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Now the confetti that hailed Jenson Button’s historic world championship victory has settled on the ground, a rather bitter fog lingers in the air, thinly concealing that trouble-making matter. Money.
After sewing up an unlikely title in Brazil, new champion Jenson and new team Brawn are reportedly squared off in a dispute over pay.
The 29-year-old had been racing on a bite-sized salary, flying economy to the circuits and even washing his own overalls.
It’s fair to note that the world champion bargaining chip is the most valuable, but the strained relationship between Button and Brawn over money is a sad reminder that F1 sporting spirit is still buried under contracts, accountants and the almighty dollar.
Cast the clock back only 10 months ago, and Jenson Button said he stood, shocked, in an airport terminal when he heard the news that his team, Honda, had pulled the plug on their F1 operation.
In 2008, the Briton was so far behind the pack that the only times he met his glory-hoovering compatriot Lewis Hamilton on track was when Lewis' silver Mercedes flashed by to add another lap to Jenson’s race time.
In interviews, Button desperately tried to shake off the ‘playboy’ image that characterised the bulk of his career. He said he would trade in the piles of cash, the Monaco apartment and the 100-foot yacht just to win his first race. Who knows what he was prepared to sacrifice for his first title. Now we know it’s not a lot.
To be fair, Jenson did take a mammoth paycut, however it seemed to be more out of desperation to remain an F1 driver. Honda’s withdrawal was so abrupt that both its contracted drivers, Button and Rubens Barrichello, were unable to find a seat elsewhere. The F1 musical chairs game had stopped, all the seats were taken – and Jenson and Rubens’ chair were taken right from underneath them.
When Ross Brawn eventually stepped in, savior-like, and rescued the team, not a sane soul expected them to lift both world championships several months later. Everybody in the downsized Brackley squad, from machinists to designers to drivers, banded together under Brawn in the sort of romantic, anything-it-takes, mentality that comes with adversity.
It was a beautiful and incredibly timely example of what Formula One tragics call ‘racing spirit’. The sponsor-less white Brawn-Mercedes cars flashing around Valencia in pre-season testing reminded us that underneath F1’s the glitzy, corporate exterior was pure, unadulterated motor-racing soul. When the miracle-baby Brawns dropped jaws by caning the field by more than a second, the
Then, season 2009 played out in dramatic fashion, with Button leading all the way home – despite the mid-year wobbles. Commentators never allowed us to forget the circumstances and gravity of the situation – that a team destined for the dustbin was beating the world on a shoestring. Brawn were no longer a team, but a family – reminiscent of Lotus, Williams and even Ferrari in the early days.
Beyond appealing to the fans – Brawn also appealed to the policymakers, who’s long-running crusade against inflated costs was desperately in need of validation. Brawn was that validation. Here was a team functioning brilliantly and winning on a budget that would account for a sub-department of say, McLaren, Ferrari or Toyota. Max Mosley’s KERS failed miserably as a cost-cutting exercise, but he was at least able to point to Brawn to say ‘this is how it should be done.’ And in a lot of ways, he was right to.
So now we see Button complaining about paying for his travel and laundry not even a week after clutching the trophy that was, until the miracle of Brawn, forever out of reach.
It’s two steps back from the major step forward Button and Brawn had taken towards a universally desired sporting ideal, where the top step of the podium is what matters most, not the top floor of a Monte Carlo apartment block.
September 21st 2009 04:39
Benz's Autowagon - the original sweet ride
Very few machines have lasted for more than a century without being rendered obsolete by something smaller, lighter, cheaper and better capable of doing the job. It is the mandate of science to rapidly revolutionise technology so every generation can start most conversations with their offspring’s offspring by spouting: “back in my day…” While often we roll eyes at grandad’s reminiscing of how he would spend his evenings reading parchment novels under the glow of kerosene lamps – we still accept that he used a car to get himself about. Some of us may actually drive that same car today.
The car – unlike the cassette tape - is an invention that has not fundamentally changed since it was first put together by Karl Benz in 1885. Today, there is still an engine that blows up crushed ancient marine creatures to push metal cylinders up and down – and through a complicated system of cogs and rods, energy finds its way to large wheels which rotate, and thanks to grippy rubber connecting to the ground, the wheels push the whole thing forward – including the person who directs the machine by way of a steering wheel. We’ve added air conditioning (a machine that itself replaced giant blocks of ice), leather seats, push-rod suspension and heated-backside massagers – but the automobile itself has not yet been replaced. It is a machine that, despite its well publicised polluting foibles – is essentially perfect. No-one has figured out a better way around. Even when the boffins crack hydrogen technology – or whatever efficient energy source they can get to power cars – the car itself will remain – the motor is just one part of thousands.
