About #58

I woke up just before 10am last Sunday morning, and it dawned on me as I went downstairs that I had forgotten to set my alarm for the MotoGP, even though the evening before I had made a mental note to do so.

When I switched on the TV, it didn't even register that BBC2 was showing something other than motorbikes; I just assumed I'd got the times wrong and it was long over.

Then I went onto Facebook and saw a friend's status update. 'RIP Marco Simoncelli'. My heart immediately starting beating ninety to the dozen and I could barely get my fingers to work as I went onto Twitter to scroll down my timeline. It's stupid but my first thought was that he'd been sick or been involved in something away from the racetrack – in the immediate shock it just didn't occur to me that it had happened during the race in Sepang.

I haven't seen the crash, nor do I want to. Thanks to everyone's least favourite newspaper, the Daily Mail, I've seen photographs, and that was more than enough for me. The Mail has built its readership on acting like a bastion of morality, yet deems it acceptable to print photographs of a young 24 year old man losing his life at the side of a racetrack.

The fact I won't watch the crash somewhat contradicts the claims of one Jill Singer, a 'journalist' who spews out brain vomit in a column for Australian newspaper The Herald Sun. According to her, motorsport fans are ghouls who 'get off on the carnage'. She ends her insulting diatribe by accusing us all of having 'specks of blood' on our hands.

I disagree completely. Jill Singer doubts that motorsport fans' shock and grief over Marco Simoncelli and Dan Wheldon in the past fortnight is genuine. As motorsport fans we're all aware of the risk the sport we love brings, but that doesn't mean that we can't still feel stunned and shocked when something so incredibly tragic happens. Having lost a close family member in a motorbike accident just over 3 years ago, I know that the horror of a bike crash is something that's very difficult to comprehend, and I think that's what everyone in the motorsport community has been trying to deal with for the past 4 days.

I really don't feel like any genuine, true fan watches motorsport for the crashes. They may watch for the risk, but not the actual crashes. It's the great saves that we all admire; kissing the wall instead of hitting it – not the accidents. If you're watching drivers or riders every other weekend it's very easy to start caring about their welfare – they are the ones risking their lives doing something for our entertainment so why on earth would we want them to potentially get hurt? There's nothing entertaining about that.

Motorsport safety has been targeted a lot by the uneducated mainstream media lately which is completely unfair. I have friends that scuba dive, and a quick google has shown that as a sport, that's far more dangerous than racing. Yet when scuba divers die (and I know there has been at least one tragic death in the past few weeks in the UK/Ireland) it doesn't get the same accusations thrown at it. I'd never dream of suggesting to my friends that they get off on the risk of it, because unlike Jill Singer, I'd never be ignorant enough to make such an unfounded assumption.

I was in work today when Marco's funeral was taking place but I watched some of the footage when I got home on the MotoGP website. Just like on Sunday morning, I was reduced to tears. This has really floored me and I'm actually shocked how much. I enjoy MotoGP a lot but for me it's always been very much second best to F1. I know that if anything ever happened to an F1 driver I'd be devastated (and I was scarily given a glimpse of what that might be like with Felipe's accident in 2009) but even I underestimated the reaction I have had to the events of the past few days.

I won't sit and pretend now that Marco was my favourite rider in MotoGP – in fact I had a good rant about him after the accident with Dani Pedrosa at Le Mans which left Dani with a broken collarbone. But once that died down, it was impossible not to like him – between the gangly frame, the hair (oh, the hair) and his ability to shake things up at the front and challenge 'the aliens', he was pure entertainment and I shall miss his charisma on the track very, very much.

If this is what being a ghoul feels like, quite honestly – it's shit.

About a Ferrari driver

This weekend's Belgian GP marks Michael Schumacher's 20th anniversary in F1.

Until his battles with Damon Hill in the mid-1990s, I didn't pay much attention. In fact all I can remember from the early days was that he wore yellow Camel overalls. Then, thanks to the fact he was the main British driver's biggest rival (and was German to boot), he became the Villain of F1, and it seemed fairly natural to dislike him.

