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

Mosley wins

The British press would be amusing if they weren’t so woefully predictable. You might as well call Mr Justice Eady the Devil incarnate for all of the abuse being thrown his way today. All of the tabloid newspapers are up in arms. They feel besieged. “How dare he?” they cry. “The freedom of the press is under unprecedented attack!” The Sun, the stable mate of the News of the World, had a superb headline this morning. “Freedom gets a spanking!” they squealed. All of this because the good and honourable judge found in favour of Max Mosley yesterday.

Like the spurious justification provided by the News of the World for their foolishness, this – as I have said before - is unadulterated bollocks. A strict interpretation of English law – which the learned judge gave – makes clear that there was no justification for the News of the World publishing the lurid images they chose to publish. Accordingly, the tabloid was stung with a payout of £60,000 in damages to Mosley and settlement of all his legal costs – well over £1,000,000.

What these tabloid bastards choose conveniently to ignore is that Mosley was not employed as the rector of the church of St Martin in the Fields. Nor had he sought to hold himself out as the guardian of the world’s morality. He was simply the chap who presided over an organisation which set the rules for people who wanted to drive dangerous cars very fast. What he chose to do when he took his trousers off was not the business of anybody other than himself and any consenting companion of his.

It is unlikely that Mosley will feature among the recipients of knighthoods in the Queen’s birthday honours list next year, but I doubt he minds terribly much. After all, his father was a knight of the realm but it didn’t spare him being hauled off to chokey when he was deemed too unsavoury a chap for decent British society. No, Mr Mosley will now be able to indulge in his favoured leisure activities without fear of awkward lenses being poked into his flat. That is a victory worth fighting for I think.

So, congratulations Max! Were it not for my battered bank account, I would happily have stood you a session with girls B and E.

I will not labour the point. Still, suffice to say that there is no need for me to seek alternative accommodation in Timbuktu.

Gitau
25 July 2008

Hamilton proves he's no Schumacher

“I’m not as interested in Formula One as I used to be,” said my Italian friend, Maria, on Friday after I asked her whether she planned to watch the German Grand Prix. “It’s not as exciting as it used to be.”
“Why so?” I asked.
“Because Ferrari is not doing so well,” she said.

This seemed like a rum take on things. Here we were witnessing the tightest championship fight in years and Maria didn’t think it was exciting enough! What did she want, fireworks? When I gave it some thought, I realised that Maria’s point of view made sense. Maria typifies the tifosi, the Italian Ferrari fans, who were driven to paroxysms of ecstacy each time Michael Schumacher took the chequered flag and notched up yet another stultifyingly boring Formula One victory at the head of a procession. Fans like her were not really bothered how the race was won; the result was all they were interested in. Unpredictable races never pleased them; they wanted to see their man starting from pole and never losing the lead until the end.

At the start of yesterday’s German Grand Prix, I expected to see Lewis Hamilton producing a Scumacheresque performance. He had qualified on pole and was so much faster than every one else that any other conclusion seemed foolhardy. But life is not quite so predictable these days. About halfway through the race, Timo Glock in a Toyota suffered a massive suspension failure which resulted in his car careering off the circuit, getting smashed up against the barrier and spreading bits of carbon fibre all over the circuit. The inevitable safety car episode was the cue for everyone to dive into the pits for fuel and fresh tyres. Everyone, that is, but Lewis Hamilton. The McLaren team, bizarrely, chose to leave Hamilton on the circuit. Given that the man behind him, Felipe Massa, used the safety car to make his second pit-stop, Hamilton would have had to build up a gap of twenty three seconds so as to come into the pits and out again ahead of Massa. This was impossible. Neither I nor any of the television commentators could make sense of this. The McLaren team were wilfully throwing a race win away. What ridiculously ruinous behaviour.

