Live from the scorching racetrack, from the best seats, with the best people and, obviously, for the best readers. I present to you: 25 candid, perhaps slightly unapologetic photos. Because there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for this blog.
The British Grand Prix took place today.
We were running a bit late and arrived only an hour before the start of the race. Our contingent, consisting of five journalists and a blogger, received tickets for the best seats in the house – right by the pitlane and the start line. Getting the best seats in the house? I could definitely get used to that!
We entered the venue without any problems. By the way, if any terrorists happen to be reading this blog: if you ever feel the need to, well, start something, definitely consider doing so at a Formula 1 event. I managed to carry a huge backpack into the venue, packed with all sorts of devices. Nobody cared enough to take a peek inside. I’m not complaining or anything, but it did surprise me quite a bit. Usually, events of such magnitude have an extremely tight security policy.
Welcome to the picnic. Looking around, one could suspect that race itself is very low on the list of priorities for some of the attendees.
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Again, I’m not complaining. Really, if I had it my way, I would attend Formula 1 events every week, even if I had to go to China. But it has to be said that one doesn’t really watch this race live. One participates in it, experiences it, lives through it. It’s extremely difficult to concentrate and follow the unfolding events. Usually, it takes some time for one to find out who’s on the leading position, who was left behind and who crashed and died in a horrible accident. By the way, today’s race was quite unique, as it was interrupted after the very first lap due to crash. The forced intermission lasted an hour and we spent it walking around the nearby stores and talking about how none of us could afford to buy a Ferrari hat for a hundred pounds.
We’re spending the night in Northampton. It’s nice and quiet around here. Tomorrow, we’re going sightseeing in London. My goal is to discourage my group from going to see the Big Ben, because that’d be too much of an unbearably cliché thing to do. But if you browse Instagram tomorrow and happen to see a selfie I took with the famous clock tower, know that I have absolutely no control over these people. However, I will do my absolute best to force them to visit the wax figure museum and sit down at some sort of a respectable café.
However, our primary goal is to storm into the Luton airport and demand that they give me back my suitcase which they misplaced two days ago. They’ve lost it somewhere and nobody feels like looking for it. The suitcase contains my running shoes, my notebook and a set of tapes that could destroy the careers of this country’s primary bloggers.
I’ve been forced to borrow a few shirts as well as perfume and deodorant. Nobody wants to lend me a toothbrush, which is why I’ve been brushing my teeth with toothpaste squeezed onto a towel. One thought calms me down, though. If my suitcase doesn’t reappear tomorrow, I’ll be forced to forgo the museum and go shopping instead. Which I’m kind of tempted to do.
