Speed and Spain
When I first moved to Brixton a couple of decades ago, I learned fairly quickly that it was a special enclave of London. A place – although less than a mile from the Houses of Parliament - where things were done differently.
One summer’s evening, I got off my tube train at Brixton Underground Station as usual and immediately became aware of things being a little discomfiting. The rail platform was jam-packed with anxious looking white people. As I stepped onto the ascending escalator to get to street level, I noticed hordes more white people on the opposite escalator racing down towards the trains, fear firmly etched on their faces. “Curious,” I thought, “what’s going on?” Scenes like that are only ever seen when European governments send in planes to evacuate their nationals from African trouble spots at the first sign of trouble (“never mind the natives – they can rot for all we care – let’s get the hell out of here now!”)
As I stepped out onto the street, I saw that Brixton Road was blocked off at both ends. Fires were burning in the middle of the street, bare-chested black youths were dancing round the flames, the aroma of marijuana hung heavy in the air and dub reggae music was blaring out of three or four huge boom boxes. My first instinct, like that of the people hightailing it out of Brixton, was fear. Then I took a closer look at the events I was witnessing. Nobody was smashing anything. Every reveller seemed terribly excited about something, not hell-bent on death and destruction. The atmosphere was hardly one of a riot: this was a party! I approached one chap and conspiratorially asked “what’s the occasion, my man?” The answer came in an excited rush of Jamaican patois. “You don’t know? Where you been? Englishman, him can’t play cricket!” The West Indies had stuffed England in the summer test match series and Brixton, the undisputed home of the West Indians in England, was delighted.
I wandered down to Brixton yesterday evening and was, admittedly, disappointed to find no fires, no street parties and only limited quantities of ganja in the air. I was assured, though, that it was not due to an absence of excitement (these days in Brixton, for every one black man there are about ten policemen!). And not without reason. Jamaica had come alive the world over at the phenomenal new sprinting wonder, Usain Bolt. The lanky Jamaican is absolutely phenomenal. His has been the story of Beijing 2008 (not even vaguely that personality-free automaton, Michael Phelps – the food-swilling American swimming mountain).
Just as the world of Athletics hails the arrival of a new sprinting sensation, the Formula One world salutes the christening of a brand new Grand Prix circuit by the Mediterranean Sea in Valencia, Spain. I have grumbled about some recent new Grand Prix locations – in particular the ridiculous desert race in Bahrain – but I have nothing but praise for Valencia as a racing location. This was inspired thinking. Valencia is a one of Spain’s most beautiful cities and the new circuit has been designed as a “street circuit” in the heart of the city. I have looked forward to this event with great anticipation since the decision to hold a Grand Prix there was announced just over a year ago. It isn’t the Spanish Grand Prix which we saw in Barcelona but a different race.
The European Grand Prix had become so closely associated with the Nurburgring in Germany it was easy to forget that it was never intended as a German event but a European one. In reality it has always been a handy excuse for a country with a home Grand Prix to be allowed to host a second event while not drawing too much attention to it. Similar sleight of hand was at play for many years in Italy with the San Marino Grand Prix which had no more to with the principality of San Marino than its name. Now that Abu Dhabi has been granted a race, what will they do when Dubai begins angling for one as well?
After three weeks furlough and no testing, this will be a race of wits more than anything else. None of the drivers has ever raced here before and the world championship tension is building up to an almighty crescendo. Lewis Hamilton has demonstrated a fondness for street circuits having won in Montreal and Monaco, so I would like to think he has a better than evens chance of doing well here.
Ferrari, it would appear, have the measure of McLaren’s pace. Had it not been for Felipe Massa’s reliability gremlins in Hungary, he would have won the top prize easily. I have a feeling we can expect some action from Kimi Raikkonen any time now – he has been asleep too long. In a world championship as topsy-turvy as this one, absolutely anything is possible.
If you can bear to tear yourself away from the action in Beijing on your television screen, I should think you could do a good deal worse than,
Enjoy Valencia!
