Running on empty

It may be fast and noisy still, but it has become drearily predictable, uncompetitive and even, you might say, totally un-hairy. Even obsessive vroom-vroomers, I fancy, are completely cheesed off with their sport. Certainly to the casual follower, Formula 1 Grand Prix motor racing has just about vanished from the radar. Yet on it drones in the background, pitching its same candy-striped executive marquees in various of the world’s seemingly romantic spots a couple of times a month. Britain, once so fascinated, is now oblivious — except for the corporate fat-cat sponsors and, I suppose, ITV, which covers the ersatz, so-called races. Schumacher or Alonso? Ferrari or Renault? Who cares? Grands Prix not so grand — the unmerry-go-round, last week Germany, tomorrow Hungary; at the end of the month it’s Turkey …racetracks, cars, drivers, spectators all pretty much indistinguishable and as each procession follows the next you will be lucky to see a single thrilling overtaking manoeuvre except one achieved, accidentally or on purpose, when a rival driver is making a pit-stop.