Formula One is rubbish, admits Ecclestone

BERNIE Ecclestone has confessed that Formula One is bollocks and he’s sick of looking at it.

The world’s longest midlife crisis has spent the last 30 years somehow managing to convince people to gawp at a 200mph rollerskate that weighs less than your dinner and costs more than your house.

The deception has made him one of the world’s richest men under four foot tall and has been described by financial experts as ‘a sporting ponzi scheme with lots of big-titted blonde women milling around for no apparent reason’.

Now Ecclestone has finally admitted that Formula One is not so much a spectacle as it is an unremitting procession of eye-clawing dreariness enjoyed by people who need to have a right good fucking word with themselves.

He said: “Even if we make it rain spacehips onto the track every five minutes and tune the engines to sound like Kylie Minogue reaching a spectacular climax it’s still going to be like staring at a stretch of the M25 but with an even higher concentration of tedious men with too much money sitting in pointlessly expensive cars.

“You can carry on watching in the hope of a really good pile-up but you may as well watch Eastenders in the hope that Arthur comes out of his allotment shed with Dirty Den’s head on a stick.”

Earlier this year Ecclestone drew up a series of ideas to make the sport more exciting, including the use of agent provocateurs to provoke a revolution in Bahrain and then attempting to stage grand prix right in the middle of it.

But the plan was abandoned when a feasibility study showed motor racing was better at quelling unrest than a job-lot of tranquilser darts. 

Ecclestone now hopes to spice up this year’s British grand prix by stopping it halfway through for a poetry reading by Sir Ian McKellen.



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Your problems solved, with Holly Harper

Dear Holly,
I’m really pissed off with my husband. He’s only gone and let his parents invite themselves for dinner again this weekend, which means I’ll have to listen to endless drivel about my father-in-law’s seeping hernia, and how the next-door-neighbour’s cat keeps shitting in their prize rose bushes, whilst my mother-in-law rubs her fingers along all the surfaces looking for dust, and scowls at my lasagne as if it came straight from a dog’s arse. My own parents are decent enough to be honest about the fact that they hate us and stay the hell away; why can’t this pair of old bastards do the same?

Dear Esme,
Dealing with other people’s parents is tricky. On the one hand, you always have to be on your best behaviour around them, and never scream that you hate them and wish they would die like you would with your own mummy and daddy. On the other hand, you need to remember that ultimately they have no control over you, and so you can use this to your advantage if you’re clever. When I went for tea at Cynthia Baxter’s house, I made sure I was super polite to her mum, and told her I thought her beef casserole was delicious even though it tasted like old socks dipped in dog poo. It didn’t take long for her to become convinced that I was a little darling, and by the end of the evening I had her eating out of my hand. Now, if I want to be allowed to do something, like watch inappropriate films, or eat sweeties before dinner, or even stay awake until 1030pm, I just go round to Cynthia’s house and tell her mum my parents let me do that sort of stuff all the time and she has no choice to believe me. So if I were you, this weekend I’d stop worrying about the negatives and convince your parents-in-law to let you have four cans of coke and watch the Blair Witch Project with the lights off.
Hope that helps!