A win for Barrichello in Valencia
I had lunch with my old friend Jolyon Simpkins the other day and, as ever, it was a memorable occasion. Simpkins is about 85 now and becoming increasingly curmudgeonly with age. I find him fascinating, though, and am always thrilled to receive a luncheon invitation from him.
Simpkins has always been dismissive of my fondness for continental Europe and its culinary joys. For him, the continental Europeans are effete and pretentious and they cannot cook proper food. He harrumphs disgustedly when I mention catching the Eurostar train to meet friends for dinner at La Coupole in Saint Germain des Pres, Paris. To this day he hasn’t quite worked out that often this is simply clever artifice; a means by which I can earn myself a good lunch without damaging my wallet too much. When I told Simpkins I was looking for last minute tickets for the European Grand Prix in Valencia, he demanded that I met him and discussed this over luncheon at that most unashamedly English of London restaurants, Simpson’s-in-the-Strand.
Waving away the leather-bound menu proffered by a nervous waiter, Simpkins demonstrated that his mind was made up. “I will have lobster soup to begin, followed by the roast beef and horseradish with steamed cabbage, roast potatoes and yorkshire pudding for my main course and then rhubarb crumble with custard for pudding. “He,” said Simpkins, indicating me with a fat finger, “will have the same. And while you’re at it would you mind pouring us a decent drop of claret, there’s a good chap.”
“Now,” said Simpkins while fixing me with a fierce look, ”what is this rot about you taking your hard earned pounds and wasting them on orujo-swilling Spaniards? I couldn’t believe it when I heard it. Are you not aware that there is a recession on?”
“But Simpkins,” I attempted to say but had to stop as he raised his podgy hand up to silence me. As he did so tears filled his eyes.
“They have no shame these European bastards,” he said, “none whatever. They will take food out of your baby’s mouth, the swine. They will rob you of your trousers before you know where you are with them. But we’re not going to let them do that, are we?”
“Simpkins, I…”
“There’s a good fellow. Now eat your lobster soup before it gets cold!” By this time a steaming bowl of soup sat before me and it seemed unreasonable to do anything but pick my spoon up and get slurping.
So, out of sympathy for my friend’s feelings for Arabella’s welfare, I cancelled my plans to attend this year’s European Grand Prix before I had so much as investigated the cost of tickets. But I was also motivated by baser, more selfish, motives. Last year’s race in Valencia was as boring and processional as any we have seen in less interesting Formula One locations and I was unconvinced that this year’s race would be any better.
Notwithstanding having watched the race from the comfort of my living room with Arabella switching my television sound on and off whenever it took her fancy, I am pleased to say that I was wrong. The 2009 European Grand Prix was not jaw-droppingly fascinating (and neither, in all honesty, is the refurbished old dock in Valencia that now serves as a racing circuit) but it had its interesting moments.
It was good to see a Brawn driver on the top step of the podium for a change. The fact that it was Rubens Barrichello and not Jenson Button is testament to how much better a job of Valencia the former made this weekend. Applying useful lessons learned from Ross Brawn from the years at Ferrari when Barrichello had the good (or miserable – depending on your point of view) fortune to ride shotgun for Michael Schumacher, the Brazilian had the good sense to capitalise on cleverly timed pit-stops and breathtakingly quick laps in the dying phases of each pre-pit-stop stint. Barrichello was also assisted by the lack of preparedness of the McLaren team.
Having dominated qualifying on Saturday and locked up the front row of the grid, McLaren contrived to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory. Slightly panicked when faced by the efficiency of Barrichello’s use of tyres and the Brawn team’s seamless ability to get their driver out at exactly the right point on the circuit, McLaren bungled the call to Lewis Hamilton for his final tyre change. When he came in, the team were not ready for him and he was forced to sit there and fume while his team threw away six seconds and a Grand Prix victory. It would have been close between him and the eventual winner in the end, no doubt, but taking everything into consideration, I believe Hamilton would have won the race.
Nevertheless, Barrichello’s win was universally popular. He is clearly a very well liked driver. I cannot claim to have ever before seen all the mechanics coming out of every single garage on the pit lane to salute the winner of a race. Acknowledging their adulation, Barrichello was emotional and self-effacing. I think it was good for the man in various ways, not least because he could dedicate the race win to his fellow Brazilian, injured Ferrari driver Felipe Massa, whose injuries were caused by a loose spring dislodging itself from Barrichello’s car.
Hamilton stretched every sinew in his face not to relay the frustration he must have felt to the wider world when seated in the post-race press conference, but I am sure he was seething inside. When we saw his ever present father and Pussycat Doll girlfriend scream out their frustration during that fateful pit-stop, we had a fairly clear indication of what would inevitably be going on in the McLaren garage long after the race was concluded and orujo-soaked bodies were propping-up various bar walls in the seedier parts of Valencia.
All this now leaves Barrichello 18 points adrift of world championship leader, Jenson Button. Luckily for Button neither of his next two opponents, Red Bull drivers Mark Webber and Sebastian Vettel were able to finish in the points; Vettel, ominously, because of the second engine blow-up in as many races. Button knows only too well that the time for leaning against a comfortable points cushion is now over. If a Brawn is to be the car that powers the next world champion to the chequered flag in October, it is by no means certain that its driver will be English.
