The Spanish Grand Prix
Remember this: you read it here first. The world is changing, my friends. Take some advice. Go out and buy yourself a "Teach Yourself Spanish" book. It may be the one thing that keeps you involved. You will be grateful for it.
Before the British and the French woke up to the possibilities the world presented, the Spanish and the Portuguese had been carving up the world between themselves for centuries. They laid very deep roots. When they left and remained quiet while the rest of Europe was partying in Africa and Asia, the roots remained undisturbed. Some huge baobab-like trees are now sprouting on both sides of the Atlantic. In the mighty United States of America there has been an unwritten rule: "Hey Latino buddy, you're welcome here if you wanna bus tables, clean the bathroom, take out the trash and feed the babies, but don't you ever dare speak" As the number of Latino's from the vast continent that is Greater America has risen in Uncle Sam's own territory, the confidence they feel has been slowly rising. Last week they dared to do the unspeakable. They dared to challenge the very foundations of the "American" way of life. They, horror of horrors, sang the anthem of the great United States of America - the richest, toughest, most arrogant country in the universe - in Spanish. Oh Christ. The Star Spangled Banner became Nuestro Himno. "A la luz de la aurora," they sang in place of "by the dawn's early light".
"Bastardos!" spluttered Texan tough guy, George Dubya Bush. "I'll nuke the sons of bitches. How dare they! Texan-English is the American language!"
On this side of the Atlantic, the Spaniards - long viewed as a swarthy uncivilised lot who knew not a great deal more than dancing flamenco and cooking paella - had been permitted entry into the hallowed corridors of the European Union in the 1980s. Slowly they began doing things like the rest of the Europeans. They began making cars and trains. They became top scientists. Their economy began to look exactly like the economies of their richer neighbours. Inevitably, the Spanish were permitted to host Formula One races. The understanding was clear. "Build circuits and hospitality facilities and we will come, race there and enjoy spraying some Cava, but don't think you can have your chaps winning races, still less winning world championships!" So, they built circuits in places like Jerez and the Circuit de Catalunya but stuck to the rule. No Spanish driver ever won a Grand Prix.
Enter Fernando Alonso. He looked around him and thought "hang on, we're on the same level as the Germans and the French now. What's so special about these people anyway?" He joined a no-hoper team called Minardi and learned his way round a Formula One circuit. Skilled mastery of F1 telemetry earned him a place at Renault. He won his first Grand Prix in Hungary in 2003 - the youngest person ever to stand on the top step of an F1 podium - but people failed to pay attention; it was Hungary after all. In 2004 he kept on improving. By the time the world stood up and paid attention, he was well on the way to becoming the 2005 Formula One World Champion - the youngest ever. Spain was saying something. "So you thought that we were only overlords five hundred years ago, did you? Well, think again. Can we wipe the floor with your buttocks? Sí se puede" (yes, it can be done).
So on we go to Spain to be the guests of His Majesty King Juan Carlos I at the Circuit de Catalunya in Montjuic just outside beautiful Barcelona. This is a popular race because Barcelona is such an amazing place. It’s one of my favourite cities. I took Chipo there a few years ago. She made the cardinal error of believing a Finnish chap who told her that the refreshing-looking red drink in a frosted jug before her was cranberry juice and not Sangria. Bad idea. My Finnish friend, Kimi Raikkonen, could do with learning this sort of Finnish trickery. He needs to play a few mind games with Fernando Alonso and Michael Schumacher before it becomes too late for him to do anything about this year's world championship. While he is at it, he might want to confuse his team-mate Juan Pablo Montoya.
You see, JPM represents the other baobab tree. His Colombian homies supply a good deal of the labour and most of the cocaine consumed in the United States of America. He has struggled a bit so far this season but in Barcelona he is in virtual home territory. The babes blowing kisses at him will also be screaming in his mother-tongue. When he orders some Carnes y Aves in his hotel room for his pre-race day dinner they will know what he is talking about. Things like this make a guy feel good. And when JPM is feeling good he can be devastatingly brilliant. The omens look good for him. Best of all, he has a brand new engine for this race.
The only chap I can see ruining the Iberian party is that German android called Schumacher. The best anybody other than him has ever done in Spain is win three Grands Prix. Michael Schumacher will be chasing his seventh Spanish trophy…
But let’s not think like this. We are going to know we are watching the Spanish Grand Prix, folks. The Spaniards make sure of it. Since they won the battles so many centuries ago we might as well accept that the world is theirs. So, let’s be humble in defeat and embrace everything Spanish this weekend. Let’s blow our horns for Fernando Alonso and wave our flags for Juan Pablo Montoya.
While we are at it we might as well enjoy ourselves. I fully intend to anyway. That is why I placed a call to Guiseppe (my genius Deli guy) and asked him to get me some Jamón Ibérico which I will be washing down with a decent drop of Rioja as, like you, I
Enjoy Barcelona!
