THE SECRET DIARY OF ADRIAN NEWEY

#1

To the Australian Grand Prix. Before I left I asked the good lady to record 28 episodes of Countdown

while I was away. Well, to be honest, I didn’t actually ask her. I left a detailed post-it with a pile of

blank VHS tapes. Better not to provoke any awkward questions about why I wanted them and feel

the colour rush to my cheeks under interrogation.

Very pleasant hotel in Melbourne. It’s always nice to go to Australia because everyone is so

enthusiastic about life and motorsport and you’re given instant nicknames like you play in a football

team – it’s Aido, Rono, Marty and Norbo. In Europe they can be very blasé about their motor racing,

but in Melbourne you really do feel like the circus has hit town. I got into the swing of things by

saying "G’day mate" to Ron and

"How’s your big wheel?" which I really don’t understand but it gets a reaction

I use the opportunity of travel to make acquaintance with some interesting local soups. One I

sampled in Crompo’s Crowded Chowder House, was called the ‘Great Barrier gumbo’. It was a sea of

antennae, tentacles and eyes staring up at me, like eating the steaming World of Jacques Cousteau

in a bowl. After a few glasses of Rawson’s Retreat chardonnay and the aforesaid seafood potage, my

words began to flow. "Y’know, this is a bonza bouillabase." I said to Marty and we fell about. Most

amusing.

When I saw Rosso in the paddock the following day I couldn’t resist the opportunity for a bit of

unprovoked ribaldry. "Nice to see you’ve brought out the museum piece with you," I chortled at him,

"Was it a choice between that and the 312T…?" He gave me a withering look. I think everyone had

being lobbing jokes about second-hand Ferraris in his direction and it was all wearing a bit thin.

Normally Ross is one for a joke or two and we’ve shared some amusing banter in the past. Mike

Gascoyne has got a wicked sense of humour, Gary Anderson can tell a few rib-ticklers and even

Patrick Head has been known to tell a gag once in a blue moon or indeed whenever Hayley’s comet

comes round. There are some people in the pit lane, though who it is impossible to share a joke

with. Tom – the badger - Walkinshaw for one. Though even Tom had a sardonic smile perched on his

lips this weekend…until we got to race day.

For qualifying I noticed Ron had reverted to his black leather jacket and despite all the hints I’ve

dropped about bouncers and jazz clubs he seems intent on wearing it. Perhaps I should buy him a

leather peaked cap from the Farnborough Gay Biker’s shop so he can look like Marlon Brando from

The Wild One.

I used the rain in Melbourne to try out my new West McLaren Mercedes high performance kagoule

– available now from the active collection (page 8 in The McLaren catalogue) in ripstop nylon with

polyester lining and sealed seams. It performed the task of water resistance more than adequately

but I’d like to know what makes it a ‘high performance’ garment. Maybe we should send Ekrem Sami

through the Esso car wash in Woking to make sure it justifies the claim.

The race was nothing short of traumatic. When I saw that we’d got both David and Kimi through the

first corner melee and the Red Baron was only fourth I thought it might turn out to be our afternoon.

Shades of 1997 all over again. But clearly not so. I had been looking forward to fiddling with

McVulcan’s telemetry mid-race but it was more a case of rescuing Apollo 13 than watching the

Space Shuttle Columbia return to earth when David’s transmission developed ‘the gremlins’.

After the race we were packing away and I crossed from the garages to the motor home only to

bump into a smiling Ross Brawn barreling along with Nigel Stepney. "Adrian, we’ve emailed the

Maranello museum and we’re going to bring the 312T to the next race," he joshed. "Just to give you

boys a chance." Hmmmm. Two weeks to think of a suitable riposte that doesn’t involve hand

gestures.

#2

It hasn’t been my best March ever. Four points in Australia, nothing in Malaysia and four points in

Brazil.

And added to that a nasty ‘situation’ in Sao Paulo that could have had me splashed across the

tabloids.

I would be lying to you diary if I said that Ron and Norbert were getting on like a house on fire. It’s

more like a family going through divorce at the moment, with the Mercedes engine

underperforming, things are very strained. In times of stress Ron takes refuge in Ron-speak. I’ve

noticed he’s started calling the car, ‘the technical package’ instead of ‘the car’. In Australia we didn’t

get enough reliability form our technical package. In Brazil we didn’t get enough speed from our

technical package, not to mention the fact that our technical package didn’t qualify well and one of

Kimi's wheels came unglued from his technical package with a few laps to go.

