Hamiltonmania and a race in Hungary

I arranged a rendezvous last week with a couple of London lovelies at The Chelsea Potter on the King’s Road. On my way there, I picked up a copy of the week’s Autosport and was leafing through it while I waited for the girls. The whole point of meeting in a place like that is so you can watch rich playboys drive their super cars very slowly – and very audibly – down the road. I mean to say, where else is a chap as impecunious as me going to be allowed to gawp at a Lamborghini Murciélago LP 640 without having his collar felt by the rozzers?

I thought I had lived long and hard enough by now to have acquired a lifetime’s immunity from life's surprises, but, if the events of last week are any indicator of what is still to come, I have a while to go before I can declare myself a surprise free zone. As we settled down to some cocktails and I began to steer the conversation towards matters of mutual benefit, one of the girls – let’s call her Beverly for the sake of anonymity - chose instead to leaf through my magazine. This did not bother me at all. After all, if she had an interest in motor racing we could probably find ourselves down the mutually beneficial path rather more quickly than if her interest lay in needlework.

I carried on chatting with the other girl, Clarissa, and found to my delight that she too had an interest in motor racing. Better still, she had googled me and discovered this blog. She was keen to explore my views on Max Mosley and le vice Anglais. Intrigued, I was just about to launch into a monologue on the subject when, suddenly, Beverly let out an ear piercing shriek. She then ripped out a page from my copy of Autosport, scrunched it up, threw it on the floor and began leaping up and down on it while screaming imprecations like “the filthy, disgusting bitch!” and “shameless whore!”

Well, this seemed to me to be a rum way to behave, so I calmly invited her to place her buttocks squarely on her seat, take a long draught from her drink and then unburden herself of her woes. This is when the surprise came. What had so riled Beverly was a photograph of Lewis Hamilton and his girlfriend taken at the Goodwood Festival of Speed on the weekend before the German Grand Prix. The trouble was not so much that Lewis had a girlfriend – that, I suppose, was to be expected. After all, it is now axiomatic that girls up and down the land would love a piece of the lad. The trouble was that his girlfriend was the American pop singer, Nicole Scherzinger. I decided to delve into this and explore what exactly it was about the Pussycat Doll that Beverly so disliked. The ensuing remarks from both girls assured me that the sentiments expressed were common currency among young British females.

“She’s too old for him,” said Clarissa.
“Nothing wrong with a youngster sowing his wild oats a bit with a more experienced lady is there?” said I.
“Don’t you dare go calling her a lady!” yelled Beverly, “she’s a harlot!”
“She has no class,” said Clarissa.“Oh come on,” I said, “let the lad live a little.”
“She’s American,” snapped Beverly.“We are their principal allies, aren’t we?” I said.

I shan’t bore you with too much more of this but suffice to say that the conversation went on like this for a little while until we got to the nub of the problem. A pained expression came over Beverly’s face. “She’s bad for Lewis,” she groaned. “Next thing you know she’ll make him a druggie!” This was the surprise: these girls had deep seated feelings of ownership about Lewis. They wanted to protect him from the evils of the world. They wanted to keep him away from Hollywood veterans like the Pussycat Dolls. In their world, Lewis was a nice, pure English lad who deserved a decent English rose, not some loud mouthed, ill-mannered yank. Well, well, well. When all along I thought Nicole was reviled out of jealousy; because she had nabbed the man and they – the teeming masses – had not. But, no! As the Americans would say, I didn’t know shit! Fancy that. I sat back in my seat speechless. I was not prepared for this revelation.

In just over a year, Lewis Hamilton has managed to transcend mere celebrity. He is now a national treasure. The Hamilton brand is now loads-a-money. Three weeks ago Hamilton signed a £10 million five year contract with Reebok which requires no more than a maximum of ten appearances a year for the sports shoe company. His handlers are having to employ subterfuge to get away from the hundreds of other manufacturers who want to be sprinkled with the Hamilton stardust. Hamilton simply cannot find the time to squeeze it in – what with nights out with Jay-Z and P. Diddy, dinners with Nelson Mandela, charity concerts, yachting competitions, this that and the other, the lad hardly has time to breathe, let alone test a Formula One car round the Jerez circuit. Stunning.

What would be even more stunning would be a win in Hungary on Sunday. The last man to achieve three wins in a row was the incomparable Michael Schumacher. If Hamilton does it, I fear he may so seriously demoralise his rivals as to make his ride to the championship a lazy canter. Kimi Raikkonen has already let slip that he is not terribly interested in earning a pension as a racing driver and would like – soon – to be released to get on with things like finding top totty for his Helsinki lap dancing club. He may well decide to say “sod this for a game of soldiers. I’ve made enough wonga to last me a couple of lifetimes, so adios amigos!”

Were Raikkonen to give it all up, could this not be an opening for the return of the Spanish mouth, Mr Fernando Alonso? Whether this happens will soon be apparent.

In the meantime, there is the none too trivial matter of the Hungarian Grand Prix to be dealt with. In the absence of rain, the Hungaroring is the sort of circuit that usually results in a processional race. Qualifying, therefore, looks like being the main event this weekend. Make the most of it, won’t you?

Enjoy Hungary!

Gitau
31 July 2008