Silverstone heralds the beginning of the end of the madness
“About Turkey and Turkish birds we have heard lots,” wrote my correspondent. “Of Italy and your recollections we now know more than we need to. About France we have heard more than is sufficient to illuminate a late night conversation in any pub. But of England what do we know? Are you not resident in Her Majesty’s fair dominions? Do you not sup of English ale and call it your own? God bless my soul, do you not avail yourself from time to time of England’s fair maidens? These things we are certain about but a word about them nothing. Well, why? Why, why, why?”
I will spare you the rest of the details of that choking email which I received a couple of days ago but suffice to say it rather unsettled me. The gist of it – if you haven’t worked it out for yourselves – was the restraint I appear to express about my adopted home and fluency (his word, not mine) about lesser countries. I brooded over this for a while and chose to ignore the missive as being no more than the consequence of a deep and meaningful conversation with Mr Johnnie Walker but I have since corrected that thought and decided that there was some sense in my correspondent’s sentiments. I owe my readership an explanation – especially as it is the eve of the British Grand Prix, the home race of nearly all the teams in the 2009 Formula One championship, and probably the beginning of the end of the sport as we know it. The reasons for my silence are multiple but mostly related to a single event.
Here is what happened. Conscious of the significance of a symbol which any sailor would have identified as English since English sailors sank the mighty Spanish Armada a long time ago, I chose to spend a day sitting eating sandwiches and drinking lemonade on the white cliffs of Dover. When I arrived at the entry gates to the revered site, I met a crusty old gate keeper dressed in a moth eaten tweed jacket and smoking a pipe pensively. When I asked how much he wanted for a ticket, he stared at me through swivelling eyes.
“Like England do you?” he said at length.
“What does it matter you stupid old git,” I said irritably, “just hand over the bally ticket and go back to chewing your silly pipe.”
Remember the old chap who crops up from time to time in old westerns pointing vaguely at some point in the distance and declaring “there’s gold in them thar hills!”? Well, the gate keeper looked something like that when he handed over a ticket with the words “I’d be carefully my lad, there’s magic in those cliffs”.
Days later I woke up to find my bedclothes soaked. Convinced this was the consequence of a passionate visit by the Succubus in the dead of night, I dismissed this and attempted to get up for a drink of water. When my legs buckled under me and I began to see stars, I realised things were far more serious. As I sat on the White Cliffs a malicious tick had crawled into my trousers, bitten me on the backside and left some nasty poison inside me. I was now a victim of Lyme disease. Salvation came through medical intervention but I had learned my lesson: do not be disrespectful of Albion. So there you have it.
One would have thought they knew better but, after years of unfettered control of the sport, two arrogant, old Englishmen are about to have their comeuppance. And, appropriately, it is happening in England. For years, while Bernie Ecclestone decided where Grands Prix were held, how much any potential host circuit had to pay for the privilege of staging a race, which television stations were allowed to cover events and how much of this money he was prepared to share with the teams, his close friend, Max Mosley, set the rules of the sport. Both men grew increasingly megalomaniacal over the years. Result: disaster.
When Bernie Ecclestone found himself at war at home with his statuesque, no-nonsense Croatian wife, he soothed his battered ego by doing F1 deals with shady characters in ghastly places (how else do you explain the extraordinary, mind-numbing craziness of the Grand Prix in the desert – Bahrain – which we have been forced to endure for five years?). Meanwhile, Max Mosley, when unable to locate hookers sufficiently enthusiastic at thrashing his bottom, caused havoc with Formula One’s rule book. The participating teams put up with this double-headed nonsense for a very long time but they have now said enough is enough. From next year all the teams – excepting Williams and Force India – will be forming their own break-away racing championship. Hallelujah!
It is, therefore, with relief that I have been stacking up my fridge with Courage Best Bitter in readiness for tomorrow’s British Grand Prix. It is the home race of current championship leader, Jenson Button, but that is never a guarantee of success. If past races involving otherwise successful drivers at their home circuits is indicative of Button’s chances, I would be hesitant about placing bets on the Englishman. His team-mate, Rubens Barrichello, has better chances, I reckon.
The other Englishman racing at home tomorrow will be last year’s race winner Lewis Hamilton. Unfortunately the youngster’s car is so appallingly bad this season that he has better chances of persuading HRH the Prince of Wales to join his pit crew than he does of winning the British Grand Prix.
Silverstone is a magnificent circuit ; it is easily one of my favourites. One of the best pieces of news about the end of the Ecclestone-Mosley pantomime is that classic circuits like this one will be safe from threat. Heaven knows we may even see a return of precious places like the A1 Ring in Austria and Watkins Glen in New York – Inshallah.
