Velocity Audio Visual

Traditionally Turkey is a race that is held towards the end of the year. We go there just after our two week ‘break’ and enjoy the heat, the smells and the obnoxious race fans. But this year we got to experience it a lot earlier. Why? Well there are a few schools of thought on that. Firstly, it’s due to the fact that Valencia is now on the calendar… and they demanded the spot that Turkey held. Secondly, the people that organise the race asked for it to be earlier as they believed it would attract more people to the circuit as it would be cooler and much more fan-friendly (they were wrong). And finally, owing to the fact that the circuit is now owned by the one and only Bernie Eccelstone - and he takes a percentage of gate sales - he was more than happy to impose his will on the FIA and see to it that his coffers were ringing to the sound of Turkish Lira.

Turkey started for me at some ungodly hour as we were travelling there from Luton. It was Sunday, it was early and I was in desperate need of coffee. When we arrived at Luton, we checked in and proceeded up the escalator to the security barriers. Now at Luton, they seem to have the most intense security you will find at any UK airport. Good on them I say, for it stops Easyjet and many other smaller air carriers being hi-jacked by ethnic minorities… but on the other hand, the last thing you need at 6 in the morning is some guy with bad breath shouting at you that he wants to see ‘just your boarding pass and your passport open to the photo page’. Once I was through that bombardment, I was almost felled with disbelief at the queue on the other side, waiting to go through the security scanners. Seriously, it was way longer than any queue at Gatwick, Heathrow or Stansted that I had ever experienced. There were so many people, from all walks of life, heading off for holidays, business or home. It was great to people watch for a bit and have a good laugh at the many different people walking on through security.

It always astounds me though, no matter how many times people are told, the sheer disbelief that they are not allowed to take liquids onto a plane. I mean you are told as you join the queue, you are told while you are in the queue and you are told just before you leave the queue. But there is always some dolt, usually a woman (and no, I am not being sexist, just factual) who will have a full on spack-attack at the sheer insult that she can not take her bottle of Evain through the scanners that she just bought at Boots for 2 quid. The amount of arguments I have seen over the years of travelling with this job are incredible. I have seen every kind of excuse and every kind of attempt to try and get more than the 100ml through security.

And there’s another thing. Someone, somewhere in all of their wisdom decided that there should be a limit on the amount of liquid that is bought onboard an aircraft from ‘the outside world’. After much debate, discussion and I am sure many ‘round table’ meetings, it was decided that 100ml would be just the right amount. After all, surely that wouldn’t be enough for any kind of terrorist to make enough of an explosion, using quantities of 100ml? Right? Wrong, big style. Ask any scientist - or terrorist for that matter - that if you mix the right chemicals in the right quanitities - all under 100ml - you will make an explosion big enough to smash a fist sized hole in the fuselage of a plane. Do that at 30,000 feet… and you end up copying the storyline to Lost. I don’t mean to put anyone off airline travel - hell I do it every second week for the best part of 8 months of the year - but I do find the irony of the under 100ml rule kind of humorous.

Anyway, onto the plane we got and I managed to grab a few winks of sleep (yes, breaking my own ’mouth open’ rule) and before I knew it the pilot was twisting and turning his way into the Sabhiha Gocken Airport in Turkey. We used to fly into the international airport, but seeing as though this new airport - well, newish… it used to be a military base - is only a few miles from the circuit, we chose this one instead. After arriving and going through the usual rig moral in Turkey of trying to get out of paying for an entry visa, we gathered our bags and headed out into the fresh air (I use the term very loosely) and waited while the guys grabbed the hire car. It was a 9 seater Caravelle and we had the delight of Brendan driving us. Now Brendan had only recently had his two big toe nails removed in order to curb an ingrown toe nail issue. So it was an interesting experience as Brendan drove us through the streets of Turkey, toe nail less, and gained such nick-names as Twinkle Toes, Fred Astaire and Unibond - for they make a product called No More Nails. For the most part, good old Brendan took it in his stride and we all tried our best to steer clear of his toes for the week. I don’t envy him at all. I have had a similar operation done when I was in my teens and good holy mother of God, did it hurt. Having to drive us lot around - and work in an environment such as Paddock Club for the week, he did well.