When he finally made his stop, not only did Hamilton come out behind Massa but also behind Renault driver, Nelson Piquet, and his McLaren team-mate, Heikki Kovaleinen. The only way to win the Grand Prix then was the old fashioned one, the one we had long forgotten about: by overtaking. Kovaleinen did not make things difficult for him, so once past him the job for Hamilton was to hunt down the other two and despatch them with abandon. Lapping at least a second and a half quicker than Massa, he was soon bearing down on the Ferrari. At the hairpin, a lunge on the inside, some captivating side by side, wheel-to-wheel driving – which had me on my feet screaming at the telly – and Massa’s challenge was history. Next up came Piquet and you knew then that nothing was going to stop Lewis Hamilton. He, thus, won the German Grand Prix not once but twice; first in time honoured Schumacher fashion and secondly in more daredevil showcase style. There is no doubt about it, the lad can certainly drive.

The suggestion that the McLaren team made the wrong pit stop call seems a little too simplistic. I have my own views. I think Ron Dennis and company looked at Massa and decided he was worth the gamble. I have no doubt that they would have been loth to try any of this dangerous stuff if their opponent had been Kimi Raikkonen in the other Ferrari. In other words, McLaren just don’t rate Felipe Massa. They probably said to themselves: “Look, this Massa chappie is no match for Lewis. If we get Lewis to win this one by overtaking the Brazilian, it will be like a dose of testosterone for him which will make him pretty much unbeatable for the rest of the season. At the same time it will shatter Massa’s confidence to bits, which means one fewer person to deal with in the championship. By golly chaps, let’s do it!”

If McLaren made the wrong pit stop call for Hamilton in the safety car episode, Renault did the opposite for Nelson Piquet Jr. So precisely did they read the most apposite moment to bring the young Brazilian in they managed to bring him out in a podium scoring position. For a man who had started the race in seventeenth place, this was brilliant. Piquet fully deserved to receive the trophy for second place – a feat he is unlikely to repeat this season. His father – former world champion, Nelson Piquet – must be very proud.

Interestingly, although Piquet Jr and Massa were the first two Brazilians to share a podium since Nelson Piquet and Ayrton Senna many years ago, their body language showed nothing but utter dejection. Being beaten at the hands of Hamilton was painful. I ascribe this partly to Hamilton’s Englishness. You can make any number of statements about the English but none will include the word “popular”. The English know it. They go about life like Millwall Football Club supporters “No one likes us – we don’t care!”

The other championship contender, Kimi Raikkonen , lost interest in the German Grand Prix from the moment he stepped off his plane on Thursday. Either this or he was labouring under a severe hangover. Mr Raikkonen needs to maintain his focus if he is going to be in with a chance of repeating his performance of 2007 – and winning the hearts of the Marias of this world.

Two imperious wins in a row, for Lewis. Massa’s confidence bludgeoned. Raikkonen too pissed to care. Chaps, we are at the point in the season when a trip to the bookies makes perfect sense…

Gitau
21 July 2008

Germany and le vice Anglais

The English upper classes have always had an uncomfortable relationship with carnal matters. Sex, while being a taboo subject for them most of the time, occupies much of their imagination and colours their language and art like none other. The fondness by some for flagellation by a whip wielding dominatrix accompanied by anguished squeals of pain and delight in equal measure provokes much mystification around the world. The French – as at ease with bedroom matters as it is possible to be – refer to the practice as le vice Anglais (the English vice). William Hogarth, my favourite English painter, moralised about it in the eighteenth century in his series of paintings The Harlot’s Progress and The Rake’s Progress (If you want to know more about Molly Hackabout and Tom Rakewell, the subjects of the series, drop me a line).

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/A_Rake%27s_Progress

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/A_Harlot%27s_Progress

“But what has sadomasochism got to do with the German Grand Prix?” I hear you ask. You have my sympathy. Here you were scrolling your eyes down another hastily cobbled column in search of news about the world championship battle between Kimi Raikkonen, Lewis Hamilton and Robert Kubica and all you can find is useless information about another of Gitau’s ridiculous obsessions. Bear with me, if you will.

