My First F1 Experience

It was to be my first grandprix, and the last of the 2010 F1 calendar in Abu Dhabi. My interest in the sport had lapsed somewhat throughout most of the naughties, I had instead been more interested in actually being naughty than anything else. However, my interest had certainly been rekindled since the introduction of Lewis Hamilton to the sport and of course Jenson Button’s success with a championship victory in the Brawn, all of which occurred towards the latter part of the decade. And so, with my brother living out there in the desert, it seemed the perfect opportunity to go over with the olds, catch up with everyone and take in a grandprix to boot, Gus and dad both being motorsport enthusiasts. I had hoped that it would be something that the three of us would enjoy together, like the old days, when as boys my dad would take Gus and I to Barbon Hill Climb, Oulton Park and Knock Hill. It would have meant being able to amble around at our own pace, taking in what we wanted without any social pressures. Unfortunately it was not to be the case, Gus was somewhat of a social butterfly in his brave new world that was Dubai and had a swarm of ex-pats and their pals in his wake, one of whom I knew of old, some of whom hung on by way of his marriage, but the majority new to the scene. A deal of ex-pats is a breed onto their own, I find them to be witty, well dressed, confident, mostly rich public school types, and if they aren’t the latter, they pretend to be. They are the alpha plus human, certainly in their own minds anyway, which often gives way to an air of superiority at worst, or a touch of arrogance at best. I am unfortunately programmed to feel inferior around such folk, and therefore, they superior around me. I wither away into my shell as they feed off my share of the energy that I cannot be assertive enough to claim, thus sending me spiralling further into the abyss of the wall flower, and thereafter a state of paranoid semi hibernation, whilst they are propelled into the stratosphere of the most funny, the most popular, the favourites and the leaders. It was not to be an easy going geek fest now, ex-pats can drink and this lot were no exception, they were like a well lubricated rugby team of ‘rah rah’ wild boys, it was all about having a piss up in really rather exciting surroundings, not so much about the stats, splits, drivers and car spots. Why stand at a fence when you could sit under a flat screen at the bar! The problem with me was the only way I could meet these people headlong on the plateaus of craic was to rid myself of the inhibitions and insecurities of sobriety, and thus introduce them to my alter ego, or as some call him, ‘Bad Ad.’ Probably not the best person to come out on holiday in a none drinking Muslim country, but hey, you forget about that when you’re surrounded by the glitz and glamour of F1 and a shit load of bars. Day one of three, the Friday and practice! It was to be Nicole Scherzinger singing that evening on stage at the after party; it was to be Prince on the Sunday night following the race. Everyone was to meet at Gus’s that first morning for ticket distribution, cups of tea and bacon butties, we would then all share mini bus cabs to Abu Dhabi and the race track; about an hour’s drive away. ‘Everyone?’ I was starting to get nervous. My folks and I were already at Gus’s and so did our best to muck in, although Gus seemed to have an effective conveyor belt system worked out for his butties, wrapping them in foil, then into a cool box to keep warm. There were an awful lot of butties; maybe this was to be our picnic and breakfasts for the next few days. Not so, the door bell started nice and early and continued solidly for approximately half an hour as a stream of lads arrived to my upmost horror. Friends, friends of friends, family, friends of family, about fifteen of us in total, I withered away and blended into the background, occasionally showing my head to respond on behalf of a different me, for whom a reputation preceded, he, the different me, Bad Adam would have to come out later and take the batten. There, right there, the fate of my day was sealed. Gus was on top form all the way there, he was in his domain and we but putty in his hands. The old boy must have been thinking his number two son was a flaming magician, and his number one a flaming mute. Needless to say the day took its toll on me, Sam and I had only recently got back together after a long separation, she had cancelled her flights soon after our split and so wasn’t there to witness it, which would surely have resulted in a third and final parting. All day was spent on the drink, all day trying to run away from my demons by pouring another demon down my neck. Usually this strategy worked to shrug the dopey wall flower, not so on this day, my condition too compounded, my timing out, my judgement poor, and my potential for brilliance instead became flashes of uncomfortable