Coming from Northern Ireland, it was pretty easy to become a Ferrari fan when Eddie Irvine paired up with Michael at the team at the beginning of 1996. But I still didn't like Schumacher. He was rude, arrogant, robotic, ice-cold, and every other German stereotype you could possibly think of. In fact I remember laughing (a lot) when he crashed on the first lap of Monaco 1996.

Eventually he began to worm his way into my affections, thanks to his talent, the fact that he and Eddie seemed to compliment one another, and okay, because I was a bit of a fan of his little brother (shut up - I was 17 and Ralf was pretty). And so a year later at Monaco, I was holding my breath when he went off at Ste. Devote. He managed to recover, and went onto win the race. In the rain. Always in the rain.

From then on, I was a huge fan. And there were many good times and bad times, many highs and lows. There was saving up for weeks to go to my first GP at Silverstone only to have Michael crash and break his leg on lap 1. But there was also being there at Spa in 2001 to see him break Alain Prost's record of all-time wins. Not to mention all the championship battles too - the heartbreak of 1998 and the joy of 2000 when he finally won a WDC for Ferrari for the first time in 21 years.

Michael has always been massively controversial, of course, and my own rose-tinted spectacles finally fell off for good somewhere around the time he squeezed Rubens Barrichello against the wall in Hungary last season - but the thing about Michael is that for every Hungary 2010, or Monaco 2006, there was always a Suzuka 2000 or a Hungary 1998 to make up for it. I think that's why those who will always defend him find it easy to forgive the more dubious things he's done in his career. He does seem to inspire devotion in people, and at the height of my fandom I certainly wouldn't have heard a bad word said about him.

Like all of his fans I was gutted when he retired at the end of 2006, but he signed off with one of his best performances in Brazil. I'd declared that I would 'never watch F1 again!' when he was gone, but that was easier said than done, and fairly soon that crafty Felipe Massa had gotten me passionate about a driver again. Damn you, emotions.

Due to aforementioned sneaky Brazilians making me forget that I shouldn't be getting attached to drivers, I wasn't thrilled when Michael was announced as Felipe's stand-in after his accident in Hungary 2009. However, given that I was going to Spa the month after, it would have been slight consolation. As it was, it wasn't meant to be, and I had to watch Luca Badoer trundle around at the back of the grid instead.

Given that I wasn't fussed about Michael coming back in a Ferrari, you can imagine that I was even less happy about him returning to F1 in a rival car. I didn't believe any of the Mercedes rumours - especially considering Eddie Jordan was adamant that Michael was going to come back - and I wrote them off as a load of silly speculation.

I did wonder when his comeback was announced whether I would secretly root for him over Felipe/Ferrari - but it hasn't turned out like that at all. I never dreamed I would be so apathetic towards what he's doing on track. Sure, I like to see him do well; Canada this year being a case in point - but if he crashes or retires, I don't throw a strop like I used to, or feel a crushing sense of disappointment. And it's quite sad, really, because he was an idol to me for a long time and now I just don't seem to notice him much during races.

I do think that he should just stop at the end of this year. He's had 20 years (if you don't count those three missing seasons after his first retirement), 7 WDCs, broke most of, if not all the records, and has nothing to prove. There are too many young drivers trying to get a seat in F1 and it seems pointless having Michael there when he perhaps lacks the fire in his belly that he once had. I don't think the sport would look at him unfavourably if he did just walk away. And even if they did, he has his titles, so who cares?

...That said, when and if the day comes that he gets a podium or even a win, I know I will be absolutely ecstatic for him. It's just that I can't see that happening any time soon.

Anyway, in honour of those 20 years, here's my favourite Michael moments. They're maybe not all from his greatest races, and there may be more obvious ones out there, but to me, they are the ones that I remember the most. Some still make me proud, some still give me goosebumps, and some still hurt. None are from Mercedes.

• The aforementioned 1997 Monaco GP. It was peeing down with rain - Michael was 22 seconds ahead by lap 5, and he eventually won it by 53 seconds. 

