the madszine

For the last week on my social feeds one audio track has been haunting me and my anticipation. Crofty’s voice ringing in the start of the 2025 Formula 1 season: “Good morning, good afternoon, good evening. Wherever you are watching us from. IT IS FINALLY TIME. All of the questions we’ve asked will get an answer. WELCOME TO MELBOURNE. Last time we had this race as the first of the calendar was 2019: 3.2 miles of action, 14 turns, 4 DRS zones, and a top speed of 340km/h.” Chills, literal chills. 

So many stories about to unfold for the first time, the answer to so many theories about to be revealed, the prayers of a thousand fans on a thousand lips. This was it. I had waited 98 agonising days consuming Ferrari promo content like it was the last scraps of food sustaining me over a drought – because it was. What sort of car were Ferrari going to produce? How was Jack Doohan going to fair in his first home race? Would all the Rookies make it to the checkered flag? Would we see a Ferrari driver on the podium – hell could we see a Ferrari driver on the top step of the podium as Carlos Sainz had managed last year? I had set my alarms for 4am to wake me up in anticipation for my favourite sport to finally roar to life again, and so naturally an hour beforehand I was sat in a bar in St Andrews wondering if I was going to make it home or if I was going to be that person watching the Formula 1 on their phone at a social event. It was watching my phone, sound off, that I first figured out that it was raining. A wet race in Australia? A wet race for the first of the season? This was going to be epic, and it was a kind twist of fate that I did make it home and into bed with icecream to share with my boy with fifteen minutes to spare before the race kicked off. That was the lovely part of my evening over. 

The Australian Grand Prix was possibly the most chaotic start to an F1 season I’ve ever had the misfortune to witness with my own two orbs. I will always be an empath at heart (despite what everyone who knows me will say) it’s just so much easier to sympathise with people I don’t know! It was almost between my fingers that I watched Isack Hadjar spin off the track into the barriers in the formation lap of his debut Grand Prix. His saving grace came in the form of Jack Doohan doing the same thing a few laps into the race, followed by Carlos Sainz from BEHIND the safety car caused by Jack Doohan, followed by rookie of the year Fernando Alonso into the wall on lap 34… followed by Liam Lawson… followed by Gabriel Bortoletto… you get the picture. Anthony Hamilton comforting Hadjar as he walked back to his garage in tears shielding him both from the cameras and the harsh words of Helmut Marko was enough to bring a tear to anyone’s eye. In fact I will go as far as to say Redbull have a problem – and it is not Alex Albon – it is their inability to adapt their attitude, their support, or their car to from what they used to do, and until they have learned to do this it will be up to Max and Max alone to drag that team to victory.

I sat with my fingers crossed for Oscar Piastri who I wouldn’t have minded winning his home Grand Prix despite him being McLaren driver. Unfortunately my, and Piastri’s, hopes were dashed and (I can only imagine) our jaws were equally on the floor when in the first race of the season the old monster of Papaya Rules reared its ugly head. Piastri, only 0.3 seconds behind Norris up in front, was told to hold position half way through the race and then only allowed to return to racing when Norris had widened the gap between them. Of course, I am not McLaren, Piastri, or Norris, but from where I was sitting in my electric blanket heated sheets 10,479 miles away – it looked like McLaren choosing a first driver. Which felt a little like the pot calling the kettle black after they vehemently denied and refused to choose one over the break. 

However, once more, Piastri made me sit up and notice him. Not because he was leading the race or driving the most aggressively but because for the first time in motorsport I watched live a case study of the indomitable human spirit, and that spirit was Oscar Piastri. Towards the closing credits of the race with only fourteen cars remaining like something out of the Hunger Games Piastri spun off onto the grass and was out of the race. His name and time disappeared from the score tower and the Sky Sports broadcast and the stream cut to Kimi Antonelli who (to his credit) was having a phenomenal race. I groaned in unison with the Australian crowd as the home hero spun his tyres in what we could only consider a vain attempt to get back in the race – except it was not in vain. After almost thirty seconds and dropping behind the entire rest of the field Piastri’s name flashed back up on the score tower and the race ending signafier: OUT was replaced by his time coming back to life like a phoenix rising from the ashes… or Jesus. When everyone else had given up, McLaren, myself, even the crowd, Oscar Piastri hauled his Papaya machinery back onto the track and drove like a man possessed. He pulled off an overtake on Hamilton which even the commentary noted, held no respect for the fact that the man was a seven time world champion. Piastri fought his way back into the fray by refusing to DNF at his home race, AND HE STILL FINISHED 9TH. 

I know what you’re all thinking: the Scuderia writer herself has been very quiet about Ferrari. I would rather not relive those two hours but instead I’m going to sum up their performance the only way I know how. I logged into my office work systems on Monday morning to a message popping through on Teams. It was 9am, we had only been logged on for a matter of seconds.

“Are you okay?” read the message from my friend and resident Lewis Hamilton fan.

I was confused for a minute before I realised what they were getting at. “Is this about the dismal Ferrari performance this weekend?”

“Yup.”