Mercedes GP




1985 (33)


Voiding a cheap cloud of virtual-charisma where the real thing should be, Hamilton is a man born to ride the ephemeral 21st Century sports brand synergy express at least according to Lewis and his plucky band of outrageously remunerated brand warriors. Furiously instagramming, tweeting and clearing up dogshit prior to inking the latest banality into whatever square inch of flesh hasn't already been sullied with the philosophical equivalent of the Sesame Street theme tune on behalf of their plastic action figure, Lewis stands on the cusp of F1 greatness assuming you're too nauseous from all the hokum to have admitted he hasn't already kicked the shit out of it. A fifth title beckons, a third dog beckons, a 50,000th occurrence of the word 'blessed' beckons. His mum beckons him in for his tea and once again, you just wish he'd listen to his mum - who incidentally also thinks he looks fucking ridiculous in that hat and those drawings and wishes he'd just find a nice girl and stop showing off.

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