Sex and Formula One used to be closely intertwined in the rakish 60s and 70s when drivers drove fast, lived even faster and died young. Death on the racetrack was so commonplace that drivers were forced to adopt a “devil may care” attitude to their existences. If there was a greater than fifty per cent chance of getting killed while negotiating a tough corner on a Sunday afternoon, why worry about smoking fifty fags a day and downing a bottle of Scotch each evening? Perhaps the most famous proponent of this admirable approach to life was English rake, James Hunt, who charmed his way into the annals of Formula One history through his lavish lifestyle and taste for stylish totty. I might have once mentioned that Hunt famously spent the night shagging an entire British Airways female cabin crew before turning up for the Japanese Grand Prix and lighting a sneaky fag just before climbing into his car for the start of the race. With the possible exceptions of Eddie Irvine and Kimi Raikkonen, modern Formula One drivers tend to adopt a rather more measured lifestyle these days.

The same cannot be said of the president of the Fédération Internationale de l'Automobile (better known to most of us as the FIA), the governing body of international motor sport, Mr Max Rufus Mosley. After more than four decades of ardent practice of le vice Anglais – judiciously kept from those, like his wife, who weren’t equally keen – Mosley found himself in a spot of bother a few months ago. A notorious British tabloid published strategically taken photographs of Mosley in a London flat while enthusiastically engaging in his favoured pastime with five ladies of similar persuasion. For good measure the tabloid placed a video of the entire episode on its website for the better education of the world at large. Mosley felt aggrieved. Not, you understand, because he disapproves of anyone engaging in his form of leisure – perish the thought! – but because he could not see why it was anybody’s business other than his and that of his lady friends. As he said, "I fundamentally disagree with the suggestion that any of this is depraved, fundamentally disagree with the fact that it is immoral. I think it is a perfectly harmless activity provided it is between consenting adults who want to do it, are of sound mind, and it is in private." For this reason he brought court proceedings against the tabloid, The News of the World (and I have to agree that it is a particularly vile example of gutter journalism) for invasion of his privacy. In simple language, what Mosley was contending before the English High Court was that a newspaper had no business poking its lenses into his bedroom - through a cleverly concealed camera planted by one of the consenting ladies – since there was nothing illegal or wrong about what he was doing.

The News of the World was going to be on very shaky ground if they were simply publishing a story declaring something like: “F1 boss likes to be whipped by hookers! The filthy bastard!” They instead chose to run a defence alleging that the whipping orgy was all about enacting a Nazi concentration camp scene. Mosley, so they argued, was a closet Nazi who received gratification from reliving the proceedings at grim places like Auschwitz during World War II. The undertone was that, since Mosley’s parents were convicted fascists and Nazi sympathisers, he too was an unrepentant Nazi. It was, therefore, their public duty to disclose Mosley’s true nature because he was a man who occupied a powerful position in public life as head of the FIA. This has got to be unadulterated bollocks. The judgment of Mr Justice Eady will be delivered next week. If I get this one wrong, I will emigrate to Timbuktu: there is absolutely no way the News of the World can win this one. This looks like QED to me. As Mosley said: "I can think of few things more unerotic than Nazi role play. It also has associations for me in other ways which would make it even less interesting. All of my life I have had hanging over me my antecedents, my parents, and the last thing I want to do in some sexual context is to be reminded of it."

Which brings me smoothly on to the subject of the German Grand Prix. The Mosley case is all about Nazism which, sadly, is Germany’s very unfortunate historical burden. Despite more than sixty years of positive contribution towards the betterment of the world, Germany is repeatedly reminded of its shameful past. Motor racing would not be what it is without the contribution German engineering has made. The Formula One world championship leader may be English but he drives a car powered by an engine supplied by supremely qualified experts in Stuttgart. I fully expect that he will give of his best this weekend at Hockenheim.

Hockenheim is a rather good circuit. It is not easy for me to tell whether it favours Ferrari or McLaren because I have no 2007 reference point. There was no race in Hockenheim last year and none of the current championship contenders has ever won there. If past form is any help, the only chaps from this year’s grid who have won at Hockenheim are Fernando Alonso and Rubens Barrichello. My South African friend and reliable F1 statistician, Andre Visser, assures me that, all things considered, Raikkonen should have this championship secured. He has sound knowledge about these matters and good past experience at picking winners. But I have to beg to differ. Things are just too unpredictable this year. We could have a little rain in Germany tomorrow. Then what?