I had a new room mate in Turkey in the form of Andy. Andy is a great laugh and always has me falling about the place laughing. He is a great lad and we always enjoy taking the piss out of everyone else around us. Anyways, we arrived at the hotel and checked in, found our room and I must say, it wasn't too bad at all. It had a view, overlooking the carpark and the taxi lot at the end of the street, but it was comfortable and it was our own little respite from the maddening world of F1 - and maddening world of Turkey.

There were a couple of events that truly stand out as events that I definately do not want repeated in my life time. The first involved me being taken away from something that is a neccessity. Something that I need. Money!

Across the road from the hotel was a bar and on the outside of that bar was an ATM. A couple of the other guys had used it and were able to draw out some of the local currency, so one morning, running low on local Cheerio's, I wandered across the road and inserted my card. I waited for a bit while the Turkish computer inside the ATM thought about what it wanted to do and then finally it asked me for my PIN number, which I duly inserted. I pressed continue and waited for the next screen. But it never came. Instead, it said 'Cancel Transaction - Please Take Card' and began making noises that my card was being returned. At this point I was quite annoyed, as I knew I had cash in my account, but obviously I was at the wrong ATM or something... but that feeling was about to get a whole lot worse. As the machine clunked and groaned, I began to get a little worried as it seemed to be taking an awful long time to return my card. And then abruptly, the sound ceased. It was all quiet and when I looked down at the screen, it was back to the welcome screen asking all and sundry to insert card. Insert card! It had just chowed down on my very own ATM card, and now it was hungry for more! Noooooo! I swear in that moment my heart stopped. I looked at the screen, then to the slot for the card, then back to the screen and to the slot again. I pressed the cancel button, once, twice... a dozen times. But nothing. Suddenly, my despair turned to rage and before I knew it, a fist had been formed on the end of my arm and it was lurching forward, straight into the ATM. With a bang and a crunch of breaking plastic, my fist slammed into the outer of the ATM, permanently leaving the mark of The Ox on the ATM. I was furious, I was gutted... and I was broke.

John came over and saw me wallowing in front of the ATM and wondered what the hell was going on. I informed him of the result of the bastard machine in front of me and together we found the 'help line' number to call. So that I duly did and after being put through to the English speaking section, and being transferred around to three other operators until they found someone who could actually speak some form of English, I was informed that my card was gone and that I should contact my bank for another one. Excuse me, I should do what? I told the guy that I wanted my card back, to which he informed me again that it was gone forever and began talking to me in Turkish - one of those moments where you could just tell that the guy had indeed had enough of me. So I hung up and waited until I got into the circuit... for I had a plan.

As fate would have it, one of the security guys we work with is Turkish. I went and saw him and explained the situaition and he got on the phone for me and attempted to sort out the mess. At the end of the first series of phone calls, the situation looked grim. It was not looking good and there was a chance that I would be out of cash for some period of time. You see, the bank to which I had lost my card had a policy. And that policy was that any card that became swallowed by their ATM's would be destroyed. Cut up. Gone. Now that would sadly put me up the proverbail creek without a paddle, so I begged him to call again and explain the situation, perhaps telling the manager of the local branch that I was in town for the Formula One and that I was kind of important. I know I am not, but hey, Johhny Turk didn't need to know that. So another call was placed, the extension of the truth was laid forth and then, there was hope. Hope that indeed I could be re-united with my card - and my money. All I had to do was wait until 5pm and make another call... It was now 11.30... and the clockwas moving very slowly.

Finally, 5pm rolled around and my friend made another call. He spoke in Turkish the whole time and when the call was complete, he looked at me with sad eyes and said that the card was already destroyed and that there was no hope. And just as my heart began to sink and I started to look for another ATM to whallop, he smiled, said he was kidding and that I could pick my card up from the manager of the local branch this afternoon. I swear to god, I almost kissed him. I lept up like I had a new lease on life, knowing that I would soon be reunited with my old friend, Mr ATM Card. I sprinted down the walkway and gathered John and we drove back into town and to the bank, where I bashed on the door and asked for the guy in quesiton. He handed over my card after checking my ID and there was a moment where I contemplated kissing it. But there again, it had just been wallowing about in a Turkish ATM And handled by who knows what. So, deciding that dysentry wasn't on the menu, I decided against it. I instead asked if I could use the ATM located out the front of the bank and would the same thing happen. 'No', I was informed. The same thing would not happen. So I gingerly inserted my card and I have to admit, I expected the worst. But then, there was life, there was cash and there was a returned card! I couldn't believe it! Cash AND a card! Woo hoo! I skipped down the street like Dorothy in the Wizard Of Oz and ventured back to the hotel, happy as someone who was high on life, won the lottery and found the secret to eternal life all in one day.

