You might say, well it's the same with football isn't it? But somehow it isn't. There is something very real about Wayne Rooney sobbing on the edge of the bed in his '£300' a night south Manchester hotel after his assignations with local hookers in ill matched underwear. There is something profound in that tabloid line (and I think the tabloids were utterly disgraceful here, but I was pleased to read it) that 'What am I doing?' was the content of his blubbing. But hold on, what exactly do you expect Wayne Rooney to do? Whatever he did, for me, was a very real encounter with the very real.
This, I'm slightly amused by, is not the case in motorsport, and especially Formular 1. They may play with death (otherwise what's the point?) but there seems little evidence of that endeavour in the personalities of those involved. If they were all parading around in Nazi outfits with hookers and 'exposed' in the press, I would genuinely understand, but that is not what we get (we only get that from the 'honesty' of the owners). However, that is what they SHOULD be doing (along with the yachting community) if they have any kind of sanity.
Think of the drivers- Jackie Stewart, Stirling Moss....twats, without a doubt, each time they utter anything you flinch a little. James Hunt comes out OK, since at least he played the playboy not unlike Graham Hill. I'm drawn to the thought that whilst racing driving must be the stupidest sport you might possibly indulge in, and that a quart of bourbon and a few pills might be a PRE-REQUISITE for indulging in it properly, instead we get almost the opposite!
(Maybe I'm unravelling here my liking for the sixties film Grand Prix, a film I have never quite understood my enthusiasm for).