I have never failed to enjoy a British Grand Prix and hope that you too will,
Enjoy Silverstone!
Gitau
20 June 2009
I will spare you the rest of the details of that choking email which I received a couple of days ago but suffice to say it rather unsettled me. The gist of it – if you haven’t worked it out for yourselves – was the restraint I appear to express about my adopted home and fluency (his word, not mine) about lesser countries. I brooded over this for a while and chose to ignore the missive as being no more than the consequence of a deep and meaningful conversation with Mr Johnnie Walker but I have since corrected that thought and decided that there was some sense in my correspondent’s sentiments. I owe my readership an explanation – especially as it is the eve of the British Grand Prix, the home race of nearly all the teams in the 2009 Formula One championship, and probably the beginning of the end of the sport as we know it. The reasons for my silence are multiple but mostly related to a single event.
Here is what happened. Conscious of the significance of a symbol which any sailor would have identified as English since English sailors sank the mighty Spanish Armada a long time ago, I chose to spend a day sitting eating sandwiches and drinking lemonade on the white cliffs of Dover. When I arrived at the entry gates to the revered site, I met a crusty old gate keeper dressed in a moth eaten tweed jacket and smoking a pipe pensively. When I asked how much he wanted for a ticket, he stared at me through swivelling eyes.
“Like England do you?” he said at length.
“What does it matter you stupid old git,” I said irritably, “just hand over the bally ticket and go back to chewing your silly pipe.”
Remember the old chap who crops up from time to time in old westerns pointing vaguely at some point in the distance and declaring “there’s gold in them thar hills!”? Well, the gate keeper looked something like that when he handed over a ticket with the words “I’d be carefully my lad, there’s magic in those cliffs”.
Days later I woke up to find my bedclothes soaked. Convinced this was the consequence of a passionate visit by the Succubus in the dead of night, I dismissed this and attempted to get up for a drink of water. When my legs buckled under me and I began to see stars, I realised things were far more serious. As I sat on the White Cliffs a malicious tick had crawled into my trousers, bitten me on the backside and left some nasty poison inside me. I was now a victim of Lyme disease. Salvation came through medical intervention but I had learned my lesson: do not be disrespectful of Albion. So there you have it.
One would have thought they knew better but, after years of unfettered control of the sport, two arrogant, old Englishmen are about to have their comeuppance. And, appropriately, it is happening in England. For years, while Bernie Ecclestone decided where Grands Prix were held, how much any potential host circuit had to pay for the privilege of staging a race, which television stations were allowed to cover events and how much of this money he was prepared to share with the teams, his close friend, Max Mosley, set the rules of the sport. Both men grew increasingly megalomaniacal over the years. Result: disaster.
When Bernie Ecclestone found himself at war at home with his statuesque, no-nonsense Croatian wife, he soothed his battered ego by doing F1 deals with shady characters in ghastly places (how else do you explain the extraordinary, mind-numbing craziness of the Grand Prix in the desert – Bahrain – which we have been forced to endure for five years?). Meanwhile, Max Mosley, when unable to locate hookers sufficiently enthusiastic at thrashing his bottom, caused havoc with Formula One’s rule book. The participating teams put up with this double-headed nonsense for a very long time but they have now said enough is enough. From next year all the teams – excepting Williams and Force India – will be forming their own break-away racing championship. Hallelujah!
It is, therefore, with relief that I have been stacking up my fridge with Courage Best Bitter in readiness for tomorrow’s British Grand Prix. It is the home race of current championship leader, Jenson Button, but that is never a guarantee of success. If past races involving otherwise successful drivers at their home circuits is indicative of Button’s chances, I would be hesitant about placing bets on the Englishman. His team-mate, Rubens Barrichello, has better chances, I reckon.
The other Englishman racing at home tomorrow will be last year’s race winner Lewis Hamilton. Unfortunately the youngster’s car is so appallingly bad this season that he has better chances of persuading HRH the Prince of Wales to join his pit crew than he does of winning the British Grand Prix.
Silverstone is a magnificent circuit ; it is easily one of my favourites. One of the best pieces of news about the end of the Ecclestone-Mosley pantomime is that classic circuits like this one will be safe from threat. Heaven knows we may even see a return of precious places like the A1 Ring in Austria and Watkins Glen in New York – Inshallah.
I have never failed to enjoy a British Grand Prix and hope that you too will,
Enjoy Silverstone!
Gitau
20 June 2009
posted by Gitau at 11:49 am
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