He’s also worked out a new technique to annoy the ITV pitlane reporter Ted Kravitz. Last year he

pretended he hadn’t been asked a question and looked down the pitlane as though expecting a car

to come in. This year he’s decided to speak so slowly they give up and go off to find Eddie Jordan or

‘rubber stamp man’ as he’s been christened by myself and Patrick Head. Eddie is known as ‘rubber

stamp man’ because any idea that Bernie has, Eddie rubber stamps it. Begorrah, those new engine

regulations are just foine.

We were all hoping that the new fire engine would turn out to be highly unreliable but it was not to

be, however I was most entertained listening to some of the excuses as to why Ferrari had only

taken one car to Brazil. It was like listening to the local garage trying to fob you off with reasons your

car wasn’t repaired in time, they hadn’t got enough spares, the lads weren’t trained to work on it etc

etc . Good gracious is no-one in the press smart enough to work out that they’d been preparing the

car for a whole year, they just didn’t want Rubens to drive one in Brazil?! I think they’d sooner he

drive in the BOSS historic F1 series and not get in Michael’s way.

During the weekend in Sao Paulo Ekrem Sami came up to me with what I thought was a practical

joke. "What d’you think of these Adrian," he smirked brandishing some glossy photos of a catwalk

fashion shoot. "Utter rubbish" I replied, "It looks like a Village People reunion concert."

"That’s the new Mclaren team-wear," was his reply.

Well, drop my lentil and bacon with savoury coutons, I could hardly believe it. Don’t get me wrong

diary, I’m a big fan of the kagoule. But a sparkly silver kagoule with matching sparkly silver bacofoil

trousers…?

"A word to the wise," Ekrem muttered, "Ron helped design them, so they’re the best things you’ve

seen. Okay?"

I have my doubts. They may look ‘a la mode’ with 10-stone, chisel-cheeked fancy boys mincing up

and down a catwalk, but I can’t see an 18-stone Truckie squeezing into the tiny, shiny, black cat-suit

and loading four tons of equipment into an artic in 35 degrees of heat.

About the nasty situation in Sao Paulo. I was in my hotel bedroom at 10.30 on Friday night when

there was a rapid knocking at the door and a voice whispering urgently, "Adrian, Adrian". Being a

creature of habbit I had already slipped into my jim-jams and was leafing my way through Carol

Vorderman’s ‘Countdown Puzzle Mountain’.

Not wishing to leave this woman hammering at the door – the hotel is used by all the F1 teams - I

decided to open it. When I did there was quite a sight before me. A blonde-haired Brazilian lady in

her early 20’s in a tiny skirt, plunging top with legs that seemed to go on forever.

She pushed past me into the room, "Where is Adrian?" she demanded. "Adrian Newey."

"Madame," I said, "I am he."

"No," she insisted, rather angrily, "I want to speak to Adrian! I am having an affair with Adrian!"

I was very relieved that I had closed the door by this time.

It turned out that somebody from a rival team had got more than a little friendly with this lady

during the 2001 race. For a joke, he had told her that his name was Adrian Newey and he’d fly her to

all the European races in total luxury. Of course it was just a one night stand, and this person,

whoever it was, had no intention of making good his promise. So the following year she came back

to find him.

Anyway, that’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

#3

You know what really really surprised me? How much weight he’s put on.

I was browsing through a copy of F1 Racing from 1997 and I saw a photograph of Ross Brawn with

Michael. And do you know what, Mr.Toad looked almost slim. The Toadmeister is a tall man at the

best of times, but living in Italy must have given him an undiluted passion for pasta. In the wake of

Ferrarigate, of course, he needs to have very broad shoulders.

Diary, I don’t want you to think that having been threatened at the Spanish Grand Prix I am

unleashing my acid wit upon him as revenge, I was, to use a phrase often used in the sub-assembly

department, ‘gobsmacked’. If he continues to work at Ferrari till the end of 2004 then I fear for his

health. Perhaps I could send him a recipe book of delicious, nourishing, low-calorie soups as a kind of

olive branch.

