Miserablism and absolutely nothing for those not automotively* inclined

Miserablism, that rough tongued sonofabitch, has set up home amongst my insides. It’s my own fault really. I did a Bad Thing. Bad things often lead to similar nauseating circumstances, but I must confess I did not think that the Mother of the Blueness would have come to stay for quite so long. I thought I could be done with it, that I could shrug and duck my head and it would, if not be forgotten, at least not be spoken of. No such luck. Having said that, while the repercussions of the Bad Thing have been further reaching and more damaging than I initially thought possible, this overwhelming sense of sickness does have some glimmer of hope on the horizon. Sadly, I do not speak of some sort of time travel where I can go and undo the Bad Thing. No, this is far more selfish. (One would think, after the aforementioned Bad Thing, I would seek to be less selfish. But apparently my fallibility remains wholly intact, and I do not.) Instead, I speak of the holy grail of distractions. The one thing absolutely guaranteed to hold my attention in such a way that I do not dwell quite so obsessively on this wrong that I cannot right.

That’s right. I speak of the return of the season.

It’s F1 time again and I can assertively say that it’s with a momentous sigh of relief that the cars have been unveiled, the teams announced and the drivers decided. There are big changes this year. Huge. Drivers are all over the place. Great teams no longer exist. This is also true for shit teams. Old teams of legendary status have returned. Richard Branson has poured an incredible amount of money onto the grid in what I can only foresee to be a massive hydraulically challenged waste of time. World Champion Button (or, to quote Shelley, ‘Stitch, Button, whatever that guy’s name is’) has moved to McLaren (the world’s most morally bankrupt team) to partner with Hamilton. Remember the last time McLaren signed a World Champion to drive with Lewis? Remember how well that went? I expect a similar scene. I am on the edge of my seat about it. Toys will be thrown. Tantrums will take place. Expect two very stroppy British World Champions any day now. Ayrton Senna’s nephew makes his debut. Alonso, the severely browed Spaniard, has scooted EVERYONE’S favourite party boy Kimi out of his Ferrari seat and into WRC. Does this mean I will start watching WRC? I don’t have time for this shit. Really. I’m not ruling it out though. In matters such as these, I am easily swayed. The new Renault looks like a giant, aerodynamically inclined bumblebee. The new Lotus livery is lovely, it’s been too long since there was racing green on the track. Rubens didn’t retire. Irritating. The good news is that I doubt the Williams will be fighting at the front, so we won’t have to see him cry too much on the podium. New boys are everywhere. Kobayashi got a drive with Sauber. He is insane and I like it. I am excited to see that crazy, brilliant Jap fuck with everyone’s races. (Well, not everyone. When he gets in the way of you know who I will be fuming.) No more refuelling. Pit stops down to 3 seconds. THREE SECONDS. Renault has said in practise they can change the tyres in under that, but we’ll see what happens. Test drivers back on the grid. That preemie beast, Alguersuari, he who cannot finish a race for love nor money, is back in the Torro Rosso. Vettel’s neck is thicker than ever. His head is in danger of looking like a baseball on a tree stump.

And then there’s Merc GP.

Oh Mercedes. I want to weep with joy when I see you. Ross Brawn, the strategic genius. The return of Schumacher. And of course, be still my wildly beating heart, Nico Rosberg. I’m pleased to report that Nico has been kicking ass and taking names (that’s right, I went there) in winter testing and I do believe that the 2010/2011 season will be that of his inaugural grand prix win. I am willing to put money on it. I really am. I’m not prone to gambling, I’m just THAT confident. For those Schumacher haters out there (and you know who you are) I am not saying that this team is without fault. I mean, did you SEE the press pictures? Tragic. But let’s be honest. They are a formidable team. There was a lot of shoulder shrugging and confused looks when Button was looking to leave his world championship winning team at the end of last season and it was only when the rumours of a Merc buyout surfaced that the whisperings of an all German team were heard. The rumour mill was pretty spot on and the return of Schumacher has caused much consternation amongst those who care about these particular cars. Will he still be great? Can he do it? Is he too old? I’m not sure really. He’s a fiercely competitive driver who has not yet stopped looking for occasions to go as fast as possible. And let's face it. He is SCHUMACHER. The Mercedes engines, last year at least, were unsurpassed. Brawn in a genius. And Nico.... well, we all know how I feel about that beast. So a German team running German engines with German drivers it is then. I just hope this doesn’t go the same way the last time the Germans attempted world domination.

