2012 Australian GP Diary: Day Four
Day four of Box Of Neutrals’ Australian Grand Prix super-extended five day weekend was the first day during which my shoes were not filled with water come the evening. This fact alone made me pleased, never mind the on-track action mere metres away from the collective face that is this Australia’s only Formula One radio show. The face is presumably winking in a sleazy fashion, denoting its bizarre multi-being’s pleasure at seeing the pinnacle of world motorsport once again taking to Albert Park.
The day was made sad, however, by the lingering feeling that Saturday was the penultimate day in this Formula One festival that is the Australian Grand Prix. before long we would all be returning to work and university (or, in Peter McGinley’s case, presumably prison), and would once again become spectators of our sport.
But let us dwell no further on such depressing things. This incredibly convoluted introduction to what will essentially be a diary entry made up mostly of Peter McGinley jokes and Sizzler references has gone on for far too long. For those wanting to know what Box Of Neutrals was up to on Saturday, do read on.
My brain (as an extension of me) rather poorly decides to fall asleep.
My alarm rings, theoretically giving me enough to time to wake up, have some breakfast, and meet at Rob’s house by 10AM to leave for Albert Park.
I wake up.
I try to convince Rob that he actually asked me to come over by 11AM, and that I would be, in fact, over early at this rate.
Rob doesn’t buy my attempted sneakiness, and instead speeds over to my house to pick me up, for which I offer him a glass of breakfast juice in exchange. He isn’t impressed. He swears ‘Sizzler’ in frustration. I tell him he’s over-reacting, and to watch his language in my house.
Rob and I arrive at the circuit. I go about uploading the Box Of Neutrals podcast from the previous day. People inside the media centre are confused as to why I erupt in laughter every so often as I listen to the Olav Mol interview segments. I consider trying to perpetuate the nickname ‘Charles Dick’, but decide against it – mostly because I was feeling rather hungry.
With the podcast finished, I meet up with my brother and cousin for lunch, while Rob meets up with a friend of his, and eventually Peter McGinley. The aforementioned friend is another McGinley fan. I make a note to come up with a name for the Peter McGinley Fan Club. I float the title ‘Peter Files’ to some passers by, but they look at me funny and glance towards the track’s security presence. I swiftly move on, though am still not entirely convinced that Peter Files has no future as a club moniker.
I realise that my brother left my lunch at home. I become immensely disappointed in him, and swear ‘Sizzle’ quite loudly to the sky. I then apologise politely and embarrassingly to the public for polluting the area with my foul language.
Cars take to the track for FP3
Free practice three kicks off, and I wonder around the east side of the circuit. I stand by turn three for a while, watching the action, until a man almost a foot taller than my stands by the fence next to me. As I very rarely meet anyone taller than me and as such am deeply confronted by the experience, my brain immediately enters fight or flight mode, and my first instinct is to break his knees. I decide against this, continued walking along the track.
I become disappointed by the fact that the bar next door to the media centre has hired pole dancers. I then realise that the name of the venue is Pete’s Bar, and presumably operated by Peter McGinley, and it all makes sense. I make a mental note to tell him to stop sullying the name of the Grand Prix, but forget because I’m quite hungry.
Peter McGinley likes Neil Mitchell
Qualifying happens. It was quite exciting, but Peter kept trying to konfiscate Rob’s iPad from him, for some reason. I ask him if Neil Mitchell would behave in this way. He tells me to ‘fuck off’.
With the day done and dusted, Rob and I head out to a friend’s birthday shindig in the city. We spend twenty minutes convincing Peter to come along, secretly hoping we can have him relive his ‘I Like Neil Mitchell’ ways. Tragically, he only ends up drinking a single beer, and finishes the night merely tolerating Neil Mitchell.
We end up in a karaoke venue in Chinatown. We try to convince Peter to sing The Rolling Stones’ Honky Tonk Woman. He refuses, so we play the sound clip of him doing it anyway. Meanwhile, Peter is recognised as being on Box Of Neutrals by no fewer than three people. While he maintains that he was tired and didn’t want to go out, he bloody loved every second of it.
I get home and find my lunch still in the fridge. I say ‘sizzle’ under my breath, and am immediately glad no-one was around to hear it.
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