There’s a reason women sell roof tiles in hotpants

I would rather watch flies buzzing around a light bulb for two hours than Formula 1. At least the flies sometimes change direction and don’t jet off to Monaco as soon as they’ve finished. They just die, instead — an infinitely preferable denouement. The drivers used to die sometimes in Formula 1, which provided a modicum of interest on Grandstand of a Saturday afternoon, but that’s been excised from this thing which still gets called a ‘sport’ and seems to be run by nonagenarians and sleazebags.

So the news that Formula 1 is banning ‘grid girls’ rather passed me by. It had never occurred to me that the pouting chicks hanging around the tracks were paid to be there — I thought they were just the usual trollops who gather wherever handsomely remunerated young men are competing against one another, like dung beetles around a pillar of golden horseshit. Much as the young ladies who pursue, with great determination and avidity, footballers simply because they are footballers and are often later disappointed to have been treated as mere chattels and not properly valued for their very real identities as vibrant women.