Talking about the larger members of the Ferrari pitcrew, various of the Maranello mob have been

assigned to stand in front of me when I try and look at their car on the grid. I tried to have a look at

their rear axles at the A1-Ring only to be crowded out by a series of red bottoms. People criticize us

for the screens we put across the garages in practice but that’s only because Norbert occasionally

likes to walk round stark naked.

At least we don’t put a prissy little red fence round our cars on the grid.

Despite McVulcan’s sixth place in Austria there was an air of jollity at HQ when we re-assembled on

Monday. Nothing like a quick blast of schadenfreude to start off the week. Ron was struggling with

chronic hay fever, but was on top form for our Monday morning game of Scalextric. He produced a

second Ferrari car and we duly tried to orchestrate the Austrian finish. Ron gave a commentary in his

very poor German accent, which is so utterly poor it is in fact most highly amusing.

We crawled our cars round the final lap, accompanied by Ron shouting, "I do not agree with zis, I DO

NOT AGREE WITH ZIS! But give me ze 10 pointen!" and the laughter became too much and we both

dissolved in fits on the floor. At which point Martin Whitmarsh came in and thought we’d been the

victims of some bio-chemical terrorist attack.

Then we had a small wrestling match to try and push each other on top of Ron’s coffee table to see

who would have to collect the winner’s trophy. Maybe it was the hay fever drugs, it was certainly

most amusing.

Lots of rumours in the press right now about who we are and who we’re not going to sign.

Apparently

I’m not going to go off and work on my ‘special project’ that we began in January until at least 2004.

We’re also apparently trying to sign Eghbal Hamidy Hamster and Arrows technical director Mike

Coughlan.

The reason we want Eghbal is that he is a skilled aerodynamicist, the reason we want Mike of course

is because he sounds like the lead singer of the Wurzles. It’s all a load of baloney but it helps fill up

the press with something a bit more interesting than the lies of filthy Luca.

Filthy let it be known that Austria’s ‘race of shame’ was no different to Australia 98 when Mika and

David came to an agreement that whoever got to the first corner first would take the race. He

conveniently ignored the fine detail that it was only Mika’s inadvertent pit-stop that put David in the

lead. When McVulcan moved over to let Mika back in front it was an act of great decency and he

was pilloried for it. DC won’t ever get the acclaim of the Red Baron but he is far, far better human

being. He was criticised after the race in Australia and took it on the chin. In Austria all Michael could

do was run and hide behind Jean Todt’s skirts. Most big girls blouse-ish.

#4

I’ve never been grabbed in the private parts by another technical director. But that’s what it felt like

in Barcelona at the weekend.

McVulcan and I were minding our own business in the media centre on Friday afternoon, waiting to

appear at the FIA press conference they hold after practice. David was telling me about how he was

coming to terms with losing money to a Turkish boatyard when that big, red, beardy blur that is

Mr.Toad appeared. Sweating as usual.

Looming over me like a big unshaven double decker bus, his interrogation spectacles glistening

menacingly, he fixed me with an irate stare.

"Right, if anybody mentions flexible floors and moving bargeboards today there’ll be trouble," he

growled.

I have to say I didn’t like his tone. I was about to give him a fiery response when DC ruined my train

of thought by pointing out that I’d dropped my pencil. And before I could get off my retort the FIA’s

Herbie Blash interjected, "Come along, ladies, showtime." And ushered us before the cameras.

Most irritating. And nobody asked us about bargeboards either.

Just before the race on Sunday I took a little stroll down towards the Jaguar pit. Carol was not in

evidence. I wanted to tell her how much I’d enjoyed ‘Carol Vorderman’s Countdown Puzzle

Mountain’ but I expect she won’t be at a grand prix until Monaco now or failing that Silverstone. I

can imagine the scene now – a meeting of two great minds. Brains and beauty on the one hand…

and a fabulously successful TV personality on the other. Most stimulating.

With all the cameras on the cars these days one has to be very circumspect about one’s movements.

There are cameras looking at the drivers from the top, front and side, cameras on the wings pointing

backwards, cameras on the wings pointing forwards and in the case of Kimi’s rear wing, cameras

pointing skywards. When the cars are on the grid before the off they capture your every movement.

