for you, Carlos Ghosn, don’t even think about pulling the plug on Renault F1. I know you read my blog, Ghosn. Don’t pretend you can’t hear me! Don’t make me come down there!

In conclusion I will just say that I’ve conducted tremendous research to figure out what ‘Malaysia’ really means (mal in French is bad), sÃ¥ varsÃ¥god, I have translated it for you: Bad Part Of Asia. Feel free to add ‘Very’ in front of it.

(For the millions of malay who read my blog: I love your country. Hello, Djakarta! How are you doing!)

four wheels

Blistering barnacles, has sandy Bahrain ever seen such excitement before? Sure, the ‘sideburned’ Spaniard won and Ol master Shue took second, but the man made of unmeltable ice came from 22nd to 3rd in a furious turbo charge, using most of the field as slalom flags or even bowling pins, in the process serving up a delicious meal of real Finnish ‘sisu’ for 57 awesome laps. The hard way is the only way we know up North…

Sugarsweet honeypie and a fly, I suddenly look forward to the rest of the season… to think that I was despairing only yesterday! How can my faith flutter like that?

There is another Frequently Flying Finn (you heard that expression here first!) in the field, mind you. He does not speak Finnish, but who would want to anyway? He drives under a German license, but that means as much as a snowflake on my feverish forehead. He lives in Monaco, but doesn’t everyone?
No, what really matters is that he came from the loins of none other than the Keke Rosberg. So, hands off! I hereby rightfully claim him as one of ours! Classy Nico Rosberg posted the fastest lap of the race in his first ever grand prix; yup, he has certainly inherited daddy’s right foot. And that is one ooh so heavy he-a-vy foot.

Frank is gonna have to fight for this one. Nico’s future is so bright I go… aaah… blind…

three wheels

And don’t you know that this season is just like the other one, except that it’s even more like the one before. Yes, it is F1 again, the season breaks anew. I love to hate it, but I watch every damn race like my life depends on it. Kimi goes out for his FIRST lap of qualifying. Something breaks at the rear, the wing flies off, a wheel bends underneath, he dragges his lousy tricycle back to pits. Kimi will start the race in LAST place tomorrow. Meanwhile, Ol Shue is at it, busting out some of that magic running-on-the-ragged-edge and nabbing the pole – his 65th and equal to the incredible record of one A. Senna. Respect!

I think I like the new qualifying concept, thou. But I haven’t quite made up my mind yet.

Kimi + Ferrari = please, please, please.