• The 1999 Malaysian GP. Michael's first race back, 3 months after breaking his leg. There had been a lot of speculation about whether he would come back 'the same driver'... well, he took pole position by almost a second, and had to let Eddie past twice so his teammate could take the win.

• The 2006 Japanese GP. The penultimate race of the season. It was Schumacher vs Alonso for the WDC, and Michael was leading the race and certain for victory. Cue an ITV ad break. Cue a return from the ad break with footage of Michael's engine giving up. And then scenes inside his garage of him thanking and consoling all his mechanics. Still a tough one to watch, this. 

• The 2006 Brazilian GP. His last race for Ferrari, and one of the gutsiest performances he ever put in. Apparently it is impossible to find YouTube footage of this without godawful music over the top. Pfft.

• The 1998 Italian GP. 1998 is my absolute favourite season (or was until 2008 - now I'd have to say it's a tie) and this was my favourite race that year. A Ferrari 1-2 at Monza is always very special and the latter part of that season was just an awesome fightback against a McLaren car that had been very dominant at the start of the year.

• Suzuka 2000. Finally he won the WDC for Ferrari on the fifth attempt. I think he's said since that this is his favourite F1 memory and the title that means the most. One of the happiest F1 memories I have too.

• Lastly, and appropriately enough as it also took place at Spa - my all time favourite Michael Schumacher moment. And it didn't all take place on the track, but on the pitlane too. I think all F1 fans know the story now - Michael was half a minute up the road in the rain when he had to lap some Scottish cube-headed moron in his McLaren. Said cube-headed moron decided not to move his arse from the racing line. The result? A three-wheeled Ferrari, a very excited Murray Walker, and one pissed off Ferrari driver seeking a 'word' with David Coulthard. Classic.

 

Cheers for the memories, Michael.

About the 2011 British GP

Thursday

Ann and I landed in (kind-of) sunny Birmingham before meeting up with Jade. After getting suitcases, rucksacks, tents and all the beer and snacks we could carry into the teeny tiny boot of our hired FIAT 500, we made our way to Stowe School, where the Marussia Virgin Weekend was being held. I didn’t shout or lose my rag once while driving there (an achievement), possibly due to the awesome singalong driving mix I had made.

At least 5 trips back and forth to the car later, Ann and I had gotten ourselves settled into our pre-erected tent, which came complete with sleeping bags and air beds. Having only ever spent single nights in a 20 man tent (don’t ask), I was definitely nervous about staying in one for 4 nights. But by the time I had set up my sleeping area, I was feeling less concerned. In the meantime, Jade had managed to assemble hers with absolutely NO help from Ann and I whatsoever.

Home

A quick wander around the campsite revealed to us the shower cubicles, supercar show – including Lightning McQueen… KA-CHOW!, and, joy of joys – the Vanity Tent, which had mirrors and electricity and SOMEWHERE TO PLUG IN MY HAIRDRYER AND STRAIGHTENERS, YAY. Some hardened campers may feel this is a cop-out. I say that it’s a good pay-off for getting weatherbeaten at Silverstone. Without it, I’d have looked even MORE like Stig of the Dump.

For the rest of the evening we lay under the huge awning on some very comfy sofas, eating food from Jamie Oliver’s Fabulous Feasts (his outdoor catering venture), and chatting well past 1am about F1 with our fellow campers. It was only after we’d been chatting for a while that Twitter names were revealed, and all of a sudden it was a case of “Ah… THAT’s who you are!”

I do believe there was discussion of David Coulthard’s ‘mince and tatties’ before we all headed to bed. I’d maintained before going that I was NOT staying up until stupid o’clock on the first night, drinking. Oops.

Friday

Rain. Oh God, the rain. Waking up in a tent was bad enough. Waking up in a tent and hearing the rain battering down was even worse. Thankfully and amazingly, however, I had no hangover. Even if I had, one of the campsite’s bacon rolls (sorry I mean bacon, cheese and rocket baps… it was Jamie Oliver, after all) would have sorted me out rightly. I would WALK to Stowe School for one of those bad boys right now. If I wasn’t lazy, and y’know, the campsite was still there.

