The British Super Team. Ahem. Right.

I thought the drama of F1 would end with the Abu Dhabi spectacle earlier this month. For someone who has followed the sport for well over a decade now, this is naive, shameful and plain stupid, and I apologise.

The 2009 Formula1 season may be over, and the celebratory champagne barely dry, but the motorsport news desks would rarely be busier.

New teams, old teams with new names and new colours, new drivers, old drivers in new teams, the sport is still trying make up its mind on a 2010 look.

The most delectable piece of news however, is the prospect of the 2008 World Champion and 2009 World Champion driving for the same team.

As someone who still has to swallow hard before referring to either Hamilton and Button as a World Champion, I'm looking forward to this, just to see someone get cake on their face.

And I'm not the first to think that someone is going to be Button.

"British Super Team"

The man whose title challenge nearly came undone following a spectacular mid-season slump (and that's only putting it nicely).

Driving in the same team as the man who was the leading points scorer in the second half of the season, and who in a three years has proved himself to be an infinitely more competitive racer.

The no. 1 on Jenson Button's McLaren will infuriate Lewis Hamilton no end, but there is little doubt who will be number 1 within the McLaren team. Speaking to reporters earlier this year, Hamilton is quoted to have said that Button would only be "borrowing" his title.

"I look forward to challenging him next year and taking my title back," he reportedly said.

Snigger. Good luck Jenson.

The British media has already begun extolling the virtues of the "British F1 Super Team." The excitement of having two British drivers - both World Champions as we are never allowed to forget - in a British team seems too much for even the BBC to handle. In a seemingly desperate attempt to justify that Button's switch is not simply about show-me-the-money, the Beeb says:

But Button's preference for McLaren is not solely to do with money, according to sources. He also believes it is the best option for his career.

 Jense may well get his "competitive car", but put him in the same car as his countryman and now team-mate, and a competitive car may not be enough.

Here's to a season of Snigger.

Some wisecrack about going to the dogs

So there was this proposed visit to Wimbledon stadium to watch greyhound racing. More school assignments.

I knew nothing of this alleged sport I was going to watch. Except that there would be dogs running around a track.

As an introduction, our tutor gave us the book he wrote about his short and unfortunate stint as a race dog owner. All I knew at the end of it was that I still couldn't understand betting odds.

Ignoring the ethical ambiguity of what I was indirectly supporting, I trekked to the tracks at Wimbledon.

The place didn't smell of dog, but it smelled of beer and burgers. And high spirits.

Old men in tweed, elderly couples, some spiffy suits and loosened ties, and even a bunch of German school children were at the races, clutching race sheets and counting their bills. The screens continually brought up the odds.

The really serious punters, the ones who said they'd been coming here every week for over 40 years, were those that skipped the screens and instead peered at bookies through binoculars, while making illegible notes on their race sheets.

Soon, the first set of dogs are paraded.

Nunhead Jack stops to sniff a post.

(One should expect no less from a dog. "Come on boy!")

With two minutes to go for the race, the last bets are placed.

The gates open and they're off.

In less than two minutes, fortunes were made and lost. Me, I won the princly sum of 25p.

But at the end of the night, I quit both gambling and dog-racing. Quit when I was winning.


The story I wrote for University is up on our website mindZgap.

All work all play

The sports journalist has the best job in the world after the Swiss chocolate taster.

QPR were playing Sheffield United in London and my first assignment as fancy-shmacy sports hack was to cover this. (Read my report here.) Work at a football match was definitely in itself the benefit of a lifetime of accumulated good karma. But it only got better.

I was at a Championship game having paid 22 quid less than the cheapest ticket, with the added invitation to "enjoy the Cipriani's catering." (I did. Whoever Cipriani is.) My vantage viewing point was as good as it could get in the stadium, letting me keep an eye on the TV screen showing matches I was missing while I was at Work as well.

I was offered a press sweatshirt to keep me warm and allow me to turn my full concentration to the game. The bright blue thing was arguably fashioned for a strapping ex rugby player turned sports columnist, but it was cosy nonetheless.

Us sports types don't hang around with the common folks. We with our ubiquitous press passes and memorised stats reels collect in the press rooms to write match reports of a game where the most interesting thing to happen was that I went to watch.

Of course there were challenges. Like concentrating on hastily improvised shorthand while a rather easy-on-the-eye Portugese coach was talking at the post match press meet. And understanding that it might not be highly professional to ask the players to sign my press pack, however star struck I may be.

I could get used to such pampering. Of course, I'll be working for my supper.

Like when I visit the dog-racing track next week. On Work.