From now until November, I am no longer available on Sundays. Not even to talk on the phone. That is unless you’re calling to talk about the illegal overtaking on corner 9.

*I am fully aware of automotively’s meagre credentials as a bona-fide word. In this particular instance, I don’t care.

Have you ever met a man with a vagina tattooed onto his chest? Because I have.

First off, mom, dad, various aunts and uncles, you might want to skip this post. This might not make you all that happy. I am not kidding.

Okay, let me start from the beginning. James was in town in this weekend. Aside from watching the Big Pink at Lido, jacket shopping in Friedrichshain & Turkish Food, I was excited that James would be in town this last weekend for another reason: It was the last race of the season. James might not be as ridiculously obsessed as I am, but he knows his cars and is a good F1 buddy. He understands what I am talking about when I stare at the screen and mumble things like “the one stop could work out for him, but that means a long stint on the softs, which aren’t option and unless the track cool sufficiently he’s fucked. crazy brilliant tiny jap.” So on Sunday afternoon James and I go to the only place in Berlin I’ve managed to find that shows the race. It is an awful sports bar. There are Australian flags strung up. Backpackers are everywhere. No one speaks german. There is a hostel upstairs. It is the sort of place you would find in Wimbledon, the type of bar where a double shot of liquor inexplicably costs less than a single. It’s hellish. But it shows the race. So it serves my purpose. We watch the race and all is well.

The race finishes at about 4 and we have a few drinks inside of us. It’s getting dark and we decide to head out of that hell hole and go get a drink somewhere a little less depressing. We head back into Friedrishshain to a fantastic cosy little bookish bar and have a glass of wine. At about 6ish, I realise that the small bowl of chips that I ate at the sports bar is starting to wear a little thin and I am STARVING. We go have pizza (possibly the best pizza in Berlin??). We are seated at the same table as two dudes and it all goes a bit wrong. We eat their bread sticks. (We thought they were ours. They however, knew otherwise) We drank their beer. We didn’t realise we drank their beer until our beer arrived. When their pizzas arrived they made a snarky comment about how we might enjoy their pizza too. It was awkward as hell. After we eat, we go to meet James’ friend L. L works at a mammoth club in Berlin that is often said to be the best club in the world. It’s an old power station that now is hardcore techno heaven. They have a VERY STRICT no camera policy. If someone sees you with one, your ass will be on the street in a heartbeat. So, there are no pictures. Don’t ask for any. Also, this club shall remain nameless. If you know it, then you know it. If you don’t, then I’m not going to be the person to tell you. It’s better this way. I don’t want to get into trouble for disclosing the details of what might be the most literal interpretation of hedonism I've ever encountered. Anyway, L went to work at 6am on Sunday morning. She finsished her shift at 7pm on Sunday night and we went to have a drink with her at the club. This place opens on Friday night and closes at midnight on Sunday. When we went in at 8 o’clock on Sunday night, it was HEAVING. People had been there for 36 hours plus. Seriously. Time does not exist inside. There are no mirrors anywhere. There are no clocks. No windows. People are going off. Throngs of writhing bodies move as one organic mass. We walk through the club. There are mezzanines where people are making out, nodding off, talking shit, drinking and dry humping. There are dark rooms where you can nip into for a quick fuck. It’s not strictly a gay club, but I wouldn’t recommend it for anyone who is even slightly homophobic. For two reasons. Firstly, homophobia is a dickhead mentality and you shouldn’t be let out of the house. Two, you are almost guaranteed to see two guys fucking. Or at least getting head. Broken bottles are everywhere. Trails of piss and cum lead the way, Hansel and Gretel style to and from the bathroom. There are separate toilets for men and woman, but that is only a formality. People of both sexes walk into both. The bathroom is a party in itself. You wouldn’t believe that so many people could fit into such a small space. L’s boyfriend, R, having done a line of speed and an electronic music fan, dances with jazz hands. He is in general, a bit of a delight. He introduces us to a friend of his, a true Aryan boy, rail thin and beautiful, with white blond eyelashes and a lip ring, snowy blond hair that is shaved on the one side and falls over his face on the other. He is impeccably dressed, in black harem pants that sit low on his skinny hips, a just tight enough white t-shirt with a monochromatic image on the front (possibly naked 40s film star, can’t remember exactly) and the sleeves cut off, white lace up leather ankle boots. Naturally, I assume this beautiful young thing to be a rampant homosexual. He is too pretty, too well dressed, too, well, GAY, to be straight. That is the assumption I go with for a while, until L beckons me close to him, lifts his shirt with one hand and I see, on his breast bone, the most unbelievable intricate tattoo..... of a vagina. R laughs when he sees my shocked face. And then he mimics going down on it. I look again. There is something biblical about it. Literally. The clit is the Virgin Mary’s head. I will say that again. The clit. Is the Virgin Mary’s Head. My thought process went something like this:
WhyWhaHowWHoWha???WHAT????
Tattoo artists wield great power. I think that there should be some sort of psych test that a tattoo artist has to undergo before picking up an ink gun. I also think that ther should be some sort of psych test that people undergo before getting a tattoo. (Quick side note, there is a tattoo parlour in F-hain, that might qualify as the greatest tattoo parlour in the world. On the front door there is a sign. It has two red circles on it. In one circle is a Chinese symbol. In the other is a star. Both have big red lines drawn through them. Basically, if you want ‘spirit’ in Chinese tattooed on your shoulder or stars on your wrist, you can fuck off. It is BRILLIANT.) Anyway. It generally doesn’t take all that much to get somebody to mark you PERMANENTLY. Just a bit of cash. That’s all it takes. Seriously. If you have some money, then it’s not that much of a stretch to get someone to forever change the pigment of your skin so that for the rest of your days, there will be a giant, shockingly life like, gaping vagina on your chest.