flats. One of the guys who I‘d known for a long time was very generous in his patience and persistence in trying to bring out a better me, as was my brother, despite having to spread himself thin, and my dad to an extent too. Unfortunately in recognising this it can sometimes feed the spin, especially if you’re not up to a decent response, and oh the indignity of family witnessing such a plummet from grace. There was also a crazy bastard who I’d met once before whilst drinking back home in Manchester with Gus one Christmas who put in, he was clearly the stand out drinker in the pack and latched on, no doubt assured that together we would maintain a sustained campaign. Indeed, it was he and I who were left swaying in the breezy night watching several blurred Nicole Scherzingers a little while after the last of the practice sessions had finished in the cooling desert air. Towards the end of those very sessions I'd had to keep one eye shut to focus on the cars, the noise kept me awake, the fuel smell intrigued, but only a handful knew what was going on and I wasn't one. I should have been mind; still what is life without regret? Having arrived at the evening gig site there had been another couple of the lads with us, I know that because the two double vodka and redbulls I bought each man at a tenner a go bled me dry of all remaining cash. The gig was short and the other lads had disappeared quickly just prior to the end, but then so too did my drinking buddy as we became separated in the crowds on the way out. I was left high and dry in the desert, no money for a taxi, no cash points off site, no phone and no idea where I was going. Not an unusual predicament for me, and not one that overly concerned me either, after all, I had my pass for the morning and I knew where I would find everybody not long after the sun came up and qualifying commenced. A taxi back to Dubai via a cash point was of course an option, but I’d spent all of my holiday money that day and the cost on my own was simply too much. The grounds around the race track were beautifully manicured, I would simply spend the night in a pristine bush - it wouldn’t be the first time! Because the race circuit is essentially in the middle of nowhere, and everybody wants an early start the next day, it doesn’t take long before the last few stragglers outside the perimeter are getting into the final few buses and taxes. The air wasn’t cold, or didn’t seem to be; certainly not with the amount of alcohol pumping around my system. Although the lights were on, there was nobody around; getting my head down here was nowhere near as risky as a spot of vagrancy in say Manchester or London. So I got myself tucked in behind a squared off two foot hedge with a five foot Palm tree in the middle for good measure, within minutes I was fast asleep. The next thing I knew I came round abruptly on my feet with two police officers vigorously handling me on each arm and one pushing me from behind like a bouncer tends to. I could see that I was being moved forcefully towards the wide open doors of a police van and the windowless caged hold within it. I didn’t know where I was or what I had done; I assumed that it must have been pretty bloody bad to warrant such handling. What I was acutely aware of was that I was in the UAE and I’d been fully canvassed with the horror stories of western folk going down for drinking or kissing, never to be seen again. I struggled like mad but it did no good, so I quickly accepted my fate and embraced what was coming, something that I have always been able to do in bad situations. After about twenty minutes or so we pulled up, the doors were opened and I was escorted out of the van with a lot more courtesy. We appeared to be at a police station in the outskirts of town, it was still on the edge of amber lit concrete and urban buildings, although it was sparse by now and the outside edge looked out over blackness. I was taken into the police station and I think processed, although I can’t be sure. There just seemed to be an awful lot of young policemen standing round talking intensely but without direction. I couldn’t understand a word anybody was saying, but the impression we all get from a situation when nobody knows what they’re doing is universal, and very much in prominence here. I was made to sit on a chair in the middle of an empty cell with the cell door wide open; I honestly thought that I was going to be interrogated. I was left there for a good couple of hours while I drifted in and out of sleep to the sound of raised voices coming from the next room. At one point, after I’d been there for what seemed like an eternity I got up and went to make some enquiries of my captives, I was shocked to see an array of different uniforms within the main room just off from the entrance, some of the men looked incredibly important, their get up almost military, one of whom winked and smiled as I was escorted back to my chair by one of the more