Heard the news about Sir Stirling Moss’s mishap, falling three stories down his own lift shaft and breaking half the bones in his body. No funny puns about getting shafted, please.
Personally I revere anybody who averaged more than thirty races per year for all of 16 years, sometimes more than double that. Not only that, but also winning almost half of them. F1, rally sports, endurance, didn’t matter what. Those were the days, my friend. Drivers were real men then, as opposed to today’s little snivelers.
Stirling, we all hope you’ll recover soon.
In case you’ve lived under a rock since 1979 and have never seen any Mad Max movies: these blokes pack some serious firepower. Anyone intending to overtake Webber this weekend, be warned.
The Ozzies are tired of having their taxpayers shell out for our annual Grand Prix extravaganza at Albert Park. Some local chieftain named Brumby (only in Oz) has presented three choices: staying at Albert Park, not renewing after 2015, or moving out to the airport. Silly bugger thinks I’m going to react to that. Think not. Couldn’t care less, frankly. Who needs Oz with all these brand spanking new Asian circuits coming up?
Only thing that could make me change my mind is moving to some less unearthly time slot in Europe, i.e. nighttime in Melbourne. Put some floodlights in place, Bruce. I had one of my people leak that idea strategically to Chief Grumpy. That’ll keep him busy for a while.