And when we are all driving oxygen-emitting cars powered by our own exhalation – with bubble-domed roofs and automatic espresso machines – we will still only have one way of communicating to the outside world – beep beep!
The Maybach - named after a founding auto father
From the very first automobiles in the late 19th Century to today, we express our feelings via a carefully placed button at the helm of our machines, the horn. Refinements of the automobile have not led to inter-vehicle intercoms, or electronic messaging systems – nope, all that’s changed is that the clamour from an angry motorist has gone from awoogas to honks to beeps. When somebody cuts sharply into your lane, and almost wipes your nose clean off your face in the process – you don’t send a > via intercar instant messaging systems – you lean on the horn and add some of your favourite four-letter words to the chorus.
We’ve grown up with the horn – and instinctively know what it entails – according to where you are. If you’re sitting in a line of slow moving traffic and you hear a beep, your first reaction is to panic and assume you’re the one in the wrong… your second reaction, once you realise it cant be you, is to join in and start honking at the culprit…whoever they are.
Hulk mad! Hulk beep incessantly!
If you are in the wrong, you hear the horn you are expecting – and then mutter something like ‘settle down you monkey, jeez!’ before philosophically quipping that life’s not worth getting worked up about trivial matters – and a relaxed attitude is best for all. Until 100 metres down the road an elderly woman attempts to pull out in front of you and you immediately try to blast what’s left of her hearing with your modified air-raid siren while condemning her to the pits of hell.
And, if you’re a pedestrian, the sound of a horn going off with either prompt you to turn and wave – or dive into the nearest hedge for cover. Depends on whether you make friends or enemies.
So for 124 years, Benz’s dream remains, the loud button is still there and our predisposition to merciless fury on the roads hasn’t left either. I guess this makes us a pretty unimaginative, angry little lot, doesn’t it?
Jurassic Park
I loved dinosaurs. I mean, I loved them. As an eight-year-old, ask me anything about the Deinonychus, and I’d rattle off a complete palaeontologic analysis of the raptor’s distinguishable foot-talon, counter-balancing tail and pack-hunting mentality. So, you can imagine that when Steven Spielberg’s groundbreaking dino-epic Jurassic Park hit cinemas; I was beside myself in excitement. After weeks of tearful pleading, my parents agreed to take me to see it – despite the M-rating. I was possibly the most excited kid ever to go to the movies that day. I donned my favourite T-Rex t-shirt, brought my favourite dinosaur toys along in the car, and bounced in my seat in joyous anticipation as the curtains parted.
But then, it just went wrong.
I soon discovered that while dinosaurs are fascinating and fun in their static, illustrated form, as I had known and loved them – they were terrifying as scale-sized, realistic, roaring film recreations. My mouth fell agape for the entire movie. As I witnessed Spielberg’s creatures tear through the cast of humans, my fascination with the prehistoric thunder lizards turned to genuine fear. Fear that at any moment, a Tyrannosaurus would crash through the screen
You have no idea how afraid I was in this photo.
and devour the audience. When the credits eventually rolled, I slowly convinced myself that it was after all, just a movie, but later that night, the evil dinosaurs returned in my dreams. I woke up, shaking, just moments after a talking velocitator with a posh accent on roller-skates had eaten my brother, as an iguanodon stomped my house into the ground. It was a harrowing experience – and a lesson I should have learned from my first brush with the ancient beasts…
Eating my hat's neck flap was my only defence
Some time before the Jurassic Park incident, my favourite theme-park, Wonderland, opened a new exhibit of life-sized animatronic dinosaurs. Wowee! I had just caught dino-fever, and was extremely vocal about my desire to go there. So off we went to see the dinosaurs. Excitement galore! Upon entering the park, the mechanical jaw of an albertosaurus chomping away as visitors entered introduced me to the scale of these things…huge. So huge, I almost wet my pants. Even with constant reassurance that they were machines and not real, I was still convinced the enormous, hulking T-Rex was waiting to take advantage of the moment my back was turned for a photo to break free from his tiny bolts and nail me. It was an uneasy and confusing time for me. While the dozens of spectacularly recreated dinosaurs filled me with awe, they were simply way too real for me. It was both amazing and terrifying – much like dinosaurs themselves.
E.T.