If you get an itch in a delicate position, you could find your scratch becomes part of the highlights

package.

And talking about rear wings, on the plane home we all wondered what was going to happen at the

post mortem on Monday and upon whom Ron would vent his wrath at the failure of ‘the package’.

Somebody suggested that the head of composites might have gone into hiding. I have to say there’s

a vein of dark humour coming to the surface at the factory. Ron’s design brief for the new

Communications Centre was ‘Think Thunderbirds’. So people are now saying that he should extend

it, ‘Think Thunderbirds, now call International Rescue!’

And finally, diary, I have to claim this one as my own invention. I expect by the time the Austrian

Grand prix comes round this joke will be doing the rounds of the paddock. I tried it out on the most

demanding of audiences, Dave Ryan. His mouth twitched a millimetre, which in my book makes it a

work of comedic genius.

Question: What sits at the bottom of the ocean, clutching its barge boards, shouting ‘They’re legal!’?

Answer: Ross Prawn.

Stand-up comedy is indeed missing a rare talent. Most rib-tickling.

#5

Well, diary, forgive me if I’m sounding a little smug but it’s been a week of triumph in every area of my life. In fact, I hardly know where to start.

The Monaco weekend didn’t commence in the best fashion when Ekrem Sami (only a pitiful No.9 in F1 Magazine’s 100 Most Powerful Men in Formula 1) knocked on my hotel door and demanded that I wear the new, lurid silver kagoule if it rained.

He said he had a lot of important people from Boss visiting over the weekend and he wanted everyone in the team looking like oven-ready turkeys – although I think the phrase he used was ‘style leaders’. That’s if you can call dressing up like an effeminate male voice choir as ‘style’.

He said it had been agreed by Ron (only a trifling No.14 in F1 Magazine’s 100 Most Powerful Men in Formula 1) and no doubt backed up by Mansour Ojjeh (only a distant No.25 in F1 Magazine’s 100 Most Powerful Men in Formula 1)

Being the position I am in the table of F1 Powerfulness I was about to administer my own judgement on said garments, when I noticed he was peering at my copy of F1 Magazine that I’d left on the dressing table. "At least they’ve got a few facts right for a change," he grinned at me. "But don’t mention it to Ron. He’s furious that you and I are in front of him.

As he closed the door he muttered, "God knows how you ended up at No.5".

I do. I ‘rarely design a bad car and when I do, I sort it out very quickly’.

Yes diary, it’s official. I am the fifth most powerful man in Formula 1 ahead of virtually everybody except the Red Baron, Bernie, the Ginger Minger and Filthy Luca. And if anybody disputes it, I have the magazine to prove otherwise

I’m not going to mention it to Ron, but I thought about sewing the No.5 very casually onto one of my team shirts to see if he notices. When you’re No.9 in the world you might not be able to get away with it, but being No.5…

Qualifying in Monaco was the usual lottery and that lisping little nobody Felipe Matha was a complete pain in the arth. When everyone piled out onto the circuit with three minutes to go I was convinced that McVulcan was going to keep his pole. How Juan-Pablo carved his way through rush hour in Monte Carlo I’ll never know.

Anyway, no matter, DC (did I mention this - a lowly No.66 in F1 Magazine’s 100 Most Powerful Men in Formula 1) got the drop from second on the grid. The race looked to be in the bag…but then on the 30th lap oil started emerging from the rear of the car. Suddenly it all looked like it was going to end in tears…

But don’t panic everyone. Call for the engineering superhero! Who was that masked man on the pitwall with an intimate knowledge of oil scavenging systems? Yes, with a few simple commands sent in carefully controlled data bursts, I re-engineered the flow of oil out of DC’s auxiliary oil tank and the day was saved.

I didn’t expect to be carried loftily on the shoulders of the greatful pitcrew, the roistering sound of "Hoorah for Adrian!" ringing in my ears. When you get to be the 5th Most Powerful person in Formula 1 then you can smile the quiet smile of satisfaction knowing that the job has been well done and let other people take the credit.