desert dressed local policemen. After about another hour, although I can’t be sure, the voices had died down and I again made my way to the front reception. The front door of the police station was open; all the young local police were outside on the car park smoking as the sun was starting to make an appearance. I could see now that the blackness off the back of the cop shop was in fact desert - as far as the eye could see. I approached the group, still feeling high from the drink, they welcomed me into the huddle, smiling and laughing at me, I shared in their sentiment, relieved and then buzzing as an officer approached from behind with my shoes and another offered me a cigarette. I smoked the cigarette and the only interrogation I got was the usual Manchester City enquiries and general banter in pigeon English. I was polite and funny, suddenly achieving everything that had eluded me the day before, only this time I was with a bunch of police who had arrested me, man handled me, held me captive and with whom I now stood disorientated in the dawn light smoking on a car park a very long way from home. They told me I was free to go so I was off like a desert hare down the road, my trainers not properly on kept falling off in my haste to escape, I’d also clearly gone the wrong way. I could hear more laughter as I stopped to slip the trainers on properly. I hadn’t got far when the roar of a V8 pulled up alongside me, it was three smiling young police in an original Nissan Patrol in two tone white and gold, decked out with huge police badges and a siren. They were all smoking and clearly enjoying their job. They seemed to me to have a relaxed attitude towards policing; smoking, windows down, music on, it was more like they were boy racers on route to Burger King. What the hell, I didn’t know where I was and they appeared to be offering me a lift, I jumped in. We roared off and they seemed cool, asking me all about Manchester and the grandprix between distorted radio interruptions. Occasionally they’d come up behind a car and put the siren on, going all stern and serious, and then we’d just keep going. These young lads were all packing a piece a piece as well! From what I could guess and what they said we were still in Abu Dhabi, although it didn’t look like it to me. However, before long things started to get a little more built up and we were pulling into the very grand entrance of an extremely high and impressive hotel, outside the front was a very tidy looking Maserati Quattroporte in gun metal, still admiring this motor as I was ushered out of the police jeep. I wasn’t sure what they wanted me to do, I was sure I was going to be made to pay for a hotel room to sleep off the rest of the night or something. Not so, I was introduced to the expensively suited and booted Persian gentleman in the driver’s seat who basically took it from there with his super cool air and excellent English. This chap turned out to have spent the whole of the day before chauffeuring none other than the Formula 1 world champion of that season already, Sebastian Vettle, indeed he was to be assigned to Sebastian for the rest of the weekend. However, at 5am that morning he was assigned to me, I have no idea by whom, I didn’t want to ask too many questions nor assume that I didn’t have to pay for this luxury service. It transpired that I did not however; I can only assume that the cost was covered by the circuit maybe. I was blasted all the way back to Dubai at very high speed, straight to my door on pretty scant instruction from me, but not before talking the hind legs off each other and discovering exactly what that beautiful car was capable of across 5 lanes under the early morning sun. I thanked my chauffeur from the bottom of my heart, offering to get him some money which he refused to allow me to do. Instead he gave me his card which I still have to this day, he was the joint owner of a luxury car rental firm, and when in the UAE, luxury really does mean luxury. I didn’t make the second day which was qualifying; instead I slept off my adventures, but not before relaying a summary of the remarkable night to my old man as we passed in the morning. On day three, and race day, all were eager to interrogate me as the drinking once again got off to an early start in the beer tent under our stadium. Indeed a number of the ‘rah rah’ clique clearly doubted the fantastical tales they had heard from my pop the day before and put me through my paces with some patronising cross examination. I’d had enough; I whipped out the card and borrowed a phone. Rashid answered, I put him on speaker, ‘Rashid, what sort of car was that you drove me home in yesterday morning, was that a Quattroporte?’ One day I would phone Rashid with a view to booking a Ferrari for my brother’s birthday as a surprise, he gave me a quote, I said I’d get back to him if I wanted to go ahead, I never did, but never say never, I always try to repay a favour eventually.