Emissions Down Under: It's fast approaching March and the opening of the Formula One season in Melbourne. Here in Australia, there's a lot of very excited people, gearing up for the spectacle. God only knows why, writes Kilian Doyle.
I know lots of people whose lives grind to an ignominious dull thud into the tyre wall for the seven months of the year when those funny little cars are under tarps. Personally, I fail to see the attraction in a sport where the outcome is in as much doubt as the Iraqi presidential elections.
But then again, I have been known to watch every single stage of the Tour de France live on TV, desperately trying to suppress the feeling that the imperious athletes I was watching had more dope in them than an Ibiza nightclub in August.
I will admit, however, to occasionally sneaking a peek at the start of races, but that's only for macabre reasons. The possibility of crashes and smashes and watching millions of euro worth of machinery going up in smoke is too tempting to resist.
But then, I should really question my motivation if other people's misery is my primary source of entertainment. At any rate, I could just watch Oireachtas Report and cringe at Fine Gael squirming in the Dáil for the same thrill.
Anyway, a quick summary of Formula One for the uninitiated: 20 blokes drive around on their own for a whole day, to see who gets to go off five feet in front of everyone else the next day. Some of them don't even get around the track once. Tens of thousands of people come to watch and go nuts.
Next day, race starts, most of the cars drive off, chap in one of the red ones goes in front, chap in red car wins. And even when the wrong red car is in front, it stops to let the other fella past. Tens of thousands of people go nuts, then go home in their hatchbacks bedecked in fake Ferrari emblems, considerably deafer and with lungs full of poisonous fumes. Err, that's it.
Look at it this way - Michael Schumacher scored double the points of his nearest rival, Ferrari team-mate Rubens Barrichello, last season. Between them, they scored more than everyone else put together. Only five other drivers (from three teams) even made it into double figures.
Even the sibling rivalry between Michael and his little brother Ralf is hardly fascinating - it's painfully obvious to me which son got the bigger plate of sauerkraut and control of the TV remote in the Schumacher household.
The only thing remotely funny about the whole thing is the fact that a good number of the drivers in minor teams who never finish are actually paying a small fortune for the privilege of being ritually humiliated in front of millions of people worldwide. Bizarre.
You'd think they'd twig their plight, and make a point of taking out at least one Ferrari every week. For the sake of fairness, naturally.
That said, the F1 bosses have changed the rules this year, ostensibly to make it a bit more exciting for the millions of former fans who've abandoned the sport for something more riveting, like curling or knitting.
So no more radio communication, no more remote-control gear changes, just geezers in cars driving around. And they even have to make them last for more than one race. Bless.
"Fans don't want to see drivers fiddling with gadgets or pressing buttons. They want to see racing, and that's what we are getting back to," said funny-bearded team boss Eddie Jordan.
My sentiments exactly. Get them all in shorts, singlets and sneakers, running around the track with a tax inspector on rollerskates chasing them. I'd pay good money to see that.