And if all the heady post-race celebrations – free drinks at the Hotel Columbus till 6.15pm - weren’t enough, the good lady and myself pulled off our own ‘sporting achievement’ on Monday evening. We were in a team representing Woking District in the Surrey heats of the Scottish Country Dancing championships. Our particular forte, ‘The Bonnie Band O’ Gold’ and a spirited version of the ‘Ardbrae Reel’ went down a storm with the judges and we’re through to the regional finals.

Most intoxicating.

#6

Apologies, trusty tome for not getting back to you sooner, but life has been busy of late. I feel a bit

like Uncle Quentin from the Famous Five series… "Don’t disturb Uncle Quentin, darlings, he’s doing

important work."

In landing Mike Coughlan from Arrows and John Sutton from Ferrari I have a new role at Woking. I’m

gang leader. Together with Neil Oatley and the boys I’ve formed Adrian’s gang. Nobody calls us

boffins to our faces any more and gets away with it. Don’t mess with the Techies, is my warning cry,

we’ve got a gang now.

On Friday afternoons we’re going to hang around the corridors at the Woking Technical Facility in

leather jackets, make rude remarks about any passing female under 25, put our feet on the table in

the staff restaurant and not return our trays. That’s what you do when you’re in a gang.

I told Marlene, my Hungarian-born PA, who is so to-the-point she makes Niki Lauda sound like Sir

John Betjeman, that I had a gang now. "All right," she said, "now I call you Gary Glitter."

Listening to Toad speak about the loss of his transmissions man was particularly amusing. While

some journalists were talking about John as the man who designed the new Ferrari gearbox, Toad

tried to make out he was a small, small part of a large large team and that John just screwed a few

bolts in at the end of the project. You could tell the four-eyed, sweaty, stubble-meister had his

buttocks well and truly clenched while he was giving those particular quotes.

I was deeply unimpressed by Carole’s appearance at the ‘Thunder In The Park’ event for Minardi.

Clearly she was only there for a ride in the two-seater. She may be the kind of woman with cognitive

processes a man could die for but I’ve come to the conclusion she’s a bit of an F1 trollop. Last year

she was helping Jaguar, this year she’s rolling her eyes at Paul Stoddart. I have to confide in you diary

I have seen the light. No more will I sneak furtive videos of The Best Of Countdown onto the VHS

when the good lady has retired for the night with a brimming cup of Ovaltine. No more will I attempt

to finish ‘Carole’s Ten Minute Teasers’. She is lost to me now. Hell hath no fury like a technical

director scorned. Or to be 100 per cent accurate, hell hath no fury like a technical director who’s

accidentally glued his Palm Pilot to the desk in a nasty adhesive incident.

I was in the Mclaren Communications Centre at the German Grand Prix when Dave Ryan came up to

me with an evil glint in his deadpan eyes. "Adrian," he said. "Can you imagine what you’d look like if

you were made up by a mortician, had 5,000 volts pumped through you and stuck on television?

"I tremble to think," I replied

"Look," he said, pointing to the Sky F1 Digital service on the screens above us, "There’s John Watson,

you don’t have to imagine…"

Tracey Island may be falling behind schedule, but work on the animatronic, TAG McLaren corporate

silver and black ducks for the new lake continues apace. We’ve cracked floating and basic steering.

Our quacking is also most realistic. Ekrem Sami – who was mysteriously absent from the building on

the 25th anniversary of Elvis’s death - seemed to think that that was enough. No, no, no. They need

to be able to rear up in the water and flap their wings in an act of naked wildfowl aggression in order

to scare off non-corporate colour ducks.

I was busy trying to get the wing mechanism perfected when Ron breezed into my office wanting to

know how work was going on the 2003 car. The duck had supposedly been confined to the back

burner. At the time I had a large dossier on my desk, marked AMD – Adrian’s McLaren Duck project.

Ron looked at the file with a certain idle curiosity.

"AMD Adrian…?" he queried with a lift of one eyebrow, "don’t they sponsor the fire engines?"

"Y-yes," I jabbered back, "John Sutton said they had some innovative central processing units that I

should take a look at."

The mention of computer components is always enough to make Ron’s eyes glaze over. He leant

round to see what was on my laptop. He expected to see the bones of the MP4/18, instead there

was a mechanised widgeon being rotated through three dimensions.

Thankfully at that precise moment my screensaver kicked in and Goofy said, "Awww Gaawwwsh!"

