Tantalising Turkey
In recent times the award of the right to host a Grand Prix has been recognition of a couple of decades or so of worthy economic achievement. I should have foreseen this for Turkey in 1995. I was a new member of a project finance team led by a young, macho chap called James Worral. When I joined them, a few members of the team had been working for a couple of years on a large, privately financed water sanitation project for the city of Izmir in Turkey. By the time of my joining, the project was too far advanced for me to offer any meaningful assistance, so I was relegated to a subsidiary role offering minor help as and when needed. It gave me an excellent vantage point from which to learn about the Izmir project and the workings of Worral's team.
About a year before I joined him, Worral had been ensnared into matrimony by a secretary who worked at the firm and he was contemplating fatherhood while grappling with the Izmir project every late evening in the office. He had reached what is referred to in banking circles as the coyote stage of pregnancy - the stage about six months in when a man is so starved of sex that he is almost literally howling for it. This was not lost to any of us: the menacing look as anything in a skirt walked past Worral's desk, the dribbles of saliva as he stared down the blouse of any woman handing a document to him, the distracted, longing stares out of the window. All of this was clear enough and very amusing. What was not was the incessant questioning. "I'm sorry, James, but I can't work late this evening because I am taking my girlfriend to the theatre for her birthday," one would say. "I see," Worral would respond, "and what happens later? Lots of shagging I suppose. I reckon she'll give you a blow job in the theatre. Am I right? Am I right? Am I right?" If this was bad, the morning after would be even worse.
Worral did himself no favours. Save for me - and this happened by default because he thought "Gitau" was the name of an Asian babe when selecting the new members of his team from a list - every single member of Worral's team was female. They all liked him but one more than any other: an Indian girl called Pritti Patel. She was appropriately named because she was very pretty indeed. Each time Worral walked into her room, Pritti's eyes would register undying devotion. Worral noticed the interest but restrained himself; at least he did so until month seven of the pregnancy when he was going beyond the coyote stage and rapidly descending towards the raving lunatic one. Worral's desperation was such that subtly was jettisoned along with any fear of discovery. He decided that the most suitable approach was the direct one. Girding his loins, he marched into Pritti's room one evening and declared "Pritti I am madly, desperately in love with you. I need you now!" Not to put too fine a point on it, the ploy worked.
Worral would have been all right had he not suffered the torment of three nights without sleep as the Izmir project came to a close. Once all the documents were signed, he dragged Pritti to a broom cupboard in honour of the people of Izmir who would soon be enjoying delicious, clean water. Soon thereafter he got on a train and headed off to his home in Winchester. As soon as he stepped over his threshold, weariness overcame the poor fellow and he promptly passed out on the living room sofa. Worral's loving wife, notwithstanding her enormous belly, decided to half-carry her husband to his bed. As she undressed his unconscious body, there was no mistaking the smells emanating from him which invaded her nostrils. Worral was in the soup.
Still, thanks to James Worral, Izmir is now a far more modern city and, following the Worral template, Istanbul now has a world class motor racing circuit. So let us celebrate the efforts of these trailblazers this weekend as we sip ice cold glasses of Efes Pilsen from Izmir and watch our vastly overpaid friends swelter in super expensive cars in the Istanbul heat round an anticlockwise circuit with a corner designed in hell called "Turn 8".
There have only been three Turkish Grands Prix thus far. The first was won by Kimi Raikkonen in a McLaren and the next two by Felipe Massa in a Ferrari. Since the two are now team-mates it is a moot point which of them will win the race - if either will indeed get on the top step of the podium. At this highly technical circuit, there are plenty of others who feel they can and will get the better of the Ferrari boys. Chief among these has to be British golden boy Lewis Hamilton.
Perhaps golden is the wrong word to use. Being lionised in this country can be a dangerous game. The press pack who love you and want to write every word you say in flattering tones are the same chaps who will tear into you more viciously than hungry hyenas when the chips are down. Hamilton has not quite become a villain yet but he needs to deliver a win to keep the home folk interested in and, more importantly, happy with him. There have been murmurs of discontent about his lack of form this season. This is obviously unfair because all he has done to justify any ill-feeling was have one shitty race in Bahrain. But when you have built in your fan base an expectation of super human ability it is very easy to come a cropper. It does not surprise me in the slightest to be reading things like "Hamilton was only enjoying beginner's luck last season". A win in Turkey would earn the lad some precious breathing space.
A chap who is enjoying Hamilton's time in the limelight immensely is Jenson Button. Remember him? Well, at least he now has a rest away from the prying British cameras…
A word about one of the lesser teams. Bad news. Super Aguri - or what was sometimes described as Honda 2 - died this week and will take no further part in this year's championship. Their sponsorship money has run dry and there is no prospect of them raising any more. This is a shame for three reasons. First, some races - usually rainy ones - can sometimes produce freak results (remember no-hoper Olivier Panis winning Monaco in 1996?), so the more teams and drivers there are out there the better. Secondly, having an extra two back-markers gives the leading cars that extra bit of work to do to get round a circuit and makes for a more interesting race. Finally, I will miss Takuma Sato, or as I like to call him, Mister T-Bone. If you didn't watch yourself driving close to Sato-san, your car was more than likely to end up being carted off wrecked atop a lorry.
