I should have known that when I left London and my beloved Race Days five races before the best season ever ends, the F1 gods would not smile kindly upon me. I told myself it would be alright, that I was pretty safe in Germany, F1 wise. How wrong I was.
I should have known off the bat that things were not going to go my way after I arrived at my new abode and found it without a TV. Now, I wouldn’t usually care. Sitcoms dubbed into German, game shows and 11pm soft porn (cue Pablo Francisco's "Ya wanna see?!" gag) are not that high up on my list of priorities, but Sunday afternoon race viewing most certainly is. Anyhow, finding myself without a TV, I decided to be proactive and scour the internet for F1 viewing spots. I even posted a message on forums intended for English speakers in Berlin, asking where one might be able to view the race. The recommendations that I got back were not all that helpful, suggesting bars in Spandau. That’s akin to asking where to go watch a race in London and someone giving you the name of a nice little spot they know in Surrey. Anyway, I decided not to venture to Spandau. I figured, how hard could it be? This is GERMANY after all. There are five German racers on that grid. One German team. 8 German engines. The greatest race driver of all time is German. Obviously this is a sport that must have some semblance of a following in this major city. So on Saturday morning I venture out to find a bar or coffee shop, or fuck it, even a kebab joint screening the qualifying. Now, everywhere seems to have TVs, but no ones interested in the F1. So I walk and I walk and ask around and look in places and walk some more and ask some more and eventually, dejected, tired, a little sad, I give up and think that if I race home I can probably catch Quali 2 & 3 on some dodgy streaming website. But as I turn into my street, I see something that I havne’t seen before. On the corner there is a little shop, black out windows and those cheap Chinese flashing signs boasting OPEN and 24 HOURS! and there it is.TOTES SPORTS BETTING SHOP.
I actually OMGed. As in, “O.M.G.” As in, I have no full words for this moment. So I go into the shop/cafe/bar. It was like something out of Guy Ritchie movie, but instead of East London it was East Berlin and instead of crack heads and gangsters there were loads of Chinese men and instead of being run by a funny motherfucker with a cockney accent it was run by two young Turkish dudes and instead of everyone sitting with their papers betting on horses.... actually that part was exactly the same. All the Chinese men were watching the 10 or so TVs and betting on horses.. And I’m pretty sure that whoever owns that place ransacked an office to do it, because there were blue carpet tiles underfoot and tables that I can only describe as desks. Anyway, one of the young turks speaks English and happily puts on the qualifying for me. So that’s where I watch it, just me, drinking a beer, watching one TV surrounded by Friedrichshain’s Chinese betting population. So qualifying ends and while I’m happy to have found spot I can call my own on race weekends to come, I’m a little upset because the Brawns aren’t exactly where I would like them and Hamilton is on pole and Nico, in an embaressing 18th place, is dead to me. But still, I wave goodbye to the dudes behind the counter and say, “See you tomorrow for the race.”
And the nice English speaking man says, “Yes, see you tomorrow.” and I leave.
On Sunday morning I wake pretty excited. It’s race day. I love race day. I try not to think about how in London Shelley is probably preparing an Italian feast so delicious it would make Giorgio Locatelli weep and that Kyle and Amy are on their way through to Chiswick to eat that delicious feast. At least, I tell myself, I don’t have to see Paul gloat at McLaren’s fine showing. It’s cool, I’m going to go drink beer for breakfast in a betting shop. So I go. And horror of horrors, my English speaking compadre is not there. I try in my rudimentary German to ask his friend to put the race on for me, thinking he would remember me from yesterday (I had this crazy notion I would be pretty memorable. Female. Not Chinese. Motor Sport fan. But apparently not.) Eventually I understood that he was telling me that he could not turn even one of the TVs onto the race, as there was some German football match that was far more important. We had an awkward half german, half English argument for about three or four minutes when I realised that I wasn’t going to win and not only was I not going to win, if I carried on at this losing battle I was going to miss the start of the race. So I literally sprinted back to my apartment and started searching the internet for a live stream of the race. Knowing the race was about to begin, I called Robin in a panic and insist that he commentate the start of the race to me. Which, like my own personal Murray Walker, he did. That’s love.
Anyway, I did eventually find a website that had a bad live feed and german commentary, and from there I watched the race, huddled over my laptop, alone in Germany.
I’m starting preparations now for the Singapore GP next Sunday. Karmic retribution for leaving London Race Days or not, I refuse to be shown up by the F1 gods again. Wasn't that poor showing by Williams punishment enough?
