Up until a month or two back, when Kimi won his first race for the season, I’d think to myself often, ‘well at least I’m having a better year than Kimi Raikkonen’. And much more could’ve happened, my knees could’ve seized up, bike been stolen and been set up, framed and thrown in gaol for kiddie-porn and I still would’ve been having a better year than Kimi Raikkonen.
I mean, yes, he’s was still getting paid heaps of money and probably has a fab girlfriend, but what’s the point if your car keeps blowing up. Feel like you were wasting yer time wouldn’t ye?
But can various people’s wasting of time be ordered? Is Kimi’s waste of time any more regretful than mine? Yes. Because he’s trying real hard NOT to waste it. Basically, I’m not trying either way.
Once a hairy-faced high-school librarian said to me that really, all we were all doing was wasting time until we die. And for whatever reason, that short statement had a lasting effect on how I think.
Anyway, neither of those pictures back there were me. They, along with the rest of it were what came up when googling my first/last name. It’s like x-files govt cloning experiment meets Geneology Monthly magazine, but we’re all located on the east coast of this continent, and mostly in this state, and agewise within 20years.
I know those kids in sydney would beg to differ, and maybe it’s because I don’t unnerstand the rules, but I can’t see where talent is in bending over and running head-first into another person. And so, even when I was six I doubt I’d be caught dead getting fotographed with a rugby player.
No, the only ‘sports’ I can be bother with are where an obscene amount of fossil fuel is lit, potentially millions of dollars of hardware is smashed to bits, plus the odd firey death. Motorsport.
And while formula one this year has been like watching two red-painted planks drying in the sun, next year might be funner.
My two favourite drivers will be in the same team – Kimi Raikkonen and Juan Montoya. They are such spoilt brat-man and I think it’s great. I saw this brief bit of footage this year of how some cameraman with one of those hefty TV-quality jobs on his shoulder swung around and accidentally whacked Montoya in the side of the head with the lens. Juan covered his head in hands more out of shock than pain then went to hit the cameraman, but his girlfriend stopped it. Juan’s press conferences are quite special too, he’s got this special brand of uncomfortable. He’s got a very girlish look to his features, does Juan.
And then there’s Kimi, who I’ve mentioned before. Everytime his car’s blown up, he’s crawled out there onto the grass beside the race track, body-size diminished by the helmet, wondering what the heck he’s doing with his life. Then track-safety marshals rush over, and there must be something about Kimi in distress because they can’t help but put a hand on his shoulder. The message they invariably get back is, like that Groove Armada song – Don’t touch me! – and he shoves them in the chest. Kimi loves the shove.
I want to write a road/buddy movie with Juan and Kimi in. They’ll drive through the country, resentful of eachother’s company, alternately offending and being offended by local yokels.