Ann, Jade and I headed to Club where we watched a bit of FP1 before meeting up with Brij.

After that, Ann and I made the sensible, health-conscious decision to eat as much greasy track food as possible. With cider to wash it all down with. On our walk up towards the F1 Village, the rain started. And remained until FP2 and beyond. All the nearby covered grandstands were too full for us to be allowed into by that time, so I watched FP2 from a sodden picnic bench, getting more and more miserable as the rain seeped through my jeans. In fact I’d like to thank the Amazon seller Mountain Warehouse right now for not delivering the waterproof trousers I’d ordered 2 weeks previously, thinking they’d arrive in time. How optimistic of me.

The biblical rain put a dampener on our meeting with Steph and Helen, but we still managed to discuss important F1-related issues – such as stalking Ferrari race engineers, Michael Schumacher’s L’Oreal advert, and why Fernando Alonso has something in common with Jeremy Beadle (honest).

With no sign of the rain easing, and the black clouds getting ever blacker, we admitted defeat and walked back to the gate to catch the minibus. I was grumbling inwardly to myself ‘never again… not worth it… things I do for Felipe… even F1 isn’t worth this… grumble grumble.’

An hour later, I was sitting under the awning of the campsite with rapidly drying clothes/hair/spirit, a beer in my hand, watching the practice sessions on the big screen and waiting for the Marussia Virgin drivers to make an appearance. Maybe this camping lark wasn’t so bad after all.

Finally, David Croft from 5Live came onstage and announced Timo Glock, Jerome D’Ambrosio (apologies for lack of accents), Sakon Yamamoto and boo hiss, Robert Wickens (whom Jade and I gave evils to, on account of his not being very nice about Felipe Massa during one of the practice sessions this year. Us Massa fans never forget, Wickens). The chat involved a Q&A with the audience (‘Can you break Vettel’s finger? Can you break Christian Horner’s shaky leg?’), during which Timo revealed that Felipe had visited him after Brazil 2008 to let him know there were no hard feelings. Then he made a joke about now owning ’10 McLarens’. Too soon, Timo, too soon.

To top off the evening, the drivers then came into the crowd to sign autographs and pose for photos. I, like every other female member of the audience I suspect, developed a crush on the considerably not-ugly Jerome. Of all the times you want to meet someone that stunning, it is not when you have frizzy hair, damp clothes and a face that has had all the make-up washed off it due to the pelting rain.

We then made the most of a break in the rain to brave the showers and Vanity Tent, where I dried my hair, not realizing that Gareth Jones, AKA Gaz Top of How 2 and Get Fresh fame, was blowing up an air mattress beside me. After that, it was time for an early(ish) night before things got any more surreal...

Saturday

We got ourselves settled in Club again for quali, after being yapped at by an old bint who complained that we were sitting in someone else’s seats. Clearly she didn’t understand the concept of roving grandstand tickets. Resisting the temptation to beat her up the face with her alice band, we moved somewhere else.

Quali was great up until halfway through Q3 when the rain made another appearance, just as most of the drivers were on their second runs. Therefore the end was a bit of an anti-climax, particularly as Red Bull took the top 2 spots yet again, albeit with Mark Webber snatching the pole this time. I was happy enough with Felipe's 4th place - this was the first time I'd been to a race since his accident so it was great just to see him. 

Darren Heath has nothing to fear

The rain then died off long enough for Ann and I to walk up to Luffield to meet Stu, a friend from TheScuderia.net, for a pint and watch the end of Bianchi’s win in the GP2 on the big screen. Stu and his family had brought along something truly sinister…

Back at the campsite, there were bands like The Scarletz and 50ft Woman playing, followed by a DJ set from Sakon Yamamoto (or ‘Suckoff Yamamofo’ as Crofty announced him as). We sat on the grass until it got dark, nursing our tins of beer and chatting. Magic. 

Gareth 'Gaz Top' Jones also proved himself to be an all-round sport, quite happy to do what I'm sure he gets asked to do every. single. day...