So there is a lesson to be learned. If you are travelling to Turkey, take my advice. Either get all of your cash organised BEFORE you leave... or if you must use an ATM whilst you are there, use one that is attached to a bank and use it during business hours. It will save you alot of grief, heart ache and a massive mobile phone bill.

The second event that occured was the Kingfisher Party.

It was an event that was hosted by the guy who owns the Force India F1 Team, and we got exclusive invites. It was the place to be seen, so we donned the glad rags and headed out into the night, grabbing a cab and heading off into the city and towards the Bospherous. For the most part, the journey went quickly... speeding through the streets and along the motorways of Turkey. But then, as usual, we got stuck in the traffic. So what are four guys who are stuck in traffic going to do to hep pass the time? Farting or burping competitions? Talking about boobs? Cars? Politics? Oh no, all four of us... played eye spy. Can you imagine it? There we are, all glammed up and sititng in a Turkish cab, stuck on a motorway playing eye spy. It was a hoot and whilst we were able to acertain that some of us couldn't spell, it was a fun way to pass the time.

After out driver finally delivered us to our destination after getting lost about three times, we wandered through the foyer of a rather swanky hotel and followed the signs to the Kingfisher party. And if you were expecting this party to be in a club or something like that... oh no, it was much cooler. For this party was on the Indian Empress. A bloody magnificent boat that was moored on the Bospherous and party goers were needing to take a tender out to it! No kidding! We joined the queue and after being signed in and removing our shoes, we chugged across the harbour and onto what would have to be the most expensive piece of boating that I have ever set foot on. Wow, it was very cool. After being given a pair or red socks for our cool feet, we ventured upstairs to the party zone and before i knew it, a bottle of Kingfisher beer was in my hand. I was chugging it down and enjoying it immensly, when Jethro appeared with Vodka Redbulls - and the night steadily went down hill from there. The booze flowed and before I knew it, I was very, very drunk.

During the night there were two fireworks displays that made the celebrations of Australia Day back home look like cracker night. It was great to see and it was enjoyed by all and sundry on the boat - and the surrounding foreshore. There was much discussion with friends old and new, a little dancing and a great many laughs. At the end of the night and a visit to the loo, I had lost John and Tim and managed to secure Jethro and together we made our way off the boat. I dont remember the trip from the boat to the shore, but I do remember getting my shoes and wearing the little red bag that they came in as a hat for a few minutes. We then hailed a cab and started the trip home... that I do remember.

I also remember feeling very sick on that trip home... very sick. So much so that John was ordered to move so that I could get some fresh air. The window came down, I stuck my head out the window and before I knew it, I was spraying the streets of Istanbul with the contents of my stomach. Good God, it was like someone had a tube up my arse and was pumping this stuff into me, only to have it escaping out the valve at the other end. I felt like I vomited the whole way home, but John tells me I was asleep in betwen bouts of throwing my guts up. Nice. Shortly before 3am, I fell into the room, waking Andy in the process and telling him that I had had a craking night. I then fell face first onto the bed - and there I stayed according to Andy, snoring my tits off INTO the pillow. He swears it was the funniest thing he had ever seen - he had never seen anyone snore so loud lying on their stomach with their face buried in a pillow. Thankfully, there was no video footage... or so he tells me.

There was no other really exciting things that happened whilst we were in Turkey. There was the usual hi-jinx and games and meals and drinks, but there was nothing worth mentioning all that much really - not unless you count young Tim's attempt to climb into a rycycling bin. He was dared to do it, so he did, climbing into the bin and managing to get his whole body in there. How he didn't en up with a life ending disease and being a storyline on an episode of House, I will never know. What he did end up with though, was a new nickname. Johnny Knoxville.

The build, the show, the derig... it all went well. Everything was up and built in time and we were able to get everything down and packed away in good time too. We all slinked back to the hotel in the early hours of Monday morning and rested up, ready for the flight home that afternoon. We were all up and packed in good time, heading to the airport and our flight home. Back to a place where you can drink the water from the tap. You can eat food that wont give you the squirts. And a place where those that we love would greet us with open arms. We got to the airport and checked in, gathering our tickets and waiting in the little area for our flight to be called. Then, it happened. We were delayed. Delayed by an hour and a half. We had been building ourselves up tp this moment all week, and now it was taken away from us... delayed for another hour and a half. So we ate choclate, played PSP, read books, magazines and slept. We watched the clock and I swear that hour and a half took three days to pas. But eventually we were called...