With one click I brought up the new chassis and I could breath more easily.

#7

To the land of Paddington Bear. Yes, noble notebook, I lie to you not. I have been to darkest Peru with the good lady to combine my love of nature photography and walking in the fresh mountain air with the sampling of intriguing world soups.

I left work on the new MP4/18 in the incapable hands of Adrian’s gang, sulky Neil, Italian John and big Mike. Marlene said she would issue vile theats to them if they didn’t get on with the job in hand. She is experienced in this field and needs absolutely no guidance. Sulky Neil confided to me that he was sure he’d seen her in a Pot Noodle (The Phwoar of all Snacks) advert on television recently.

Peru is an intriguing country and the highlight of our visit was a trip to see the ruined city, Machu Picchu. ‘A little like Leafield, but more activity’ I wrote on a postcard to Mike Coughlan – rather cruelly in retrospect. It may well have been something to do with the soup – but more of that later.

The good lady bought me one of those South American, woolen hats with flaps that hang down over the ears and insisted I pose in it for a photo. I said to her, "Good gracious, dearest, I can’t be seen in this. I’ll look a complete and utter nerd." Not wishing to hurt her feelings I said I’d save it for a chill winter’s walk, however if you will excuse the pun, I think I’ll earmark it as Ron’s Christmas present. Ron and I have this tradition of buying each other completely useless things. Last Christmas I bought him one of those money boxes in the shape of a coffin, with a hand that comes out and snatches a coin you’ve placed on top. I got the Graphics department to paint E-C-C-L-E-S-T-O-N-E down the side of the coffin. Ron bought me the latest Minichamps Minardi.

The range of Peruvian soups is thrillingly different to what I’d experienced on my trips to the Brazilian Grand Prix. Their sopa de pollo, chicken soup with a very delicate spicy noodle was both nutritious and piquant. And their sopa de pescatoro was heavenly – a mix of river shrimp, corn on the cob, yellow potatoes and milk made for a quite an intriguing concoction.

After finishing one particularly delicious batch I hit upon the idea that I should write a book including all my favourite worldwide soups. I would call it Adrian Newey’s World Of Soup and include highlights from my endless sampling of the planet’s finest fare in a bowl. I would become the Delia of F1. However just at this point in time I was taken with the most extraordinary vision.

Across the room, I saw Michael and Ralf Schumacher – except Ralf was a chubby little boy in karting overalls and Michael was an adoloescent with a gigantic mullet (and I do mean the hairstyle, not the fish). Michael was beating him with an FIA trophy yelling, ‘Don’t you dare call my girlfriend fat, you little bastard, she’s just big boned!’

Then all of a sudden Jean Todt walked past dressed as Napoleon with a toad on his shoulder. And the toad had Ross Brawn’s face and glasses.

And then suddenly I was on a grid before a grand prix and at the front there was Napoleon with his toad standing next to two bright red Ferraris with jet engines. Behind there were two old bangers – like Formula Ford cars from the 1980’s with all their panels beaten in and to my horror on the side it said, McLaren MP4/18 designed exclusively by Adrian Newey. And the Adrian Newey bit began to flash at me. Then Ron Dennis came up to me holding a clown’s nose, wig and shoes and said I’d have to wear a clown’s outfit until the McLaren went reasonably fast again. And then all around people were pointing at my car and laughing, laughing, laughing like they would never stop.

And I started to feel dizzy, my head started spinning. The room began to revolve at a faster and faster rate, building up speed until everything lost focus and the scene was a total blur.

And then I woke up with my face in a bowl of soup with the good lady muttering, "Adrian, it’s back to carrot juice for you, one small beer and you’re intoxicated!"

However I can confidently report to you that it was not the imbibing of excess alcohol that landed me in the soup, chortle chortle. The coca plant is a native shrub of Peru and responsible for the intensely powerful narcotic and stimulant cocaine. Apparently as a local variation chefs mix coca leaves in with the stock of their soups for added flavour, and consequently I experienced my first ever soup ‘trip’ (man). I was all for returning to that particular hostelry the following night, but the good lady said I was not to. And I didn’t.