'HOWWWW'

After Sakon’s set was over, the rockier tunes got played and Ann made us all try her disgusting concoction of red wine and diet Coke… and I can confirm that you’d be better off drinking Benylin.

Somewhere around 1am, it turned into ‘An Audience with David Croft’. Having been aware of his presence all evening, it wasn’t until after the music had ended (and we planned to go to bed) that we felt sufficiently pissed enough to go and ask Crofty for a photo. This turned into a chat, which turned into Mrs Crofty dishing out white wine and lollipops, which turned into a crowd of people gathered around him listening to tales about F1 drivers which we weren’t allowed to repeat on Twitter. Best night EVER. We eventually all trudged to bed some time after 2am, faces sore from laughing.

Sunday

After a l o n g walk to Copse, we got settled into our seats for the drivers parade and race. 2 Massa fans and a Heidfeld fan, trapped amongst a sea of McLaren t-shirts and baseball caps. This made cheering for Felipe as he got past Jenson quite awkward. Similarly, I was sick as a pig at the cheering when Lewis overtook Fernando right under our noses. I have a lot of affection for Silverstone because it’s the first race I ever went to back in 1999, and of course it’s the ‘home’ race, but it’s very tough being a Massa/Ferrari fan at that track now. When I first went, I’d estimate that about 75% of the crowd were in Ferrari gear – but now, that would be less than 10% easily. From what I saw, anyway. It makes for a great atmosphere, with all the cheering for the British guys, but when you have grown up with a natural aversion to All Things McLaren, it can be a bit hard to take. It’s fair to say that parts of the crowd weren’t exactly Schumacher or Alonso-friendly. Having said that, I think that there was a collective sigh of relief when someone other than Sebastian Vettel won.

Heading back to the mini-bus, we had the chance to have a better look at the new Silverstone wing. There’s no doubt it looks good – but I personally think it lacks character. Part of Silverstone’s charm for me was that it was what it was… an old airfield plonked in the middle of the English countryside.  However, if modernization is what it takes to ensure the British GP is kept on the calendar, then it can only be a good thing. Also great to see was fans being allowed to go onto the track at the end; something that I felt was lacking in previous years.

For our final night at the Marussia Virgin campsite (sob), there was a screening of Senna. I’d seen it twice already but was quite content to sit and watch it again. There was a round of applause when the film ended, and as people started to disperse, we were then told that Terry Fullerton, the man whom Senna describes in the film as his favourite person he raced against, was there. A proper goosebumps moment. He said a few words and afterwards spent time chatting to some of the crowd. 

The mood was rather subdued for the rest of the evening after Senna, so a few quiet drinks and a chat were had before everyone headed off to bed, sad to be going home the following day. Ann, Jade and I's travels before going back to reality took us to The White Horse pub in Silverstone village (which has fantastic vintage F1 posters that I covet for my kitchen), and Stratford-Upon-Avon, where we saw a Nick Heidfeld lookalike and Ann got lost (...hang on, were these two events related?)

'Nick'

Then, regretfully, it was time to go to the airport and say our goodbyes. I'm not sure where my F1 travels may or may not take me in 2012, but the Marussia Virgin Weekend surpassed my expectations in many ways. Yes, I got drenched. Yes, I had to traipse across a cricket pitch just to clean my teeth every morning. Yes, my eyes hurt from all the 'rocket red' McLaren baseball caps - but I wouldn't change any of it.

Post Grand Prix blues? Absolutely.

Random points to note

• Timmy
• Creepy tree
• 'It can't be right!'
• 'It's 2am and I'm in a field in Buckinghamshire - where the fuck am I supposed to get a banana?'
• Colin Murray. Limelight. Belfast.
• 'I know we're on a campsite but wash your fucking hair!'

About a Miniature Schnauzer

I asked every Christmas for a dog and never got one. I never called Childline but I'm pretty sure they would have been disgusted at the cruel treatment I suffered at the hands of my puppy-denying parents. Those kinds of things can scar a kid, you know.

