Being a Formula One Fan
I am a Formula One fan. There, I’ve said it. I’ve ‘come out’ and can, from here on in, trot a little lighter in my step. Every second Sunday, for seven months of the year I go to great lengths to ensure that I’m seated comfortably before the television at lunchtime, tensely waiting as twenty futuristic machines, bearing little or no resemblance to actual cars, are lined up on the grid, ready to hurtle towards the first corner, before settling uniformly into an inevitable two-hour procession around an anodyne, manicured version of the countryside.
In many people’s eyes, Formula One is a god-awful sport, run by crooks, piloted by automatons with a propensity to say “for sure” in every sentence and watched by the type of people you would usually walk a hundred miles over burning clichés to avoid running into. Indeed, some would go so far as to suggest that it’s not even a sport: Pah! It’s not about skill, strength or athleticism, they sneer. The only requirement is to be able to contractually manoeuvre yourself into the fastest car, and then drive quickly in circles without getting too dizzy or bumping into anything. These people are only half-right.
Regardless of how good a steering wheel attendant you are, to be an F1 driver, you must attain an almost superhuman level of fitness, the likes of which a Premiership footballer could only dream of. Your neck must be harder than Castor Semenya’s testicles, and your testicles harder than her neck. If the drivers appear boring and devoid of personality, it’s because they get all the excitement they need, driving at 200MPH while the rest of us are eating our Sunday lunch. Outside of the car, their life revolves around maintaining a peak level of fitness. They can’t really drink, they can’t smoke and they can’t eat nice food. They’re not even allowed break wind without having consulted their personal trainer and team of dieticians first.
However, if I were to deny that having the right car is the decisive factor, my pants would very quickly catch fire. Last year, Jenson Button was an overpaid nobody, trundling around near the back of the grid. This year, despite what appear to have been his best efforts to throw it all away, he won the World Championship, while the previous champ, Lewis Hamilton spent much of the season trundling around near the back of the grid. But that’s an acceptable part of F1. It’s a team sport. And while this year may have been an exception, the best drivers usually find their way into the best teams.
None of which justifies the fact that, over the last sixteen years, I’ve chosen to waste hundreds of Sunday afternoons watching millionaires using expensive technology, all the time hoping that something exciting will happen, but knowing from experience that it will most likely not. Granted, there have been occasional Grands Prix, where my loyalty was rewarded, but they’ve been all to rare. Most F1 fans don’t like to admit this, but the real drama almost always happens away from the tarmac, when the season is over. In that sense, it’s more like a soap opera than a sport. Will Jenson Button go to McLaren? Will Renault leave? What are Mercedes’ plans? What about Raikkonen? When will Bernie Ecclestone finally die..?
Every now and then, when something catastrophically stupid, corrupt or embarrassing occurs, I decide that I’ve had enough. This usually happens around twice a year: “I’m not putting up with this shit any more,” I say, knowing full well that, like a battered wife, I’ll return shortly afterwards, having been convinced that lessons have been learned and that everything will be different this time around. If you’re an F1 fan, you learn to be an optimist. Plus, it’s better than watching the EastEnders Omnibus… sometimes…