Gitau
24 August 2009
Simpkins has always been dismissive of my fondness for continental Europe and its culinary joys. For him, the continental Europeans are effete and pretentious and they cannot cook proper food. He harrumphs disgustedly when I mention catching the Eurostar train to meet friends for dinner at La Coupole in Saint Germain des Pres, Paris. To this day he hasn’t quite worked out that often this is simply clever artifice; a means by which I can earn myself a good lunch without damaging my wallet too much. When I told Simpkins I was looking for last minute tickets for the European Grand Prix in Valencia, he demanded that I met him and discussed this over luncheon at that most unashamedly English of London restaurants, Simpson’s-in-the-Strand.
Waving away the leather-bound menu proffered by a nervous waiter, Simpkins demonstrated that his mind was made up. “I will have lobster soup to begin, followed by the roast beef and horseradish with steamed cabbage, roast potatoes and yorkshire pudding for my main course and then rhubarb crumble with custard for pudding. “He,” said Simpkins, indicating me with a fat finger, “will have the same. And while you’re at it would you mind pouring us a decent drop of claret, there’s a good chap.”
“Now,” said Simpkins while fixing me with a fierce look, ”what is this rot about you taking your hard earned pounds and wasting them on orujo-swilling Spaniards? I couldn’t believe it when I heard it. Are you not aware that there is a recession on?”
“But Simpkins,” I attempted to say but had to stop as he raised his podgy hand up to silence me. As he did so tears filled his eyes.
“They have no shame these European bastards,” he said, “none whatever. They will take food out of your baby’s mouth, the swine. They will rob you of your trousers before you know where you are with them. But we’re not going to let them do that, are we?”
“Simpkins, I…”
“There’s a good fellow. Now eat your lobster soup before it gets cold!” By this time a steaming bowl of soup sat before me and it seemed unreasonable to do anything but pick my spoon up and get slurping.
So, out of sympathy for my friend’s feelings for Arabella’s welfare, I cancelled my plans to attend this year’s European Grand Prix before I had so much as investigated the cost of tickets. But I was also motivated by baser, more selfish, motives. Last year’s race in Valencia was as boring and processional as any we have seen in less interesting Formula One locations and I was unconvinced that this year’s race would be any better.
Notwithstanding having watched the race from the comfort of my living room with Arabella switching my television sound on and off whenever it took her fancy, I am pleased to say that I was wrong. The 2009 European Grand Prix was not jaw-droppingly fascinating (and neither, in all honesty, is the refurbished old dock in Valencia that now serves as a racing circuit) but it had its interesting moments.
It was good to see a Brawn driver on the top step of the podium for a change. The fact that it was Rubens Barrichello and not Jenson Button is testament to how much better a job of Valencia the former made this weekend. Applying useful lessons learned from Ross Brawn from the years at Ferrari when Barrichello had the good (or miserable – depending on your point of view) fortune to ride shotgun for Michael Schumacher, the Brazilian had the good sense to capitalise on cleverly timed pit-stops and breathtakingly quick laps in the dying phases of each pre-pit-stop stint. Barrichello was also assisted by the lack of preparedness of the McLaren team.
Having dominated qualifying on Saturday and locked up the front row of the grid, McLaren contrived to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory. Slightly panicked when faced by the efficiency of Barrichello’s use of tyres and the Brawn team’s seamless ability to get their driver out at exactly the right point on the circuit, McLaren bungled the call to Lewis Hamilton for his final tyre change. When he came in, the team were not ready for him and he was forced to sit there and fume while his team threw away six seconds and a Grand Prix victory. It would have been close between him and the eventual winner in the end, no doubt, but taking everything into consideration, I believe Hamilton would have won the race.
Nevertheless, Barrichello’s win was universally popular. He is clearly a very well liked driver. I cannot claim to have ever before seen all the mechanics coming out of every single garage on the pit lane to salute the winner of a race. Acknowledging their adulation, Barrichello was emotional and self-effacing. I think it was good for the man in various ways, not least because he could dedicate the race win to his fellow Brazilian, injured Ferrari driver Felipe Massa, whose injuries were caused by a loose spring dislodging itself from Barrichello’s car.
Hamilton stretched every sinew in his face not to relay the frustration he must have felt to the wider world when seated in the post-race press conference, but I am sure he was seething inside. When we saw his ever present father and Pussycat Doll girlfriend scream out their frustration during that fateful pit-stop, we had a fairly clear indication of what would inevitably be going on in the McLaren garage long after the race was concluded and orujo-soaked bodies were propping-up various bar walls in the seedier parts of Valencia.
All this now leaves Barrichello 18 points adrift of world championship leader, Jenson Button. Luckily for Button neither of his next two opponents, Red Bull drivers Mark Webber and Sebastian Vettel were able to finish in the points; Vettel, ominously, because of the second engine blow-up in as many races. Button knows only too well that the time for leaning against a comfortable points cushion is now over. If a Brawn is to be the car that powers the next world champion to the chequered flag in October, it is by no means certain that its driver will be English.
Gitau
24 August 2009
posted by Gitau at 3:38 pm
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