You can always tell. It’s when he starts buggering around with the press (OK, pun intended). First he calls up the Times that the International Luge Federation (yes, there is one) is where F1 was 40 years ago, and if Max would’ve been at the helm luges would have crash zones and so would the tracks and the poor Georgian lad wouldn’t've gotten himself killed. The Times prints this, of course. Max still has them eating out of his hand. But it turns out he’s a bit out of the game because it’s old Sir Jackie who gets the mug shot in the article.
So he invites half a dozen journos for lunch to feed them some more Maxisms. No he has no scores to settle, Ferrari are like a middle aged woman who’s not getting enough sex attention, Briatore’s guilty as Hell where he may burn forever, and Max is still not sure whether Alonso wasn’t in on the plot. And no, he’s not a back-seat driver but Jean Todt still needs his advice on a regular basis though he hopes it’ll be less in the future. Does he have any plans for the future? No, except to save mankind from cruel privacy laws that don’t require tabloids to show you pictures of yourself whipped by a bunch of hookers first, so you can
have some fun get an injunction before they publish them.
You always wonder how types like James Allen, who’s been around the block a decade or two, keep falling for this bullshit. I guess there’s no limit to what a salmon tartare washed down with a bottle of Sancerre in a posh South Kensington place still does to a hungry independent journalist.
But who am I kidding? Been there, done that.