We boarded the flight and knew that it was a four hour dash, but were comfortable in the fact that atleast we could buy food and perhaps sleep a little. Oh dear... wrong again.

Let me start by reinterating that the flight was already delayed by an hour and a half, so by the time be boarded the flight, we were already slightly ticked. So when the trolley dolly informed me that there was no food available to purchase - just Twix Bars, Jelly Beans and Coke - I was now more than just slightly annoyed. Anyway, I shouldn't take it out on the trolley dolly's, afterall, it isn't their fault. But the fact that the head TD then hopped on the overhead announcement thing and woke me up twice, apologising for the fact that there was no food on board, then I took a personal dislike to her. So after a four hour flight that was delayed by an hour and a half, then not being able to buy food on the Easyjet flight, we suffered the further injustice of being early when we landed at Luton... so they weren't ready for us. Yes that's right... we were late - then early - so they weren't ready for us! There was no gate available for us to 'berth' at, so we taxiied for what seemed like an hour and I was certain that what they had decided to do was taxi to Heathrow and berth there. But no. What we did was park up at the furtherest point away from the terminal building and then have to take a bus to the terminal. But lo and behold... it didn't end there. For just before we disembarked, we were informed that the aircraft was overweight and as a result, some of the hold frieght had to be offloaded... and that meant baggage. Our baggage.

So as we all waited for the inevitable non baggage, we all took bets as to who's bag would be still sitting on the tarmac in Turkey. I was sure it was going to be mine. I was dead sure... until it appeared. I swear I almost jumped for joy when I saw my blue bag and whilst I felt for the other lads, it was nice to have my bag back - after all I lost my bag with this same carrier last year when coming from Turkey. When the carousel stopped, three of us had our bags, but most did not. John was amongst them and was not a happy bunny. We all carried ourselves off to the Easyjet lost baggage person and filled out the paperwork. Then we exited the terminal much, much later than we expected and headed off into the carpark - and home.

So, that was Turkey. Next we would be swapping grime for glam.... and heading to Monaco!

Spain for me kind of came and went in a blur. I arrived back in London early on the Sunday morning after what was an unexpected return to Australia. I was able to fly into the UK, unpack my bag, repack it and then get into the car for the trip back out to the airport and the flight to Spain. Oh yes, by the time we had arrived there, I was well and truly knackered.

The flight was unremarkable as far as flights go with Easyjet. You know the drill. You get hearded in some kind of gate system down in the departure area and wait for the boarding call. You then try and pre-empt the call and make yourself as ready as possible for the charge through the door and up the steps to the plane. But no matter what happens, whether you get Speedy Boarding (which is a waste of money in my humble opinion) or landed with A or B, it’s always the same. There is always some wanker who manages to make themselves twice as wide as they are and are all elbows and bad manners as they barge their way to the gate. Usually these people are from the country to which you are flying to - so I guess you can excuse them somewhat as perhaps they are desperate to get home. Or, they can be mothers with children… again, excusable. Or they can be obnoxious tits who just think that they have every right to be first. It’s those people whom I can’t abide… and the one’s whom I do my best to get in front of. Yes, it’s game… and I am very good at playing it.

So anyway, once on the plane and settled into my seat, I waited for the usual announcements and sat back as the plane roared into the sky. Once up there, I read the inflight magazine, stared out the window and ever dozed off a little. I’m not usually one who sleeps a lot on planes. I have a fear that I will look dead and someone will cover me over with a sheet and offload me when we get to our destination. Not a good look for me to be sitting there, mouth open and eyes closed, a slow drip of drool making it’s way down my shirt. Hence the ‘try not to sleep rule’ on planes.

Once we landed and got the hire car, John and I made our way to the circuit where we began work on the first day of the build. Some of the construction had already started in the suite, so I cracked on and did my best until the sun set and I could see no more. We then jumped back in the car and headed back to the hotel, charmingly named ‘Urpi’, located in Sabadell. It’s nice little place and quite bustling. Some consider the place on the very outskirts of Barcelona and it is easy to see why. It’s blend of historical buildings and modern architecture, plus the amount of people walking the streets, it makes for a very cosmopolitan place indeed. We like staying there - but we also like the drive to and from the circuit. It’s hilly, twisty and turny and a hell of a lot of fun. Yes, it’s another drive we do at high speed and take some of the corners way too quickly. But again, we never endanger the lives of other road users and would always recommend you drive safely and at the speed limit.

