The greatest race in the world. Twenty-four drivers, each and every one a celebrity. The most powerful race cars known to man. Half the planet’s jet setters, all gathered on a couple of hundred square meters. Royalty, movie stars, what have you. Speed. Danger. Victory. Drama.
And what do the bloody journos think they need to write about? Me having lunch with Flavio. Which is then conveniently branded as ‘making his return to the Formula One circuit.’ Well done, Guardian. What’s next? When the new Government announce their next budget, you’ll ignore it and just report on what Cameron had for breakfast that day? When BP’s oil wells need plugging, write about the company’s bosses having constipation?
Listen, journos. Flavio’s lifetime ban has been lifted. And in case you hadn’t noticed, he’s not exactly your proverbial shrinking violet. (Seen here showering in public. OK, so maybe he is having too many lunches.) So he’s coming back, and I’m the last person to stop him.
As Flavio would say: capisce?
Everybody has his weakness, you know. Mine’s anything female over five foot six. So J Lo’s appearance in the paddock at Monaco was a Godsend. Wish she hadn’t brought that nincompoop with her, but you can’t have everything, can you? I did manage to pop the question though. “Will you wave the Checkered Flag for me?” She said she would think about it.
Made my day.
… so I thought I’d stir things up a bit. Told the ladies and gentlemen of the press that we might lose a rookie team or two before the end of the season. And guess whose team sits firmly at the bottom of the rankings?
It only took a few minutes. Instead of my favourite Ennio Morricone soundtrack my phone belches out orgasm sounds. Note to self: ask Fabiana to change the ringtone for Richard Branson – it was a nice joke for a while, but when it happens in company you always have explaining to do.
Hello Richard, I say, what can I do for you? Sir Swinging Dick is not amused. How could you do that? he shouts. Everybody and his mate is calling me and I have to keep telling people that we’re in it for the long run. Which means at least for the next month in Branson’s case, but I decide not to mention that.
Well, I say, you could start with getting your cars to the finish line. I mean, isn’t that what racing is all about? To drive your way back to the paddock, rather than walk? Continue reading
Don’t blame him, his dream had just come true. He didn’t just win a Grand Prix, he won Monaco.
Not bad for a Canberra Milk Kid.