No. All he wanted to know was “Did it hurt? and “Did you enjoy it?”
Not that he wasn’t polite or anything. “I do feel for you, Bernie,” he said. “And Fabiana too. In fact, I feel for you so much that I’m going to honour you with a role play in my dungeon. I was getting tired of those prison guards anyway. Tried leather clad tax auditresses for a while but it’s almost as boring as doing your taxes. This’ll definitely provide a bit of variety. So thanks, both of you, for the inspiration. Get well soon.”
Great. Now we’re a role play in Max’s dungeon. I can just picture him wearing a naff suit and having his earrings ripped off by a female mugger in a Victoria’s Secret bra and a leather harness. Argh.
Sports pundits are like locusts. They fly long distances in great swarms, descend en masse on an event, gnaw it to the bone and then leave as quickly as they came. F1 seems to get more of them every year.
But a groveling pundit is a rare sight. Behold David Coulthard, who joined the swarm last April, in this week’s column in the Telegraph. Coulthard is eating his words from the beginning of the season, when he predicted that Max’s rule changes would put the audience to sleep while the drivers were desperately trying to stay awake behind the wheel. He couldn’t’ve been more wrong.
Max loves this, of course. Loves groveling too, Continue reading
‘Opinions are like arseholes. Everyone has one.’ If you thought you’d heard everyone’s arsehole on the Webber-Vettel incident by now, think again.
Last week it was Max’s turn. He should know better as he’s a past master of the ‘play the journos’ game, but apparently when some German rag interviewed him he couldn’t contain himself. Makes him look pathetic, of course. He’s stepped aside, enjoying retirement (in his dungeon, I bet) and pretending he doesn’t want to reign over his grave. And here he is, showing off his German and throwing his weight around over a little incident well after everybody else has weighed in. Probably has to do with his being thick as thieves with Red Bull’s owner, Dietrich Mateschitz.
I had him on the phone shortly after, asked him how’s life with your nose up Mateschitz’s arse? I could hear him smile, and he said “Come on, Bernie, you should know better than that. I form my own opinions, and in this case mine just happens to coincide with Dietrich’s.”
“Dietrich’s.” This tells me volumes. He’s up to one of his little games again. Mark my words, we haven’t heard the last of this.
“Saw your interview,” he says. “I’ll tell you, Bernie, you have to watch your privacy more closely.” Privacy is his big thing these days, he has nothing else to do except cruising the courtrooms of Europe in order to get his own back at the tabloid press.
I say, tell me all about it, Max, and by the way you’re not calling from your dungeon I hope? You do sound hollow again.
“Problem is, Bernie, you don’t take enough control when dealing with the press hounds. It’s like a pack of wolves. You corral them and and deal with them as a group. Divide et impera, I tell you!”
I tell him my German is a bit rusty lately but I’ll look it up. Meanwhile, good luck with your privacy case and whatever else is keeping you busy lately.
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. Continue reading
That was predictable. Just after Flavio rang off, Max calls. It sounds hollow, like there’s a bit of an echo.
“Max, I hope you’re not calling from your dungeon again?” I ask. He knows I hate it when he does that. Every man is entitled to his own funny stuff, I always say, just as long as they don’t bother me with it. I find the thought of Max phoning me wearing only a leather harness and a whip in his hands slightly disconcerting, to say the least.