For a very enjoyable Sunday afternoon allow me to suggest the purchase of a sturdy whip, procurement of the services of a German dominatrix - a snip at £500 an hour – and, for added enjoyment, a quick dip into a German/English dictionary for handy phrases like “Es tut mir leid. Es wird nicht wieder vorkommen!” (“I am terribly sorry. It won’t happen again!”). If all this seems a little too much like hard work, perhaps you might want to make yourself a cup of tea and switch on the telly on Saturday and Sunday. After all, there is a race on!

Enjoy Hockenheim!

Gitau
17 July 2008

Sorcery at Silverstone by the new rain master

If I am away from my trusty old television set during a Formula One weekend, I usually ensure that I am either within easy access of one or physically present at the location of the racing action. It usually works. I found myself in Vienna this past weekend and, as ever, ensured that I was able to carve a couple of hours out of my schedule on Saturday and Sunday for the British Grand Prix’s qualifying and race sessions. This time my tactic only worked to a limited extent. During the most exciting British Grand Prix in living memory, I had to make do with live commentary in German - a language which I have only very rudimentary understanding of - delivered in dull monotones by an elderly Austrian gentleman. It was a bit like undressing Miss Venezuela, gawping at her sublime beauty and then having to listen to her sing a nursery rhyme about potty training.

If Lewis Hamilton’s peerless performance during a downpour at Fuji last year was impressive and his mastery of a rainy Monaco this year was brilliant, his command of Silverstone was the stuff of legend. If anyone ever writes again about great rain conquerors of the past, they will have to include Lewis Hamilton among their number. Hamilton now belongs up there with Jackie Stewart, Ayrton Senna and Michael Schumacher. His drive on Sunday was magical. The closest I could get to reading anything derogatory about Hamilton after Sunday was that he was a “madman”; that desperation had got the better of him after the world had written him off as no more than a clothes horse or a cheap babe magnet. I disagree. You do not drive like that if you are feeling pressured.

After qualifying in fourth place on Saturday, Hamilton knew he had to produce an electrifying start to be in with a chance of a good result. He did so with aplomb and was breathing down the neck of team-mate and first placed man, Heikki Kovalainen, within seconds. There was a heart-stopping moment when it looked as though both McLarens would end up wrecked aboard a lorry but Hamilton kept it together. It was not long before he had dispatched the young Finn and taken complete command of Silverstone. Lap after lap, he drove like a man with his eyes glued wide open, not like one who could not even see his hand in front of his face. While driver after driver spun off and got beached in the gravel trap, Hamilton hardly ever put a wheel wrong.

The contrast between Hamilton and the well greased McLaren machine and their principal competitors could hardly have been more stark. Ferrari – and well nigh everyone else - was at sixes and sevens all afternoon. Kimi Raikkonen began the afternoon’s racing by angrily knocking down a photographer whom he believed to be invading his personal space as he approached the Silverstone grid. Being in permanent bar-brawl mood may be useful if one wants to deal effectively with bouncers at exclusive lap dancing clubs in Helsinki but it is not the best preparation for a difficult race at Silverstone in treacherous weather conditions.

After the initial heavy rain had subsided, Ferrari gambled during the following round of pit stops and chose to leave the slightly worn intermediate tyres on their cars. The thinking was that the tyres would improve in grip as the circuit dried up and the scarlet monsters would then be able to sweep the opposition away. But the weather Gods were not with the men from Maranello. It began to rain again. Raikkonen did his darndest but even he could not prevent himself from being lapped by an Englishman on the march.

Raikkonen’s team-mate, Felipe Massa, must be struggling to get out of bed these days. After Sunday’s performance he would be lucky to land a job in an amateur schoolboy go-karting team. Rarely, if ever, have I seen a driver in a top team look so out of his depth. He spun off so many times (were they five, six or perhaps seven?) that one wished he would beach the car in the gravel-trap or crash it into the barriers, anything except carry on driving! I’m taking Massa off my list of championship contenders. He has sparks of brilliance – the points he has earned thus far prove this – but no staying power, no fire in his belly; nothing much more than a cheeky, boyish grin. Teach the boys roller skating in Sao Paulo, Felipe, but please leave the driving to the real men.

