Why Schumacher Is Innocent

Much has been said about Michael Schumacher’s penalty so I decided to sit down and have a look at the rules in a little more detail. The first thing I thought I’d look at is the reason why a safety car is called. According to Rule 40.3;

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473ml of Mark Webber Sweat

Before I begin, please allow me a moment to lose my shit. Mark Webber is a bloody Aussie legend and to quote another Aussie legend, ‘no Aussie should get fired for showing up to work pissed as a skunk today’, or at least I think that’s what was said all those years ago. At least I hope that’s what was said. (Note to my employer. No I wasn’t drunk this morning, but admitting I turned up to work after a solid seven hours of sleep just isn’t as dramatic). In my mind today shall forever be known as the day that Mark Webber not only won the Monaco Grand Prix, but the day he took the lead in the Formula One World Championship. That’s right, ‘Formula One World Championship’! I marked it in my calendar for future recognition of such a once in a life time experience, an Aussie winning in the Principality. I even celebrated by drinking a 473ml can of Mark Webber’s sweat from this very race. At least I like to think it was his sweat; Red Bull sure tastes like someone must have secreted it from somewhere.

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Don’t Be Too Hard on the V8 Supercars

If Race 11 today in the V8 Supercar Championship from Winton proved one thing, it’s that the control tyre should be replaced with the sprint tyre because in the space of three races the softer compound has proved that racing can be exciting without relying on race strategy and mandatory pit stops. In fact using the sprint tyre exclusively would mean pit stops were no longer a necessity of the regulations but a necessity of racing, and the strategy that comes out of it would result in the kind of on track excitement that was witnessed today.

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Motorsport Tweet

On my way home from work today I kept up to date with the F1 first free practice session from Monte Carlo. Almost as soon as a driver crossed the finish line I had the lap time and I also had access to information on set up changes drivers were trying and various photos of teams working away in the pitlane. 15 years ago, if I just wanted to find out what happened in a free practice session I had to wait for either the race on Sunday, or if I was lucky the results may have popped up on the news; if I remembered to watch it. 10 years ago, I could jump on the internet and find the results with very little effort. But today, not only can I get a lap by lap breakdown of what’s going on as it happens, but I also have access to the kind of information that only those who worked in Formula 1 were once privy to.

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Goodbye

Dear Mum,

Nothing I write on these empty pages can fill the gaping hole that was punched in my heart by your death, and while I may have known that death was knocking, I hoped it had lost your address. But life is a one way, no through road when your driving a car that can’t reverse and eventually everyone reaches the end.

One of my earliest memories is when I was about to start school and just shortly after I had learnt about marriage. Why as a four year old I knew about marriage I’ll never know but I distinctly recall saying that I wanted to marry you one day. Try as you might you couldn’t change my mind. I was sold. The woman who had looked after her clumsy, accident and injury prone child had won over his little heart and I knew, as a four year old, that two things were certain in life. No other woman would come close to loving me as unconditionally as you, and if I cried loud enough, I would always get what I wanted. 24 years later I’m still crying, albeit for very different reasons.

Loving you always,

Jase.

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Lost

My Mum is a huge fan of Lost. Well, I should say is a huge fan of Sawyer, and she despises Kate with so much malignity that at times I’ve felt as though I should remind her that Kate is a fictitious character and not a cancerous growth. Since the show began in 2004 there isn’t an episode that Mum hasn’t seen at least twice and episodes where the story focused on Sawyer are her favourites. Such is her addiction to the show that she will read the transcript of an episode before it has even come on air in Australia and then watch it anyway when it finally does. If that wasn’t enough, she would then talk for hours and write page upon page about each episode, in an effort to decipher the meaning of the show. You can imagine her sheer joy this year when season 6, the shows last, was scheduled to run here a week after the US. Well you would think she’d be over the moon, but even that delay was too much, and still she reads the transcripts.

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Intensive Care

Like most guys I don’t tend to talk about my feelings unless I’m in the privacy of a long term relationship or I’m drunk. Thankfully, a long term relationship for me consists of more time than any person can give, and anything said when drunk can be dismissed as the booze talking. Right now I feel like my head is going to explode. I feel numb. I feel lost. I feel sad that Mum might never see the end of the sixth season of Lost. But these are not feelings, these are what I like to pretend are feelings, to fend off the concerns of those around me that care enough to ask. My real feelings are something I’m running from, shit scared that admitting to myself the terror of what might happen.

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It’s Complicated

If you’re a member of Facebook, you’ll be familiar with the term ‘It’s Complicated’, a term people use when they’re involved in an unusual relationship and until recently I never fully understood when the time was appropriate to use the ‘complicated’ status. When it comes to sport you have to follow a team, and any passionate supporter will agree that it is an unwritten law of fanaticism that you can only support one competitor in any given sport; and ordinarily, I’d agree.

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Don’t save the tyres!

A while ago a man stopped me on the street. He was wearing a t-shirt that read ‘Save the Children’ and underneath there was a photo of a malnourished boy with eyes so deep you could see the back of his head. Sure enough, I stopped and signed up, and now I’m the legal guardian of a child called Dorge Tamang. Or maybe I just sponsor him. I don’t care so long as my social conscience is clear. Anyway, he’s from Nepal, I’d share a photo with you but to my surprise Dorge doesn’t use Facebook or Twitter. Go figure. But there are a lot of these organisations who’s sole purpose is to take something from you and give it to someone else. A quick scan of the internet bears the following results. Save the Whales. Save the Brumbies. Save the Bilby. And like me you’re probably thinking, ‘crazy animals seem to get themselves in to trouble a lot’. Save the Murray. Save the Environment. ‘Damn environment needs our help to’. The list is endless, if you take endless to mean 815 million, which is how many results Google returned for the phrase ‘Save the’.

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So long Adelaide, and thanks for all the fish

It doesn’t seem all that long ago that I arrived in Adelaide. So for a place where time apparently moves so slow that they’re currently 20 years behind the rest of Australia, I’m surprised at how fast the last three days have passed me by. You could say they passed by V8 Supercar fast, but then I’d likely punch you in the face with a fish. S’how I roll.

Despite how quickly it passed, I’ve also had a great time these last three days. And speaking of great times, what’s the one thing every V8 Supercar driver and Michael Clark have in common?  They all hate a Bingle. You should hear me right now; I’m making that ba doom tssch noise that I don’t do very well. Apparently you can’t either, but I bet right now you’re trying, and subsequently looking like a fool. Don’t worry though I’m sitting at Adelaide airport trying to perfect my tsssch technique.

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