Gitau
11 May 2006
Before the British and the French woke up to the possibilities the world presented, the Spanish and the Portuguese had been carving up the world between themselves for centuries. They laid very deep roots. When they left and remained quiet while the rest of Europe was partying in Africa and Asia, the roots remained undisturbed. Some huge baobab-like trees are now sprouting on both sides of the Atlantic. In the mighty United States of America there has been an unwritten rule: "Hey Latino buddy, you're welcome here if you wanna bus tables, clean the bathroom, take out the trash and feed the babies, but don't you ever dare speak" As the number of Latino's from the vast continent that is Greater America has risen in Uncle Sam's own territory, the confidence they feel has been slowly rising. Last week they dared to do the unspeakable. They dared to challenge the very foundations of the "American" way of life. They, horror of horrors, sang the anthem of the great United States of America - the richest, toughest, most arrogant country in the universe - in Spanish. Oh Christ. The Star Spangled Banner became Nuestro Himno. "A la luz de la aurora," they sang in place of "by the dawn's early light".
"Bastardos!" spluttered Texan tough guy, George Dubya Bush. "I'll nuke the sons of bitches. How dare they! Texan-English is the American language!"
On this side of the Atlantic, the Spaniards - long viewed as a swarthy uncivilised lot who knew not a great deal more than dancing flamenco and cooking paella - had been permitted entry into the hallowed corridors of the European Union in the 1980s. Slowly they began doing things like the rest of the Europeans. They began making cars and trains. They became top scientists. Their economy began to look exactly like the economies of their richer neighbours. Inevitably, the Spanish were permitted to host Formula One races. The understanding was clear. "Build circuits and hospitality facilities and we will come, race there and enjoy spraying some Cava, but don't think you can have your chaps winning races, still less winning world championships!" So, they built circuits in places like Jerez and the Circuit de Catalunya but stuck to the rule. No Spanish driver ever won a Grand Prix.
Enter Fernando Alonso. He looked around him and thought "hang on, we're on the same level as the Germans and the French now. What's so special about these people anyway?" He joined a no-hoper team called Minardi and learned his way round a Formula One circuit. Skilled mastery of F1 telemetry earned him a place at Renault. He won his first Grand Prix in Hungary in 2003 - the youngest person ever to stand on the top step of an F1 podium - but people failed to pay attention; it was Hungary after all. In 2004 he kept on improving. By the time the world stood up and paid attention, he was well on the way to becoming the 2005 Formula One World Champion - the youngest ever. Spain was saying something. "So you thought that we were only overlords five hundred years ago, did you? Well, think again. Can we wipe the floor with your buttocks? Sí se puede" (yes, it can be done).
So on we go to Spain to be the guests of His Majesty King Juan Carlos I at the Circuit de Catalunya in Montjuic just outside beautiful Barcelona. This is a popular race because Barcelona is such an amazing place. It’s one of my favourite cities. I took Chipo there a few years ago. She made the cardinal error of believing a Finnish chap who told her that the refreshing-looking red drink in a frosted jug before her was cranberry juice and not Sangria. Bad idea. My Finnish friend, Kimi Raikkonen, could do with learning this sort of Finnish trickery. He needs to play a few mind games with Fernando Alonso and Michael Schumacher before it becomes too late for him to do anything about this year's world championship. While he is at it, he might want to confuse his team-mate Juan Pablo Montoya.
You see, JPM represents the other baobab tree. His Colombian homies supply a good deal of the labour and most of the cocaine consumed in the United States of America. He has struggled a bit so far this season but in Barcelona he is in virtual home territory. The babes blowing kisses at him will also be screaming in his mother-tongue. When he orders some Carnes y Aves in his hotel room for his pre-race day dinner they will know what he is talking about. Things like this make a guy feel good. And when JPM is feeling good he can be devastatingly brilliant. The omens look good for him. Best of all, he has a brand new engine for this race.
The only chap I can see ruining the Iberian party is that German android called Schumacher. The best anybody other than him has ever done in Spain is win three Grands Prix. Michael Schumacher will be chasing his seventh Spanish trophy…
But let’s not think like this. We are going to know we are watching the Spanish Grand Prix, folks. The Spaniards make sure of it. Since they won the battles so many centuries ago we might as well accept that the world is theirs. So, let’s be humble in defeat and embrace everything Spanish this weekend. Let’s blow our horns for Fernando Alonso and wave our flags for Juan Pablo Montoya.
While we are at it we might as well enjoy ourselves. I fully intend to anyway. That is why I placed a call to Guiseppe (my genius Deli guy) and asked him to get me some Jamón Ibérico which I will be washing down with a decent drop of Rioja as, like you, I
Enjoy Barcelona!
Gitau
11 May 2006
posted by Gitau at 11:48 am
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