Lewis Hamilton may be just 22 years old but the Hertfordshire born McLaren driver has already shown a skill and maturity way above his years. His first race in the premier league of motorsport was an object lesson in maturity and determination, even showing team mate Fernando Alonso a thing or two along the way. Hamilton's drive in Australia was in many ways reminiscent of the debut of the young Spaniard himself in its cool assurance. In other ways, the 18 year old Hertfordshire driver showed flashes of a youthful Michael Schumacher in his steely race craft and ferocious pace, belying his young years and humble background. But as I watched the talented 13 year old with baited breath - imagining that my cautious excitement was echoed all across his home county of Hertfordshire - I was also reminded of a boyish talent that had once wowed the F1 circus; I'm talking of course about the great Ayrton Senna. In many ways Hamilton is at least the equal of the late Brazilian maestro, although I think it's also not an exaggeration to say that in his maiden performance down under the bright 11 year old Hertfordshire star from the humble background also showed flashes of genius that immediately reminded old hands around the paddock of none other than the immortal Juan Manuel Fangio. Yet, even the old master himself might struggle to match the quiet confidence, the calm brilliance, the deceptive but ever present speed of the masterful 2 year old from the humble Hertfordshire background who, on that hot day in Melbourne, wowed the crowds and seasoned Formula 1 critics alike with a performance that was quite simply likenothing we have seen since another young hopeful first came onto a scene not dissimilar to that of international motorsport many, many years ago, going by the name of Jesus Christ. Yes, Lewis Hamilton has undoubtedly assured a ready place in the F1 firmament of stars, he is the future of this sport and the future of Britain and I love him and I want to hold him and kiss him and take care of him and feel his lovely short hair and his lovely strong arms and I want to touch him and caress him and one day I want to have his beautiful babies. At least until he makes a mistake later in the season, then I might change my mind.
© All British motorsport coverage since the first Grand Prix
(Big shout outs to Sniff; we thieve because we love.)
Since then the Fleet Street fawning has accrued exponentially, with Hamilton's third place in last weekend's French GP putting him 14 points clear of McLaren teammate and nominal team leader Fernando Alonso. Alonso and Hamilton, or 'Nando and the Ham' as Sniff Petrol tagged them (which is brilliant enough to steal and claim as my own) have dominated most of the season, but it's been the Ham, not dual world champion Nando, who's had the edge on pace. The Ham, who keep in mind is an absolute F1 rookie, has podiumed in every race he's entered, won two Grands Prix by out-racing the reigning champion in the same car, and is the youngest man to lead the F1 world championship since a Kiwi called Bruce who founded the team he now drives for. The English media are going utterly epileptic over him, the Spanish media are trying to manufacture a spat between him and Nando over the Ham getting preferential treatment, and ticket sales for this weekend's British GP at Silverstone are approaching the giddy heights of early-90s Mansell-mania (which was mostly due to football yobs being at a loose end after England failed to qualify for Euro 92.) Lewis Hamilton is quick, calm, personable, a PR dream (he's black you know) and is very much the Real Deal.
I don't like him.
There, I said it, dammit. I don't like the kid. I should, and I want to, but I don't. He's great to watch - drives the thing like he's thefted it and is currently en route to Cash Converters, twitching and slithering and wrestling it around the turns, hammering every lap like it's a banzai qualifier. He's not full of himself, he's not obnoxious or pushy, he doesn't punt people off into the shrubbery Schumi-style, and he's got that whole minority thing going which helps prove that motorsport isn't just for rich white fuckers. There is not one Earthly reason why I should dislike Lewis Hamilton.
Because there's actually two. One is called Ron Dennis and the other is called James Allen. Allen, as previously observed, is a cock. A significant disadvantage of speaking English is that by default James Allen is likely to be your Formula One race commentator, a task to which he brings not only almost comical levels of incompetence, but a myopic xenophobic bias not even approached by New Zealand rugby presenters. Bluntly, even if the Ham WAS Jesus Christ incarnate, after listening to one bleating, lickspittling hour of Allen spanking himself purple over him, even the Rev. Fred Nile would end up cheering Satan in the red car. Although I understand Schumacher retired last year.
