Australian grumpy preview

Even when it comes to one of the most popular races on the calendar our resident Grumpy Old Git still finds plenty to moan about.

“Advance Australia Fair” is the exhortation of the national anthem, but after 29 years attending this race, I’d have to say these days it’s more a case of “Advance Australia Fair to Middling.” When I first came here in the late Eighties, it really was a country where men were men and sheep were nervous. As was I on my one trip to a sheep station, when the pilot of the light aircraft that took me there mentioned that on his previous flight, he’d had to leave the controls to open a hatch in the floor and manually force the landing gear down, as the mechanism had failed. Today, endless “Elf ‘n Safety” measures would have ensured he never took off in the first place.

The country still thinks it’s populated by macho individualists but actually, walk around and it’s like living in one of those soft play areas for kiddies. Even its sporting icons aren’t what they used to be: take the case of cricketer Shane Warne, who in recent years seems less interested in threading the ball through the stumps than in threading his eyebrows. Why should any of this bother me? Because this race is still one of the great highlights of the calendar, held in a fantastic city, populated by friendly, interesting people. Add in the fact this year’s exchange rate means my British pounds are worth lots of Pacific Pesos, as we can call the Aussie dollar right now and a fine time is set to be had by all this weekend.

On the downside, it’s a real turn off to have to wear a helmet when cycling or to be controlled when trying to walk across a footpath inside Albert Park, by two people holding a tape, while instructions are bellowed at me by a man with a megaphone. Oh and the race loses a further few points for its ridiculous late afternoon start, which means there’s hardly any time to savour the Melbourne night life, by the time I’ve finished clacking away at the keyboard.

My first Oz GP was the Adelaide ’87 race, when I was team manager for Larrousse-Calmels. By the time we got here for the final round, I knew I was leaving them, therefore I chose to ignore instructions not to sell my team kit. A few hours after the race, having done brisk business with fans over the pit wall, I was pretty much down to my underpants, still an acceptable form of formal dress in Australia back then. With this being the season finale, kit-selling was a great way to pay for an end of year holiday.

Being the final race of the year, the mood was always relaxed in Adelaide and fraternising between F1 folk and locals made for a great week. Even the stars would do their bit to be friendly: I particularly remember Ayrton Senna selflessly sacrificing some of his precious time to give supermodel Elle McPherson some driving tips before she took part in a Celebrity Race.

As a rule, I would fly straight from Suzuka to book into the Flinders Lodge Motel on the side of the Adelaide track, to crack on with the marathon task of translating a French F1 yearbook. Chain smoking and vodka-and-coking my way through it for hours on end, even the chambermaid took pity on me: “Mr. Eric, you gotta take a night off,” said the lovely Greek émigré who would tut while clearing the ashtrays and empties in my room.

We later moved on to a swanky hotel where Murray was judging a “Miss Grand Prix” contest

And so it came to pass that, with a week’s worth of stubble on my face and a week’s worth of who knows what on my torn t-shirt, I cycled off (helmetless) to get some fish ‘n chips. As I walked into the place, I heard the stentorian tones of Murray Walker regaling a party of Oz GP dignitaries with one of his many stories. Murray was an institution, while I looked as though I’d escaped from one, but true to form, he insisted I join the party. We later moved on to a swanky hotel where Murray was judging a “Miss Grand Prix” contest and, having been introduced to the crowd as a close personal friend of Murray’s, for the first time, I discovered the benefits of fame by association, but we shall draw a veil over the rest of the evening. Unfortunately, this was also the weekend when Mika Hakkinen nearly bought the farm and, as I was his personal press officer at the time, it was not the happiest of weekends.

If you’re a team press officer, this race is a gift, because everyone comes out early and you can get your drivers involved in a whole host of media stunts, usually involving koala bears or kangaroos. I assume it’s because most of the fauna in this part of the world can sting you, bite you, poison you or simply cut you and your surfboard in half, that Aussies are keen to promote the innocent Koala, who is happy to pose with any F1 driver, looking as benign and dopey as a “Save Albert Park” protester.

A couple of years ago with Toro Rosso, I took Daniel Ricciardo along to his pre-event media stunt which involved kicking a ball around with a famous football team. This was more like the good old politically incorrect Australia I remember from the past: the team’s press officer was a pneumatic Barbie Doll and of course all the players were built like brick outhouses and were wearing those scary wife-beater t-shirts. And then there’s still the fabulous V8s and the Philip Island Vintage Car Meeting, where commentary includes off-colour remarks about the grid girls, who have to put up with being asked “so which of these drivers would you like to marry darlin’?” Yeah, Aussie Rules mate!