As if by contrast, the other Brazilian, Rubens Barrichello, was a welcome source of delight. He is popular for all the right reasons and it was good to see him back on the podium after so many moons. He has never been a slouch in the rain and Honda took full advantage of the Brawn brain (just in case you forgot, Michael Schumacher’s master strategist, Ross Brawn, now works for Honda). Where Ferrari made outrageous strategic blunders, Honda got the balance exactly right. Splendid.

We are now exactly halfway through the season. Three drivers are equally placed at the top of the drivers’ championship. It is almost as though the slate has been wiped clean and we are starting again. Excellent. A friend who has some idea about these things thinks it is advantage Raikkonen from here on. His reasoning is that this time last year Raikkonen was eighteen points behind Hamilton but he then went on to take seven straight podiums and ended up world champion. Formula One being what it is, I hesitate before making such predictions. The next races may suit Raikkonen’s style and temperament but Hamilton’s performance on Sunday in the wet makes me think that we ought to sit back and wait. If Sunday’s performance was madness from the English lad, perhaps there is more of it lurking in that yellow helmet. I just don’t know. I am praying for foul weather for the remainder of the summer, though.

Sunday produced a new problem for the pundits and my London cabbie mates. What are they going to say about young Lewis Hamilton now?

Gitau
9 July 2008

Is celebrity Hamilton's curse

”The trouble with these black geezers is they have no discipline,`` said the London cabbie as he steered his way round Hoxton Square.``No disrespect to you, mate, but you see it all the time. Give a fella a bit of cash and put ‘im on the telly a few times, and see what happens. He loses it. He starts thinkin’ ‘es Royalty or somefink. No disrespect to the guy, mate, don’t get me wrong, that Lewis Hamilton knows what ‘es doin’ when ‘es behind the wheel of a racing car. He can wring a car’s neck like the best of them, but there’s no self control there, no discipline. Now he’s got ‘imself thinkin’ he’s a big time celebrity and lost focus completely.”

“I ‘ad that Hamilton in the back of my cab the other night. He was a-kissin and a-canoodling with that Nicole Pussy Cat Doll like there was no tomorrow. Don’t get me wrong, mate, I’d give her one any day. Right now if you want – you can ‘ave me cab – but this weekend is the British Grand Prix. This is no poxy desert race track that’s here today gone tomorrow. This is the dog’s bollocks! This is the home of Formula One! And what’s that Hamilton doin’? Is he pumpin’ in laps at Silverstone? Nah, he’s busy behavin’ like a fahkin rapper, that’s what. That’s what I’m talking abaht. No fahkin’ discipline! Do you fink you would catch Jim Clarke or Jackie Stewart doin’ that? No fahkin’ way! But these black geezers? I don’t know, mate, I really don’t.”

These choice words of sublime wisdom - delivered in time honoured fashion by a member of the world’s greatest class of encyclopeadic intellectualism, the Licensed London Cabbie Club – encapsulate the overriding sentiment felt on these shores about Lewis Hamilton. You can distil it down to one sentence: the boy has great talent but fame and fortune have gone to his head and he has lost his ability to deliver what is expected of him in Formula One. Hamilton has a mountain to climb to get the British public back behind him and, more importantly, start doing something about narrowing his widening points deficit in the Formula One drivers’ championship.

Hamilton has this in his favour: the British are fickle. A year ago Gordon Brown was a reliable, firm father figure the nation could turn to after years of presentation politics. Now he makes everyone want to puke. Twelve months ago, Andy Murray was a surly Scot who did not deserve membership of the All England Club. Now he is an all conquering hero, the new Tim Henman. In a nation which rarely excels at anything in international sport, the British are in sore need of a sporting super star. A good rebirth for Hamilton would be victory at the British Grand Prix.

Silverstone is easily one of the best circuits in the world. It is challenging and fast. Everybody loves it. Stupidly, I failed to get my arse in gear quick enough for tickets this year, so I won’t be watching the race live, which is a shame. Still, you see more on television.

We havea stonker of a championship battle to observe now, friends. 2008 is proving to be a season to look back upon in wonder. I make no predictions this time save to say that I have no doubt at all that you will,

Enjoy Silverstone

Gitau
4 July 2008