So it stands to reason that the beautiful Aryan was in fact straight. After all, what gay man would EVER tattoo a vagina on their chest? A vagina with the Virgin Mary as a clit, no less. That might be gay hell. If he was gay, that would be a sure fire way to NEVER get laid. What gay men wants to be faced with a dogmatic vagina? He would have to spend the rest of his days having sex with his shirt on. So the beautiful Aryan is straight. Beautiful, blond, with the weirdest taste in tattoos ever. He also has a weird triangle thing around his belly button. I didn’t look that closely. There were other things that were taking up my attention. Clearly.
Unfortunately, I am not 100% certain what the etiquette is when faced with a such a sight. I reigned in the millions questions that were racing through my mind. Not once did I say, “WHAT THE FUCK?” I did however ask to see it again. Just once. And then I kind of nodded in an unimpressed way with sort of New Jersey Mafia lip curl and smirk, as if to say, “Yeah, cool, whatever. It aint a thang.” (Imagine the accent please.) And then we were done with it. But in my head, we were so not done with it. Every few minutes the image of it flashed in my head. And I chewed on the straw from my Whiskey and soda so that my lips did not ask the question that frankly, needed to be asked. "Why?"
Anyway, we leave the club after a few hours. It might be the best club in the world. I've heard it said. And even though I am not what you'd call a techno fan, it might be true. It's everything you want in a club.

Before we go home, James and I stop off at a Tiki bar. There is real beach sand on the floor. I love Berlin.

Nico leaves Williams

Nico has officially declared that 2009 is his last season with Williams.
Firstly, I win that bet. I knew he would leave.
Secondly, what are the odds? Is he replacing Kovaleinen at McLaren or Barrichello at Brawn next year? Who wants to play? Paul, dare I say you and I might be on the same team next year?!
I'd prefer him to go to Brawn honestly. I'm quite certain that the McLarens will be back on pace IN A BIG WAY next year, but I my reasons for wanting Nico to race for Brawn are 3 fold:
1) I don't want to be a McLaren supporter. Really. It will pain me.
2) Barrichello needs to get his ass out of a race car and into some random commentary box a la DC. I am so over that small Brazilian.
3) I'm just not sure Nico can pull off the orangetastic garb those McLaren boys wear. I love me some Brawn.

