I know, I know. Haven’t been blogging for quite a while. But now I’m in KL, visiting my first race of the season, I couldn’t help it. I had to break the silence.
That silence was Fabiana’s idea, really. Said we drew too much attention and that brought the muggers upon us. Bullshit, of course, but what can one do? You can’t argue with women. At least, I can’t. Problem is, I’m a negotiator. One of the best, I might say, and I’ve got the billions to prove it. But arguing with women is not like negotiating. They’re simply not receptive to it. Their brains work differently. Which is why they don’t run F1.
But I do. Not the FIA, not the teams. Me.
Especially not the teams, by the way. Continue reading
A lot of people called to wish me well, some sincere, some not. I positively loathe this business when people you hardly know phone you up and start to tell you how deeply they feel for you. In most cases I can just tell seconds into the call how insincere the bloke on the other end is.
The most common giveaway is when they want you to go into details about what exactly happened. The French call it schadenfreude and it ain’t pretty. Someone else’s suffering is one of the most popular sources of entertainment. It happened to him, which makes me extra lucky it didn’t happen to me. Call me a cynic, but it’s true.
So here we go: Continue reading
OK, I was mugged. It happens to the best of us.
I know, I know, I said not so long ago that muggers tend to look for the soft and not too bright, but I was mainly needling Jenson, wasn’t I? I mean, the lad needed a bit of a prod to keep him in the running for the Championship, that was all. And I did apologise.
And let’s face it, I did say that mugging was more common in central London, didn’t I? Did I hit the nail on the head with that one, or didn’t I?
Personally I’m not easily affected by four losers going after a watch and some jewellery. If you’re used to the shenanigans in the F1 world, a simple mugging just looks like child’s play. But it’s a bloody shame it had to happen to my beloved Fabiana as well, and right outside my front door, too. Poor girl, women really react badly to things like this. And I just wished The Sun wouldn’t’ve highlighted the bit about the 200,000 quid’s worth. That was for the insurance, not for the press.
Anyway, the Yard’s Robbery Squad has announced they’re hot on the trail of the blokes who did it. Apparently we weren’t the first ones to be given the once-over.
I can only say one thing to you, muggers: if I were you I’d really, really hope that Scotland Yard got to you first. Because I’ve put Goran, my Head of Security on the case. Goran (pictured here in his favourite pose) learned a lot of interesting techniques during the Balkan wars and he’s been complaining about getting rusty lately. Told me he badly needs some practice.
So pray, morons. Pray that the Yard finds you first.
I hate birthdays. They are non-negotiable and I have a natural dislike for anything that cannot be negotiated.
Worst are the ones where you cross over into another decade. If you’re 69, people just say they think you’re old. Then you become 70, and they start saying you’re ancient. You start meeting people who seem mildly surprised that you’re still alive, or at least wonder how you’re still managing to get out of the house without crutches. By the time you become 71 they’re getting used to it and you’re just back to being old again. Things calm down, all the way to 79. Then you turn 80 and the whole idiocy starts all over again.
Suddenly everybody is treating me like an Emperor. Personal plates are one thing, but this is taking it to the extreme.
If your country wants to host a future Grand Prix, pay attention. The Koreans are setting a benchmark here.
[Thanks to Adam Cooper.]
The new edition of the Oxford Dictionary of English is out, and the vuvuzela steals the show. Most of the rest is a result of either climate change or the credit crunch. Nothing spectacular there, if you ask me.
Perhaps that’s why speculation is already rife about next year’s new entries. Well, my friends, I have a candidate: ecclestoning.
Ecclestoning is what’s done to visionary people who make a simple sport a runaway, global success, without paying too much attention to whingers and whiners along the way. Everybody becomes rich and famous but the whingers and whiners, vindictive and jealous malcontents as they are by nature, make a life’s effort of trying to stone the visionary for his efforts.
The visionary on his part has no choice but to become filthy rich in the process, as the continuous effort to escape stoning makes for a very expensive lifestyle. Private jets to stay ahead of the pack, super yachts for the quiet holidays along the Adriatic coast, and bodyguards to keep the malcontents at bay.
See here the story of my life. Continue reading
I’ve been reading all these blog comments on the Ferrari team order brouhaha, and it’s amazing how quickly people seem to end up with blaming me.
Just to avoid any misunderstanding: I’m the Formula One Supremo. I’m not the boss of everything in F1. There’s a difference. Let me explain.
To begin with, I don’t call the shots in the teams. That’s the job of the team bosses. So if Ferrari issues team orders, it’s types like Luca di Montezemelemololo or Stefano Domenicali who are responsible for that. Not me. I may have an opinion about it (more about that later), but that’s another matter.
If you are now wondering who’s the real boss in Formula One if it isn’t me, just look at my simple F1 organisation chart. It’s you.
You, my beloved legion of fans, my loyal audience, are the real boss. So everything that happens in F1 is ultimately your responsibility. I’m merely the humble Supremo who does your bidding and makes sure, one way or another, that the rest falls in line.
But Bernie, I hear you ask, you have never had a real education. How did you arrive at this bold conclusion? What kind of management theory underpins your statement? Well, my friends, I have a simple answer for that too. For I am above all a practical person. It is strict adherence to management practice that has brought me to where I am now. And management practice can be described in two words: Continue reading
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.
Seen at the Barcelona Grand Prix. Who knew? It’s a good thing that I’m not easily flattered, otherwise I’d be, well, flattered. As long as they realise there’s only one real Fake Bernie, and that’s me.
I know, my friends, it’s been a while. Busy at work, renegotiating the Shanghai GP, defending The Neck against the bloodthirsty pack of media hounds, and battling it out with New Jersey politicians. These blokes fight without gloves, I can tell you! But they haven’t been up against Bernie yet, so watch this space.
Meanwhile, who can stay indoors when Monaco is about to happen? See you all at the One Race To Rule Them All, as they say in New Zealand.