Gitau
22 August 2008
One summer’s evening, I got off my tube train at Brixton Underground Station as usual and immediately became aware of things being a little discomfiting. The rail platform was jam-packed with anxious looking white people. As I stepped onto the ascending escalator to get to street level, I noticed hordes more white people on the opposite escalator racing down towards the trains, fear firmly etched on their faces. “Curious,” I thought, “what’s going on?” Scenes like that are only ever seen when European governments send in planes to evacuate their nationals from African trouble spots at the first sign of trouble (“never mind the natives – they can rot for all we care – let’s get the hell out of here now!”)
As I stepped out onto the street, I saw that Brixton Road was blocked off at both ends. Fires were burning in the middle of the street, bare-chested black youths were dancing round the flames, the aroma of marijuana hung heavy in the air and dub reggae music was blaring out of three or four huge boom boxes. My first instinct, like that of the people hightailing it out of Brixton, was fear. Then I took a closer look at the events I was witnessing. Nobody was smashing anything. Every reveller seemed terribly excited about something, not hell-bent on death and destruction. The atmosphere was hardly one of a riot: this was a party! I approached one chap and conspiratorially asked “what’s the occasion, my man?” The answer came in an excited rush of Jamaican patois. “You don’t know? Where you been? Englishman, him can’t play cricket!” The West Indies had stuffed England in the summer test match series and Brixton, the undisputed home of the West Indians in England, was delighted.
I wandered down to Brixton yesterday evening and was, admittedly, disappointed to find no fires, no street parties and only limited quantities of ganja in the air. I was assured, though, that it was not due to an absence of excitement (these days in Brixton, for every one black man there are about ten policemen!). And not without reason. Jamaica had come alive the world over at the phenomenal new sprinting wonder, Usain Bolt. The lanky Jamaican is absolutely phenomenal. His has been the story of Beijing 2008 (not even vaguely that personality-free automaton, Michael Phelps – the food-swilling American swimming mountain).
Just as the world of Athletics hails the arrival of a new sprinting sensation, the Formula One world salutes the christening of a brand new Grand Prix circuit by the Mediterranean Sea in Valencia, Spain. I have grumbled about some recent new Grand Prix locations – in particular the ridiculous desert race in Bahrain – but I have nothing but praise for Valencia as a racing location. This was inspired thinking. Valencia is a one of Spain’s most beautiful cities and the new circuit has been designed as a “street circuit” in the heart of the city. I have looked forward to this event with great anticipation since the decision to hold a Grand Prix there was announced just over a year ago. It isn’t the Spanish Grand Prix which we saw in Barcelona but a different race.
The European Grand Prix had become so closely associated with the Nurburgring in Germany it was easy to forget that it was never intended as a German event but a European one. In reality it has always been a handy excuse for a country with a home Grand Prix to be allowed to host a second event while not drawing too much attention to it. Similar sleight of hand was at play for many years in Italy with the San Marino Grand Prix which had no more to with the principality of San Marino than its name. Now that Abu Dhabi has been granted a race, what will they do when Dubai begins angling for one as well?
After three weeks furlough and no testing, this will be a race of wits more than anything else. None of the drivers has ever raced here before and the world championship tension is building up to an almighty crescendo. Lewis Hamilton has demonstrated a fondness for street circuits having won in Montreal and Monaco, so I would like to think he has a better than evens chance of doing well here.
Ferrari, it would appear, have the measure of McLaren’s pace. Had it not been for Felipe Massa’s reliability gremlins in Hungary, he would have won the top prize easily. I have a feeling we can expect some action from Kimi Raikkonen any time now – he has been asleep too long. In a world championship as topsy-turvy as this one, absolutely anything is possible.
If you can bear to tear yourself away from the action in Beijing on your television screen, I should think you could do a good deal worse than,
Enjoy Valencia!
Gitau
22 August 2008
posted by Gitau at 2:25 pm
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