I ended up sharing a room with Jethro at the Urpi and I have to say, it was one of the funniest weeks I have had with a room mate in ages. From the moment I arrived and plonked myself on the undersized bed, the laughs started and never stopped. From having a laugh at Jethro’s rather chirpy wake up alarm on his phone (which he swear’s he can’t change… even though I have shown him) to his rather long sessions in the bathroom preening himself. It never stopped being funny. What would have to be the funniest though, was Jethro’s ability to break wind. My God. That guy can fart like a trooper. No, not just one trooper - a platoon. Now I know that the young fella will be reading this and dying of embarrassment, but seriously, he should be proud. I can fart. I can clear rooms and fell entire armies with my smell… but if this were an episode of Gladiators, he would have a Gladiator name of Methane and I would be his unworthy opponent. From short sharp barking duck farts, to long sustained rumblers, the young fella’s repritour knew no bounds and kept me entertained - and laughing through the gas - for the entire week. The highlight would have had to have been each morning, when after the alarm sounded, Jethro would lift his leg and a long sustained windy rumble would sound revelly. It was pure class.

There isn’t much night life in Sabadell that you can speak about, not that we found it anyway. Don’t get me wrong I am sure that it is there, but on the work schedule that we had, there was no way we could have the time to truly get out and about and explore the nightlife. The one night John, Jethro and I ventured out, we were determined to find ourselves a really nice Spanish restaurant and I was so looking forward to having some tapas. I enjoyed a huge plate last year and was hoping that I would end up raving about this years plate with equal gusto. So all three of us headed into the direction that looked the busiest and found a nice little restaurant. We sat down and the waiter, who spoke no English, bought us some bread and a menu - and then we discovered that there was no tapas on the menu and we were in a seafood restaurant. Ooops. Not to worry. I ended up having a rather nice piece of fish and some nice sides and really enjoyed the meal. Sadly, there was no more tapas opportunites that week.

The other nights dining experiences were all done in the downstairs bar, where food and booze flowed in equal measure to those who required it. I have to be honest and say that I didn’t end up getting to slaughtered on any of the nights, as we always finished quite late and all I wanted to do was climb into my cot and dream of far away places. The food wasn’t all that flash either, and mainly consisted of burgers, steak and microwaved pizza. The upside was the Hagen Daz Ice Cream. I was quite happy just to have that to be honest. But sadly beer and ice cream don’t quite make an appetising meal.

The race weekend came and went and the de-rig began in earnest. We worked right through the night on the monster suites and ended up finishing around 6am. Some celebratory beers were consumed and everyone patted each other on the (sweaty) back on a job well done. And indeed it was. The drive home was done with extra care - and not as much speed as the usual trips - and we ended back at the hotel… where I climbed into my bed and slept most of the day away. We all gathered in the bar again in the afternoon, around 4pm, ate some food and then boarded the cars for the trip out to the airport… and home.

So, that was Barcelona. It was long, it was hard and it was over for another year. We were on a plane and flying home before we knew it… and thinking about doing it all over again in just a weeks time….

… in wonderful Turkey.

So it was off to Malaysia we went. Well, I went actually. It was early, I smelt like a stale turd and I was travelling solo up to the land of all things hot and sweaty. I like Malaysia, really I do. I have always enjoyed going there and buying rip off DVD’s, cheap clothing and fake leather goods. Ok, so I am taking the piss a bit. I do enjoy Malaysia… I just wish it wasn’t so bloody humid.

So back to me. It’s 1am and I am on a flight bound for Malaysia. I have come fresh from a de-rig that started mid-race and quite frankly I am knackered. I was hoping that I could get some sleep on the plane before arriving and beginning work in the land of all things humid. But it sadly was not to be. Not only did I get the annoying ‘tell your life story’ passenger next to me on the plane, the guy decided that he was going to read his technical briefing - all the way to Malaysia. I mean c’mon… how interesting can a user manual on a Sony CCD Camera be at 30,000 feet. Want to know? Ask the old guy with the incessant throat clearing who works for F1 Communications. I am sure he can tell you allllllllll about it.