I’m not pissed off.
I mean, why should I? Because these prats over at Brawn are getting honoured by the bloody Queen and I haven’t gotten anything in all those years? Effing outdated idiocy if you ask me. I mean, the silliness of it all. Ross gets an OBE, “Officer of the British Empire”. What empire? And Jenson, who’s done all the actual driving, gets stuck with an MBE, “Member of said Empire”. So now they accept members too? What is this, some stupid club?
As I said, I don’t really mind. Although one wonders what causes them to bypass little me continuously, time and again. Is it something I said? That tiny little remark about some past dictators who got things done? Or was it that time when I said it would be wonderful if all women would be dressed in white, like all the other domestic appliances? Which was just a figure of speech, by the way. I have nothing against coloured domestic appliances, believe you me.
So no problem. No problem at all. Only thing that grates a little is dealing with that pathetic prancing peacock Richard Branson, or ‘Sir Dick’ as we call him around here. Called to wish me a Happy New Year. Which was a thinly veiled pretext for checking on that TV camera business. “Made any progress on that, Bernie? And by the way did you see those ribbons the Brawn lads got? Did they ever get around to pinning any of those on you, by the way?” No, I grumbled. Trust Sir Swinging Dick to take that completely the wrong way, of course. “Don’t worry old boy,” he says. “Doesn’t mean anything. They’re just frigging medals, you know. No title at all. That’s only for the KBEs and the GBEs. That’s when they get to call you Sir. Got one of these meself, never looked back since. Trust me, you don’t want anything less.”
I pretended the connection broke and threw the phone away in disgust. It’s going to be a looong season.