Realistically, as it stands, I can see the following happening:
Nico takes Heikki's place at McLaren
Heidfeld takes Nico's place at Williams
And new boy on the block Bruno Senna gets his first F1 drive for Brawn. He tested for them last year. They can't possibly let another F1 season go by without getting that kid in a car.
Having said all that, my hope is still for a Button/Rosberg Brawn team. Can you imagine? I am hyperventilating just thinking about it.

If you don't care about cars, look away now.

Interlagos BLEW MY MIND!

Some highlights for me included:

Reuben’s rather suspect pit stop with 8 laps to go. I love it when Ross Brawn plays favourites. (Actually, I now know that Reubens had a puncture and therefore had to get new tyres.... but I like my original evil thoughts better, so I’m sticking with them.)

Kimi’s incredible start. Kimi was on fire! Fantastically, after a fuel hose malfunction courtesy of the I believe soon to be unemployed Kovalainen, Kimi was literally ON FIRE. Imagining that moment in Kimi’s helmet is hilarious. Do you think he even noticed?

The fact that it was the Brawn mechanics who managed to detach the fuel hose from the McLaren.

That hilarious little tussle between trulli and sutil after they both konked out of the race. Jarno, the 'wraparound polarised lense sunglasses most often seen on cyclists' wearing Italian has NEVER been a favourite of mine and to see him stand up on his tippy toes and reach up as far as his little arms could go to push the calm and well behaved Sutil around was GOLD.

Jenson’s aggressive overtaking. The man was inspired.

Kobayashi’s showing on his first race. We’ve had so many driver changes this season and the Japanese replacement for Toyota’s Timo Glock is the only one who hasn’t left me feeling distinctly underwhelmed. Jaime Alguersuari might be a treat to look at, but that preemie beast sure knows how to finish a race dead last.

Heidfeld running out of fuel. Let me say that again. Heidfeld. Ran. Out. Of. Fuel.
Idiot.

The smile and shrug thing Nico did after his gearbox went and he was forced to retire. One day, he will be in charge of our children’s manners. He has class.

Brawn’s inaugural Constructers Championship.

Jenson Button, the new world champion. I knew it was going to be a good day when I saw his pops sitting in the garage, wearing that pink shirt. I am SO SO happy. Seriously. You'd think I know the dude.

So tonight, in celebration of two championship titles and a ridiculously good race, why not make like Kimi Raikkonen and get fucked up with a Flaming Ferrari?

Flaming Ferrari
Ingredients
3 oz. Dark Rum
3 oz. White Rum 2 oz. Blue Curacao
Instructions
Pour the white rum into a glass. Add the dark rum. Pour the Blue Curacao into a separate shot glass. Light the rum mixture and suck with a straw. Whilst doing this, pour in the Blue Curacao into the glass and finish. ALWAYS USE CAUTION WITH FIRE.
(Recipe from http://www.barnonedrinks.com/)

Did I say Nico was dead to me?

Because I didn't mean it. I really didn't. I was having a bad weekend, that's all. He was having a... well, he was having a a worse one. But I'm very happy to say that he is third on the grid for tomorrow's night race. But the rest of the grid... the rest of the grid IS dead to me. That's right, I'm looking at you Button. And Kimi, you too. And don't even get me started on Reubens. His quali was screwed anyway because of his gearbox penalty. And yet, he still felt the need to drive like a cowboy and fuck it up for everyone else. By everyone else I mean Nico. Wasn't I clear before? The rest of that grid IS DEAD TO ME.

Anyway. I am about to head to the airport to pick up Laura Trouble, who is visiting for a few days. Expect stories. I'm sure they will be good ones.

(Oh. And Shell, I said it last race, I'll say it this one too..... Fisichella should not be allowed to drive a red car.)

Home is where the race day buffet is...

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?