Career suicide's poster boy approaches F1 in 2018 with all the gusto of a man who doesn't have to try and anyway, quite fancies a tilt at the British Touring Car Championship for all anyone knows. Thus does Fernando Alonso begin his 40 millionth consecutive season in F1 as committed to the sport as anyone who didn't need the money but nonetheless found himself being paid a lot of it to have to drive a Mclaren. For the last 3 years, the Spaniard's increasingly hirsute face has been fighting a losing battle against hiding both his age and a discomfiting urge to smirk; the manifestation of an internal psychological battle between the last vestiges of pride teetering on the brink of a collapse into a universe-sundering shriek for forgiveness in the post-race media pen. 12 years since he cemented his reputation as the heir to Senna and Schumacher, this now punch-drunk D'Artagnan impersonator finds himself with half as many titles as a man just as interested in showing us photos of his dogs and another man equally concerned with not showing us photos of anything at all. The Arsene Wenger of F1 nonetheless drags himself up by his Sparco bootstraps for one last naiive tilt at F1 glory with merely whatever fragments of his legacy or self-esteem left at stake. One for all and oh for fucks sake let's just get it over with.