When I moved into my own house last year I knew it was only a matter of time before I succumbed and bought a dog of my own finally. So at the beginning of January this year, I found myself standing in the kitchen of a miniature schnauzer breeder; a fluffball in my hands that was squeaking at me. And I believed it to be squeaking "BUY ME, crazy lady! BUY ME NOW."

Master manipulator

When I went to visit him again a few weeks later he had changed a bit. Squeakiness had developed into cheekiness. Fresh from a LOST marathon, I decided to name him Sawyer, and unbeknownst to me at the time, face a lifetime of blank looks when I tell people his name. (Obviously no-one in my town watched it. Fooooools).

The day I finally brought Sawyer home, he immediately peed in the living room and pooed in the kitchen. I wanted to cry a bit. My house needs to be impeccably tidy or the earth will explode and all my family will die. (It's true).

'This looks like a clean floor... how about I mess it up for you FOREVER, LULZ!1'

Sadly getting a puppy led to all sorts of not at all patronising comments such as 'you must be feeling maternal'. Not to mention people calling me Sawyer's 'mummy'. To clarify:

• A dog is not a baby.
• ...or a baby substitute.
• I got a dog because I wanted one. Not to fulfil some kind of yearning for a child, which apparently, at age 31, I am supposed to have. (I don't).
• I am not the dog's MOTHER. I did not give birth to the dog. If I had I'm sure I would be in some lab at this point. (Laboratory, that is. Not labrador.)

The best dog I ever knew belonged to my Uncle (on account of the aforementioned not-being-allowed-my-own-dog thing). He was a golden retriever named Dusty, a big lump of manic fun who enjoyed running up and down the fields, bouncing about in barns and stables, taking a dip in the ditch... basically anything that got him muddy from nose to tail. He died in 2003 and forever more shall be The Dog That All Other Dogs Have To Live Up To.

Therefore any time Saywer misbehaves, he is sternly told "Dusty wouldn't have done that." (I'm not entirely sure that puppies can be put on a guilt trip but my God, I try.) It's times like that that I conveniently forget the time I stupidly set my lunch down on the floor and Dusty ran off with it in his mouth, or how he used to jump on top of me after a trip through the ditch, covering me in mud, or the time as a puppy he was sick all over the carpet. I don't tell Sawyer and HE DOESN'T NEED TO KNOW, okay?

His list of crimes and misdemeanours are many. A sample:

1) He has wrecked 2 sofa throws. Now I might have to go to IKEA for another one, and I may get lost amongst all the flatpack.

2) He is incapable of seeing a shoe without chewing it/dragging across the living room. And I have spent at least £10 on some of those shoes.

3) Having seen him try to grab my credit card off the table a couple of days ago, I am 99% sure he was the fraudster that spent over £1000 on my card recently. If he takes himself off to Hamburg to see the David Haye fight on 2nd July with 6 other tickets, I will know I've rumbled him.

4) He prevents me from having a lie-in at the weekends because I have to get up and feed him. Admittedly this means I get to see all of Saturday Kitchen, which I have a weird affection for.

5) He embarrasses me frequently. Oh, the embarrassment. Bark bark bark bark bark bark. At the neighbours, at people in the park, on the street, at the groomers, at friends and family, at people walking past the window. He will bark at anybody, the attention-seeking little git. Also embarrassing was 6 weeks of Puppy School. Although, to be fair that wasn't really his fault. I don't hold him responsible for the weekly torment of having to get up in front of a large group of people to show off all the things my dog was supposed to learn that week but did not.

6) Lastly, and worst of all - he makes me interact with other. human. beings. The horror. Turns out that humans gravitate towards puppies - I failed to realise this before buying one. Now I'm forced to make conversation with members of the general public when Sawyer and I are out walking. Yes, he's cute. Yes, I suppose your snotty-nosed kid can stroke him. Now please leave me alone because this animal's barking is doing my head in and all I want to do is go home and hope he goes to sleep very, very soon.

So yes, he's a total pain in the arse. But look at the face! He makes me laugh (almost) every day, and he's an awesome hot water bottle to boot.

I found a quote which seems apt to end on.

'Whoever said you can't buy happiness forgot little puppies'.