So on to Istanbul we go. This is one of the few Hermann Tilke designed circuits at which races are actually a pleasure to watch. There is plenty of overtaking and ample opportunity for a good crash or two. I expect that you will not be filled with regret for having sacrificed a couple of hours on Saturday and Sunday. It should be good and I hope that you will,
Enjoy Istanbul!
Gitau
08 May 2008
About a year before I joined him, Worral had been ensnared into matrimony by a secretary who worked at the firm and he was contemplating fatherhood while grappling with the Izmir project every late evening in the office. He had reached what is referred to in banking circles as the coyote stage of pregnancy - the stage about six months in when a man is so starved of sex that he is almost literally howling for it. This was not lost to any of us: the menacing look as anything in a skirt walked past Worral's desk, the dribbles of saliva as he stared down the blouse of any woman handing a document to him, the distracted, longing stares out of the window. All of this was clear enough and very amusing. What was not was the incessant questioning. "I'm sorry, James, but I can't work late this evening because I am taking my girlfriend to the theatre for her birthday," one would say. "I see," Worral would respond, "and what happens later? Lots of shagging I suppose. I reckon she'll give you a blow job in the theatre. Am I right? Am I right? Am I right?" If this was bad, the morning after would be even worse.
Worral did himself no favours. Save for me - and this happened by default because he thought "Gitau" was the name of an Asian babe when selecting the new members of his team from a list - every single member of Worral's team was female. They all liked him but one more than any other: an Indian girl called Pritti Patel. She was appropriately named because she was very pretty indeed. Each time Worral walked into her room, Pritti's eyes would register undying devotion. Worral noticed the interest but restrained himself; at least he did so until month seven of the pregnancy when he was going beyond the coyote stage and rapidly descending towards the raving lunatic one. Worral's desperation was such that subtly was jettisoned along with any fear of discovery. He decided that the most suitable approach was the direct one. Girding his loins, he marched into Pritti's room one evening and declared "Pritti I am madly, desperately in love with you. I need you now!" Not to put too fine a point on it, the ploy worked.
Worral would have been all right had he not suffered the torment of three nights without sleep as the Izmir project came to a close. Once all the documents were signed, he dragged Pritti to a broom cupboard in honour of the people of Izmir who would soon be enjoying delicious, clean water. Soon thereafter he got on a train and headed off to his home in Winchester. As soon as he stepped over his threshold, weariness overcame the poor fellow and he promptly passed out on the living room sofa. Worral's loving wife, notwithstanding her enormous belly, decided to half-carry her husband to his bed. As she undressed his unconscious body, there was no mistaking the smells emanating from him which invaded her nostrils. Worral was in the soup.
Still, thanks to James Worral, Izmir is now a far more modern city and, following the Worral template, Istanbul now has a world class motor racing circuit. So let us celebrate the efforts of these trailblazers this weekend as we sip ice cold glasses of Efes Pilsen from Izmir and watch our vastly overpaid friends swelter in super expensive cars in the Istanbul heat round an anticlockwise circuit with a corner designed in hell called "Turn 8".
There have only been three Turkish Grands Prix thus far. The first was won by Kimi Raikkonen in a McLaren and the next two by Felipe Massa in a Ferrari. Since the two are now team-mates it is a moot point which of them will win the race - if either will indeed get on the top step of the podium. At this highly technical circuit, there are plenty of others who feel they can and will get the better of the Ferrari boys. Chief among these has to be British golden boy Lewis Hamilton.
Perhaps golden is the wrong word to use. Being lionised in this country can be a dangerous game. The press pack who love you and want to write every word you say in flattering tones are the same chaps who will tear into you more viciously than hungry hyenas when the chips are down. Hamilton has not quite become a villain yet but he needs to deliver a win to keep the home folk interested in and, more importantly, happy with him. There have been murmurs of discontent about his lack of form this season. This is obviously unfair because all he has done to justify any ill-feeling was have one shitty race in Bahrain. But when you have built in your fan base an expectation of super human ability it is very easy to come a cropper. It does not surprise me in the slightest to be reading things like "Hamilton was only enjoying beginner's luck last season". A win in Turkey would earn the lad some precious breathing space.
A chap who is enjoying Hamilton's time in the limelight immensely is Jenson Button. Remember him? Well, at least he now has a rest away from the prying British cameras…
A word about one of the lesser teams. Bad news. Super Aguri - or what was sometimes described as Honda 2 - died this week and will take no further part in this year's championship. Their sponsorship money has run dry and there is no prospect of them raising any more. This is a shame for three reasons. First, some races - usually rainy ones - can sometimes produce freak results (remember no-hoper Olivier Panis winning Monaco in 1996?), so the more teams and drivers there are out there the better. Secondly, having an extra two back-markers gives the leading cars that extra bit of work to do to get round a circuit and makes for a more interesting race. Finally, I will miss Takuma Sato, or as I like to call him, Mister T-Bone. If you didn't watch yourself driving close to Sato-san, your car was more than likely to end up being carted off wrecked atop a lorry.
So on to Istanbul we go. This is one of the few Hermann Tilke designed circuits at which races are actually a pleasure to watch. There is plenty of overtaking and ample opportunity for a good crash or two. I expect that you will not be filled with regret for having sacrificed a couple of hours on Saturday and Sunday. It should be good and I hope that you will,
Enjoy Istanbul!
Gitau
08 May 2008
posted by Gitau at 5:00 pm
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