Departed glory

I received a text message from an old friend on Sunday, imploring me to write something about the 2013 Formula One season which came to an end in Sao Paulo at the weekend. My first reaction was to say I could not do that because I had nothing to write about. I thought things over a little later and decided that the best I could do was seek inspiration in something visual.

I took a bus to Trafalgar Square and entered the hallowed exhibition halls of the National Gallery – spaces adorned with so much beauty which never fail to cause me to gasp in wonder. Almost without thinking, I was drawn to  J.M.W. Turner’s magnificent 1838 masterpiece The Fighting Temeraire tugged to her Last Berth to be broken up. I have adored the painting for many years and been to the National Gallery on more occasions than I can remember specifically to see and marvel at it; but for the first time it represented exactly how I felt about a sport I once loved.

HMS Temeraire was one of the key ships which took part in the Royal Navy’s most famous sea battle, The Battle of Trafalgar. This, Admiral Horatio Lord Nelson’s last and greatest, was a remarkable battle which saw off the threat represented by Napoleon who had combined forces with the Spanish navy to deal a decisive blow to Britain’s naval prestige. Nelson – whose statue looks down from a very high column onto Trafalgar Square – was victorious in battle but was mortally wounded during the vicious fighting. Turner’s painting is about lost glory. As the sun sets, a famous 98-gun ship is dragged into harbour by a filthy looking tugboat so that she can be scuttled for scrap. The beauty and splendour of the old ship is in stark contrast to the filthy tugboat spewing out vile looking smoke. It is not a happy picture: it is about the death of once heroic strength; the end of an era of greatness.

The Fighting Temeraire has been used by many writers, film-makers and commentators when attempting to illustrate a lost age which will be much missed. For me it tells you everything there is to be said about Formula One in November 2013.

I used the word “sport” a little earlier. Well, I thought I might look it up in the dictionary:

“An activity involving physical exertion and skill in which an individual or team competes against another or others for entertainment.”

The key word in that definition for me is “competes”. Now, if you have been watching F1 motor racing this season, how much competition have you seen? One man sits in his car, drives as many laps as he is required to and does not even need to glance in his rear view mirrors for fear of anyone being close enough to cause him to breathe a little harder or feel a little worried. He then parks his car and jabs his index finger in the air like it is some sort of weapon and is then presented with yet another trophy. That is the story of F1 in 2013. Pathetic, really. It makes me want to scream.

Before this year, I can only recall two occasions when open disrespect has been shown to the winner of a Grand Prix. The first was the 2002 Austrian Grand Prix where Rubens Barrichello, clearly in the lead, was ordered to let Michael Schumacher overtake him at the last corner. To underline the farcical nature of what had happened, Schumacher then responded to the loud boos ensuing from the crown by shoving a bemused Barrichello onto the top step of the podium and handing him his victor’s trophy. 

The second occasion was during the United States Grand Prix in 2005 when only the three teams using Bridgestone tyres took part (Ferrari, Jordan and Minardi). The remaining teams in Michelin tyres peeled off into the pits after the parade lap because they had been warned that their tyres were unsafe. On both these occasions, the crowd was bemoaning the absence of a competition for which they had paid good money and sacrificed valuable time.

Whatever one might feel about Sebastian Vettel – and I have nothing but admiration for the driver – one must be more than a little perturbed by Vettel standing on the top step of the podium race after race to a heady chorus of boos. From my experience of attending F1 races, I can tell you that the crowd tends to be cheerful and amiable. If there is anything akin to abuse, what it tends to be is good-natured, teasing and joshing. I remember being at the Spanish Grand Prix one year when Northern Irishman, Eddie Irvine, was still driving for Ferrari. Irvine had a reputation – quite out of fashion these days – as a ladies-man. Well, in that year, every time he came round turn eight, a buxom girl whipped out a big sign which said “Eddie, I’m pregnant!” This was funny; the booing of Vettel is not.

The reason for the jeers, though, is frustration. The F1 world is frustrated by the absence of competition and is taking it out on Vettel. This isn’t at all fair on Vettel, but I must admit that it is understandable. Tickets to Grands Prix are never cheap and circuits are quite often a bit of a pain to get to (the events are so noisy, that race organisers prefer to keep them outside towns). It must be galling to sit and observe the same procession behind the same man fortnight after fortnight. I am, quite frankly, fed up with it.

What happened to moneybags McLaren? Where are Mercedes under Mr walk-on-water Ross Brawn? And what in the name of anything sacred is going on at Ferrari? Mamma mia! How is it possible that a season running an incredible nine months and spanning 19 different locations can be dominated so completely by just one driver? This is supposed to be the pinnacle of motor sport. Numero uno! And yet, this is where we are. Christ, almighty - what a ghastly state of affairs!

I am reminded of another painting. It is a huge life-size painting of Brigadier Andrew Parker Bowles, the former husband of the Duchess of Cornwall, by Lucian Freud. The painter, who died two years ago, only ever painted subjects about which he was interested. He never accepted a commission to do any work and never allowed anyone to influence the manner in which he chose to represent them in a painting. Freud got to know Parker Bowles after the latter had retired from the army and wanted to paint a portrait of him. As a member of the Household Cavalry, the most senior unit of the British army and HM the Queen’s own bodyguard, Parker Bowles had a beautiful uniform which Freud liked and wanted to use in the painting. Parker Bowles hadn’t worn the uniform for 20 years, so it didn’t quite fit the counters of his enlarged body. To get comfortable while sitting for the portrait, Parker Bowles loosened his tunic and his large tummy popped out. This was a gift to Freud.

What Parker Bowles hadn’t expected was that Freud would choose to represent him in as brutal a manner as he did. The resultant portrait, The Brigadier, is hardly the image of a dashing senior Household Cavalry officer. With his rubicund cheeks from too much whisky and bulging belly from too many glamorous dinners, Parker Bowles looks very much the model of the soldier gone to seed; exhausted, doleful, wiped-out. The very words I would use to describe Formula One today.

Gitau

27 November 2013