Again, Mr. Steven Spielberg, famed director, tormented my childhood – this time with his award-winning alien creation, E.T. Some say little E.T was cute, lovable and endearing – I say he’s freakish and scary as hell. Watching the movie for the first time at the tender age of six, I was assured that kids love it – and it’s ultimately a family movie….but after seeing E.T’s long, boney finger and hearing his shrill, croaky voice I was forever scarred. What really got me was his neck. The bulbous head and bulging eyes was already more than I could handle – but once that long, slender neck of his started extending and protruding, and being all crazy-like, I just couldn’t handle it. It simply freaked me out.
Tell me that's not the scariest thing. Ever.
Smiths Chip Monster
In a similar vein to E.T, but far, far scarier was the Smith’s Chips monster from the late 80s and early 90s. Used as a mascot to sell potato chips – this sneaky, hairy little bastard infiltrated my dreams and often caused me to wake up, screaming that my chips had been stolen. For those unfamiliar – the Smiths Chip monster was an odd little brown creature, with big, buggy eyes, a wispy tuft of hair and a concerning smirk constantly plastered on its horrid face. In the ads, ‘gobbledok’, would sneak around at night, stalking unsuspecting chip-eaters, flog their snacks, and then scurry off, chanting “chipppeeeees,” in a raspy, demonic voice. To make matters worse, this thing had super powers – it could levitate, use telekinesis and run at the speed of sound. Even the police and army couldn’t stop this thing. I was genuinely traumatised
No, I won't get in your belly
Huge Fat Guys
This may seem cruel, but when you’re young, innocent and convinced a heavy-set man is eyeing you off for dinner, you can’t help but develop a minor fear for fat guys. I knew, as a child, that some people were bigger than others. I accepted that, no big deal. But on the rare occasion that my toddler eyes met someone you’d term as morbidly obese – I flipped out. They could be the friendliest, most harmless blokes around – but if their belly looked like it could fit a child inside – I would run for cover. Survival of the fittest…sort of.
"I'm. Going. To. Kill. You"
Peacocks
Yes their colours are bright, and yes their plumage is spectacular, but peacocks scared the heck out of me. There was something that I didn’t quite see as right in a bird that in the evolutionary game, traded flight for a garish outfit and a pompous strut. I didn’t trust them. Any creature that would rather cruise the streets like a drag-queen pimp than soar majestically in the heavens is not to be trusted. So they would wander around the pedestrian paths at the zoo – flaunting their freedom in front of the other animals – and people would duly bow to them with seed and bread, feeding their feathered masters. I however, refused to do so, and as a result, the peacocks would gather around me to form an intimidating ring – gearing up to gang-bash the poor kid who was barely larger than them. Fortunately for me, the peacocks’ better judgement kicked in, and they realised too many witnesses were about, so I escaped. But every time I cross paths with a peacock, the hundred eyes adorning their plumage would glare sharply at me, piercing me with murderous intent.
"Last one to kill Chris is a stupid werewolf!"
The Dark
I guess most people would admit to feeling scared, or at least uneasy in the dark. In plain light, everything is innocent and placid, but once the benevolent, watchful sun disappears, everything turns sinister. The imagination of a child’s mind is a wonderful thing, and the proof proudly hangs on the front of many a fridge door, but that same imagination takes a disturbing, Tim Burton-esque iteration once night falls. To me, in the dark, everything was trying to kill me. Every magnified clunk, scratch or hiss from outside my bedroom window was some form of hideous evil on its way to end my short life. Nightlights accounted for a good deal of the electricity bill back then, and taking the bins out after 8pm was an assured death sentence. But, knowledge that my nightlight was bright enough to at least deter vampires and other light-sensitive monsters was enough to put me to sleep until morning returned, and I survived to be alarmed by menacing shadows another night.
The Principal’s Office
I wouldn’t say I was a goody-goody in primary school – but I wasn’t a school wagging, desk-carving bad-arse rebel either. I would occasionally muck around, talk and through bits of paper at my fellow students and consider most warnings from the teacher as bluffs. But as soon as they threatened to send me to the Principal’s Office, I sat bolt-upright and not a peep would pass my lips for the rest of the day – sometimes that week. Our principal wasn’t necessarily a scary man. He was short, balding and with that peculiar habit of talking from the side of his mouth (you know what mean?). But as principal, he wielded the ultimate weapon…the telephone to my parents – and that was not a boundary I was prepared to push. On the few occasions I had to sit and wait outside his office, I remember it felt like the waiting room to an execution hall. The feeling of inescapable peril was numbing, and it took eternity before I was finally called in. The room was always devoid of any sign of humanity. No pictures, no desk-trinkets and no motivational posters. It was a hellish place, and having the principal look me straight in the eyes as he issued his verdict was truly terrifying. Luckily, I escaped with warnings, but the trip to the Principal’s Office was something I was not prepared to risk, no matter how cool it would have made me.
