Hey, assholes! Tyres have feelings, too, you know? We are, um, literally, rubber, yo! So, like, whatever you say about us bounces off us and sticks to you. Clag! You’re wearing emotional clag!

Thanks, James Allen!

Notice who is not quoted in this article? I have fallen in love with this sport partly because the degree to which these cats shun responsibility and refuse to accept the fucking fact that, yeah, right now, this is F1: The fact that the tyres go off will not change the fact that your strategy was flawed/your car sucks/you didn’t put enough fuel in the car/god hates you/your pit crew sucks/HUL or PER or SUT or VER or CHI or PIC was in front of you and slowed you down. . . THIS IS FUCKING F1 RIGHT NOW.

So, take a lesson from the P2 ice-dragon: The tyres are nothing. They are a joke you use on the podium. You can win with a smashed nose and a smashed front fin. Drive the shit out of what you have, be glad you aren’t PIC or VER or GUT or, shit, for that matter, be glad you aren’t WEB or BUT.

Fucking race.