Going to the canteen for a thin, watery Oxtail will seem very mundane after this. We ventured to Peru for some fascinating new experiences. Little did I know that I would have to kick a habit-forming soup before I left and would return with just a set of badly carved pan pipes, many pictures of disagreeable lamas and a wooly hat best used as a spare toilet roll cover.

#8

McLaren watchers around the world may well have missed me at grands prix of late. My cheery

visage was not evident at Monza. Tasked by Ron with creating a car that is a quantum leap beyond

the MP4/17, I have been installed in various hotels with Adrian’s Gang and senior members of the

technical team to try and brainstorm a new car.

So far we’ve managed to name it the MP4/18, give it four Michelin tyres and the same gearbox as

the F2002, courtesy of Italian John. And that’s about it. I joshed with him that when the Scuderia find

out we’ve got their gearbox he’ll wake up with a horse’s head at the bottom of his bed (not attached

to a horse, of course). He muttered that would still be better than a novelty fluffy hot water bottle

holder in the shape of Sean The Sheep from Wallace & Gromit - ‘A Close Shave’. "Snap!" I cried,

"What’s your wife like in bed?" Of course I meant ‘Was she a duvet hogger?’, but he gave me the

most curious of looks.

Most worryingly, I found a half-drunk bottle of vodka in Marlene’s (my Hungarian PA) drawers last

Tuesday. I was on a mission to locate a few sundry paper clips for my entry into the Amateur

Photographer Wildlife Photographer of The Year competition when I chanced upon it nestling

underneath a Top Secret memo from Ron and a copy of Take-a-Break. It means just one thing. She

has a man again.

Marlene has the typical Slavic disposition for alcohol. She drinks when she’s happy, she drinks even

more when she’s sad and she is apt to rollercoast between the two when there is a man on the

scene. In a good light you would describe her as striking, if not beautiful. In the wrong light you

would probably start running. Her romances are like brief supernovas, they burn bright and then

explode and cover everyone in the fall-out. Office life takes a terrible toll. Not only does her ruthless

efficiency fly out of the window, her trademark bluntness is replaced by terrible rudeness.

She unsettles Martin Whitmarsh. "You should act more like a managing director and less like a

trendy vicar…called Bob," she once yelled at him without looking up from her computer, after a

lunchtime rendezvous with her latest incendiary device hadn’t worked out. Nobody knows where

she got the "Bob" from, but it’s a credit to Martin’s good nature that she didn’t find herself sweeping

up metal filings in the machine shop.

The delayed power unit from Ilmor will set us back three races next year, Marlene in love might

delay us till the Spanish GP.

Chanced upon Gordan Murray in the McLaren canteen and showed him some of the latest magazine

photos of the new Ferrari Enzo. We both agreed it looks like it’s been built in fibreglass by a kit car

enthusiast in Port Talbot. They may have the fastest F1 car in the world, but styling-wise the Enzo is

right up there with the Daewoo Nubira and the Proton Persona for good looks. We’ve nicknamed it

the Cavalino Trabante which had me chortling so much I almost choked on my lentil and bacon

muligatawny

Though I wasn’t at Monza, some of the pictures were hilarious. Sato and Kimi’s accident was

unfortunate, but the scenario that unfolded afterwards really tickled my funny bone. Takuma

strutted off to our garage for some "crarification".

When he got to the garage he started talking away at Ron, who was backed up by some of the

weightier members of our pitcrew. Ron virtually ignored him and looked over his head. It was like a

Chihuahua barking at a pack of St.Bernards who couldn’t work out where the yap-yap-yapping noise

was coming from.

The American Grand Prix was similarly amusing, especially the idea that Michael was trying to pull

off a dead heat. Michael engineering a dead heat is almost as unlikely as Flavio Briatore engineering

a Formula 1 car, the required gap between the two cars is down to a few centimetres, which at

160mph is hard even for someone with the Red Baron’s precision.

Another strange phenomenon at the US Grand Prix, was Mika Hakkinen commentating for Finnish

television. Dave Ryan thought it might be on the lines of: "It’s the start now. It’s near the end now.

Great race."

If it’s come down to Mika doing commentary on races then perhaps Finnish TV might be looking for

some other unlikely TV hosts. Perhaps very shortly we could see Ron presenting their equivalent of

‘Blind Date’.

Most bemusing.