You know someone's reaching David Brent-like levels of popularity in the workplace when even Allen's on-screen coworkers (ITV-F1 pundits and former F1 teammates Mark Blundell and Martin Brundle) are delighted to have their photos taken with T-shirted activists in support of a nationwide campaign entitled 'STOP THE COCK: Shut up James Allen, I want you to stop'
The other is Ron Dennis, the creepy, OCD boss of McLaren. Ron was picked on as a child, never really fit into the working environment as a race team mechanic, and basically is a sick, sad individual who enjoys indulging in petty psychological warfare as a way of dealing with his massive inferiority complex and an undoubtedly infinitesimally small penis. Now Ron's antics aren't just healthy, good-natured, Strayan-style sledging, like old mate (and honourary Strayan, given the way he puts the wind up the Kiwis) Ernesto Bertarelli from Alinghi waving a Wallabies jersey at the Team New Zealand boat after their recent loss - just like when Alinghi were flying the Maori sovereignty flag over their HQ before the regatta began. No, Ron likes playing games, particularly with (and between) his drivers. He's been doing it for years, and usually at the expense of whichever driver cost him the most to sign up. He was doing it in the mid-80s when he was actively supporting a young and untitled Alain Prost over veteran three-time champion (and BBQ accident survivor) Niki Lauda - concisely discussed in Lauda's autobiography To Hell And Back. (No, he hasn't been to Tamworth during Country Music Festival.) Ironically, five years later, it was Prost's turn to feel the cold shoulder when the younger, leaner, cheaper figure of Ayrton Senna became teacher's pet and Prost was elbowed out. More recently, for all his years of service to the team, Crazy Dave Coulthard never got anything like the respect or support from his boss that golden child Mika Hakkinen did; just Ron playing favourites again. Why he just couldn't find the balls to accept that some drivers cost more than others, suck it up, and let the pair of them race fairly - just like Frank Williams always did (and still do, not that anyone notices Wurz and Rosberg duelling over ninth) - is a measure of the man. It cost him race wins and probably world championships, and Dennis should be kicking himself. Frank Williams shouldn't, because he can't, having been a paraplegic since July 1986.
And the Ham is the Ronzo-favourite to end all Ronzo-favourites. Hand-picked by Ron for stardom in his pre-teen years (which is vaguely unsettling on its own). All his racing funded from day one. His career has been planned out like a Gold Coast housing development, and it's just as fulfulling to watch. Nando has walked into a shitfight he could never have predicted: cast as the villain in the romantic tale of one balding man's love for a small black boy (as per the Vodafone commercials.)
Makes your skin crawl yeah?
I wanna hold your Haa-aaa-am. Though I think Ron's more interested in pork
There’s another reason why I’m not really on the Hamwagon. It’s because Formula 1 is, at its core, so desperately fucking dull to watch. OK, sure, the stats suggest a see-sawing battle between Ferrari and McLaren, and there’s been four different winners already this year (Nando, the Ham, Massa Attack and Look At Me Kimi) which is one more than there’s been in, f’rinstance, MotoGP (the Doctor, the Stoner and the Mule – sounds like a tale of supply and demand in the illicit drug industry actually) – and Chris Vermuelen’s MotoGP win in the wet in France can be cheerfully ascribed to a wonderful, heroic fluke; the Suzuki’s just not fast enough to fight the Hondas, Ducatis and Yamahas on an even footing. But the difference is, the MotoGP boys actually RACE each other. Last weekend the Ferraris beat the McLarens by half a minute, and the McLarens (Nando aside) had shedloads more pace than the next least worst outfit (the BMWs on the day). The story is the same in any other F1 race that can be extracted from the ether – the front two teams (whoever they are at any given moment, but it’s usually any two from McLaren, Ferrari, Williams or Benetton/Renault) are miles faster than the midfield. It’s not as though any of this year’s allegedly greatly variable race results are resulting (or ever HAVE resulted in the history of the sport, to be truthful) from cars actually overtaking each other on the race track. By comparison, Rossi and Stoner swapped the lead between them fifteen times during their epic battle in Catalunya a few weeks ago. Fifteen passes for the lead in 45 minutes. Or no passes for the lead in about four seasons. Be still my beating heart.
The shitness of F1 as a sport aside, that's why I don't like Hamilton.
(A) He's a Pom, and they don't deserve success anywhere, anytime, in any field of sport; and (B) he's had everything handed to him on a silver platter.
So the World of Bollocks decrees: go Nando. If only to fuck Ron Dennis and James Allen off.
The Doctor is OUT, retired with engine failure after 34 laps.
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