Chapter 1
MINNIE
BAHRAIN
Ivolunteered. I bloodyvolunteered.
It’s my first weekend co-presenting Channel 3’s Formula 1 coverage, and I’m doing the grid walkalone. Why?
BECAUSE I VOLUNTEERED.
Our chief pundit — motorsport legend Brian O’Connell – is off sick, so our threadbare presenting team of three became an even barer team of two, and rather than letting my seasoned colleague Krunal do it, being the little swot I am, I raised my hand. Did I mention it’s my first weekend?
The grid walk is a pre-race tradition that sees VIPs, team members, Paddock Club guests and media swarm the grid in the final minutes before the race begins. It’s a rare behind-the-scenes look at the teams and drivers as they make their final preparations. Sounds amazing, right? Not for humble journalists who must point out what they see amidst the pandemonium and try to flag down anyone of note, who are all busy doing their jobs and not particularly inclined to speak to a little blonde newbie.
I gulp at the sight of the strip before me filling by the second. The top teams are completely obscured behind thick hordes of entitled celebrities, influencers and dignitaries with noknowledge of F1. I’m down at the back by both DFK Racing cars in P19 and P20. It’s not a long walk to the Pagari on pole – the cars are only eight metres apart – but I’m beginning to feel like I’m trying to get to the bar in a supremely busy club. And my segment’s only eight minutes long. The white Gulf Air arch over the start line looms smugly in the distance.
It’s the first time I’ve been on a starting grid since my dad retired thirteen years ago. It looks the same, but also different. New teams, new drivers, new cars. My dad’s old competitor Lars Henriksson is now balder than Pitbull, and the Ackland principal’s face reminds me of an ancient tree trunk. But the familiar faces, frenetic energy and all-encompassing passion haven’t gone anywhere. It feels a little like coming home, if your home smells like petrol and the fetid press of too many men.
A Volare engineer bumps into me as he scurries by, and I’m reminded about the impending grid walk. On live TV. Starting any minute. My mouth’s as parched as the desert earth around the track.
‘Thirty seconds, Milly,’ says the cameraman.
‘It’s Minnie,’ I mumble so weakly I don’t even convince myself.
There’s only one thing to do: I play Chris Brown’s ‘Champion’ in my head. I don’t know when or how he became integral to psyching myself up but I just go with it. There’s no time to choose a singer with a cleaner track record.
Come on, girl, you can do this. It’s just a matter of walking along the tarmac, stopping people I’ve known since childhood, and asking their thoughts on the race. Men love talking about themselves, and I can make conversation with a wall.
I fan my armpits, wishing for the millionth time I wasn’t wearing a blazer dress. It was hard to imagine the weather being anything other than sub-zero when I was packing in England.Besides, my producer told me evenings in Bahrain are cool.Does this seem cool to you, Greg?
The cameraman mouths‘five’and begins to count down on his fingers.
Fuuuuck.
I grip my microphone tighter.
‘Go Minnie,’ says the voice in my earpiece.
‘Welcome to the grid!’ My grin is so exaggerated my cheeks are aching already. ‘We’ve got an amazing crowd watching from the stands and a lot of excitement on the ground. Let’s see who we can flag down.’
I power-walk into the congestion, hoping the cameraman can keep up. The overlapping instructions through my earpiece are coming so fast I can’t focus on any of them.Go to Alpha Prime! There’s the Crown Prince of Bahrain behind you! Sky’s talking to Mäkinen!
‘I—um…’ Oh god. I don’t recognise anyone. ‘Excuse me—Sorry— Can I just—’ I can’t see more than two people in front of me. This is an absolute?—
‘Coming through,’ says a voice behind me and I turn to see a RaceX car being pushed by four melting mechanics.
‘Sorry, so sorry.’ I scoot out the way. A familiar voice rises above the hubbub and I practically leap. ‘Kurtis Hatten-Meyer!’ Ackland’s number one driver. I’ve never been so delighted to see my old friend. Our fathers used to race together, so I’ve known him since he was?—
Why is he shaking his head?
‘Sorry Minnie, team orders,’ Kurt says. ‘Good to see you, though.’
I angle away from the camera and give him a look that says,The fuck do you mean, ‘team orders’?
‘No press,’ he fails to elaborate with an apologetic smile.
I taught you how to swear in English, you ungrateful bastard.