The practice of advertising and marketing is considered something of a black art. Coaxing consumers to consume, and continue to consume is a morally questionable act. But, by the same token, the fact remains that as consumers, we want to know about products, services and deals that will, genuinely, give us satisfaction. The fine line between informing the public and inducing the public is what cloaks marketing in a veil of ethical taboo.
Sexist? yes. Effective? who knows?
Advertising is as, if not more, ubiquitous in the Western world today as the finger-pointing political propaganda was in the previous century. Every square inch of the earth has been examined at some point by a marketing executive as a potential space for advertising. Even Times Square in New York City is a tourist attraction for is neon-saturated gallery of ads. But, according to many, the fun and colour of ads masks the apparent intent to warp your thinking, and mould you into a money-dispensing mass consumer
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White collar careers and office life are not a glorified way of living. It’s boring, it’s monotonous and it’s draining. To make matters worse, there is always someone above you. There is always someone above you, who somehow thrives in the office dredge – and takes every opportunity to demean you, torment you, or simply annoy the bejesus out of you. They are of course – bosses…
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It has been said, by intelligent people with long names and round wire-rimmed glasses, that sport is simulated violence performed within a set of rules. It’s the only social domain in which someone can send someone else to an intensive care unit, without themselves being sent to prison. While not intending to denounce sport, or its physicality – I do find it interesting that in between the emotional extremes of joy and sorrow that sport regularly brings up, there is an ugly side of sport. When the boundaries of simulated violence are breached – and anger flows forth, sport’s ugly side rears its head in memorable fashion. It is known as the dummy-spit, the blow-up, the blue or a list of many other terms, and sport’s glittering history is bullet-holed with such occasions. Which is why we love it so much.
Perhaps it’s best to start with the king of all sporting dummy-spitters, American tennis legend, John McEnroe. In a sport where all white attire is required and the merest whimper of enthusiasm from the crowd is hushed down, McEnroe was more famous for his tempestuous tantrums than his sublime talent. At the height of his powers in the mid-eighties, McEnroe’s on-court encounters became characterised by his snaps into rage over what he considered a bad call…which was essentially every call against him. Following every line-ball he deemed dubious, ‘Mac’ would stomp down to the net and spit profanity-laden verbal assaults at umpires, linesmen, ball boys – even crowd members. He would smash several racquets a game, refuse to shake hands and then, after walking off the court, victorious, to a chorus of boos, McEnroe would clap derisively and dole out the bird to everyone who could see. Today, as a celebrity, he’s been described as approachable, affable and very media friendly, but even now, as he casually competes in amateur masters tournaments and charity matches, McEnroe still reverts to the cursing, racquet-mangling, argumentative wild-child that earned him his infamous reputation
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For too damn long pimps have been utterly parched. There’s simply been nothing fit in the energy drink market to quench the thirst of all those pimps out there. But now, after a hard day’s pimpin, all the OG’s out there can finally knock back an energy drink worthy of their discerning pimpy taste.
You’ve probably already heard, but in case you’ve been living under a rock, Pimpjuice has launched in Australia, after absolutely soaking the American market with its patented glow in the dark-ness and smooth flava. Thankfully, the black gansta-rap market which is so poorly under-represented down under will finally have a liquid medium to reach all those kids who are living rough in the vast Australian ghettoes that some call the suburbs. Now, after icing some beef-talking haters, those original gangsters from the ‘burbs can cool off with some smooth, glowing Pimpjuice – giving them the energy to then go and pimp some ho’s. For real
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As Baz Luhrmann whips the covers off his long-awaited, well-hyped film epic, Australia, thoughts turn to the intrigue behind the eccentric director's decision to play upon the always contentious issue of cultural identity.
Baz stated his intentions pretty early on in the project, stating it was to be the Australian version of Gone with the Wind – a film that is firmly woven into the American folklore fabric. He then cemented his nationalistic position by naming the film after the country itself - Australia, and then casting arguably the two most valuable Australians in Hollywood - OUR Nicole and OUR boy from Oz
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The 433 Aussie athletes are pouring into smoggy Bejing, just days before the world’s largest sporting event kicks off. It’s quite a healthy contingent, especially considering the host nation (and the world’s most populous) have 639 competitors. There are slightly fewer athletes than four years ago, but the level of talent is by no means diminished, and should potentials be filled, our Aussies may fly home from the with an impressive collection of precious metals.
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Comment by ChrisB
on Advertising vs The Brain
Formula 1
The Social Centre
In regards to children - that's where the ethical concerns are highest. Educating children about advertising and preventing adverstisers from targetting children for 'pester-power' is something I think is needed.