I should have known off the bat that things were not going to go my way after I arrived at my new abode and found it without a TV. Now, I wouldn’t usually care. Sitcoms dubbed into German, game shows and 11pm soft porn (cue Pablo Francisco's "Ya wanna see?!" gag) are not that high up on my list of priorities, but Sunday afternoon race viewing most certainly is. Anyhow, finding myself without a TV, I decided to be proactive and scour the internet for F1 viewing spots. I even posted a message on forums intended for English speakers in Berlin, asking where one might be able to view the race. The recommendations that I got back were not all that helpful, suggesting bars in Spandau. That’s akin to asking where to go watch a race in London and someone giving you the name of a nice little spot they know in Surrey. Anyway, I decided not to venture to Spandau. I figured, how hard could it be? This is GERMANY after all. There are five German racers on that grid. One German team. 8 German engines. The greatest race driver of all time is German. Obviously this is a sport that must have some semblance of a following in this major city. So on Saturday morning I venture out to find a bar or coffee shop, or fuck it, even a kebab joint screening the qualifying. Now, everywhere seems to have TVs, but no ones interested in the F1. So I walk and I walk and ask around and look in places and walk some more and ask some more and eventually, dejected, tired, a little sad, I give up and think that if I race home I can probably catch Quali 2 & 3 on some dodgy streaming website. But as I turn into my street, I see something that I havne’t seen before. On the corner there is a little shop, black out windows and those cheap Chinese flashing signs boasting OPEN and 24 HOURS! and there it is.TOTES SPORTS BETTING SHOP.
I actually OMGed. As in, “O.M.G.” As in, I have no full words for this moment. So I go into the shop/cafe/bar. It was like something out of Guy Ritchie movie, but instead of East London it was East Berlin and instead of crack heads and gangsters there were loads of Chinese men and instead of being run by a funny motherfucker with a cockney accent it was run by two young Turkish dudes and instead of everyone sitting with their papers betting on horses.... actually that part was exactly the same. All the Chinese men were watching the 10 or so TVs and betting on horses.. And I’m pretty sure that whoever owns that place ransacked an office to do it, because there were blue carpet tiles underfoot and tables that I can only describe as desks. Anyway, one of the young turks speaks English and happily puts on the qualifying for me. So that’s where I watch it, just me, drinking a beer, watching one TV surrounded by Friedrichshain’s Chinese betting population. So qualifying ends and while I’m happy to have found spot I can call my own on race weekends to come, I’m a little upset because the Brawns aren’t exactly where I would like them and Hamilton is on pole and Nico, in an embaressing 18th place, is dead to me. But still, I wave goodbye to the dudes behind the counter and say, “See you tomorrow for the race.”
And the nice English speaking man says, “Yes, see you tomorrow.” and I leave.
On Sunday morning I wake pretty excited. It’s race day. I love race day. I try not to think about how in London Shelley is probably preparing an Italian feast so delicious it would make Giorgio Locatelli weep and that Kyle and Amy are on their way through to Chiswick to eat that delicious feast. At least, I tell myself, I don’t have to see Paul gloat at McLaren’s fine showing. It’s cool, I’m going to go drink beer for breakfast in a betting shop. So I go. And horror of horrors, my English speaking compadre is not there. I try in my rudimentary German to ask his friend to put the race on for me, thinking he would remember me from yesterday (I had this crazy notion I would be pretty memorable. Female. Not Chinese. Motor Sport fan. But apparently not.) Eventually I understood that he was telling me that he could not turn even one of the TVs onto the race, as there was some German football match that was far more important. We had an awkward half german, half English argument for about three or four minutes when I realised that I wasn’t going to win and not only was I not going to win, if I carried on at this losing battle I was going to miss the start of the race. So I literally sprinted back to my apartment and started searching the internet for a live stream of the race. Knowing the race was about to begin, I called Robin in a panic and insist that he commentate the start of the race to me. Which, like my own personal Murray Walker, he did. That’s love.
Anyway, I did eventually find a website that had a bad live feed and german commentary, and from there I watched the race, huddled over my laptop, alone in Germany.
I’m starting preparations now for the Singapore GP next Sunday. Karmic retribution for leaving London Race Days or not, I refuse to be shown up by the F1 gods again. Wasn't that poor showing by Williams punishment enough?
We were mentioned! You love us, you really do. And yes, that Italian meal was most delicious. Love, Amy & Kyle xx
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