The Old Team Principals Social Club


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Perez-Sala walked into the antechamber of the Old Team Principals' Social Club. He'd made it.

The chairs were arranged in a circular fashion. In front of him was an empty golden throne not too far from the ground marked "B. Ecclestone". Two silver thrones marked "Todt" and "Briatore" flanked his. In the rest of the room it was evident that people had brought their own chairs - Perez-Sala caught particular sight of an ergonomic silver chair marked "Dennis", an old wooden chair marked "Sauber" and a hideous armchair decorated in the most ill-matched fashions marked "Jordan".

Today was not a meeting day, so there were few people left in the room. Guy Ligier snoozed on a blue sofa bed, Mario Theissen frantically scribbled a plan for success in his work desk and there - sitting on a small blue swivel chair evidently from his surgery, was Colin Kolles.

"You stopped the Red Bull party, Luis", whispered the dentist, "but there is still work to do. Webber is still after vengeance on Vettel, and Briatore is with him all the way. He holds a lot of power in this chamber. Find out what Webber is doing and stop it..."

[box=400]Dear Sarah,

Congratulations! You have been successful in your application to be party planner for Porsche Motorsport! You were highly recommended by one of our employees, and we cannot wait to work with you!

Please report for work in Stuttgart in January 2014, and hopefully we'll have lots for you to do!


On behalf of Porsche Motorsport.


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Ricciardo walked into the dimly-lit room. All he could see was a large blue leather chair with "2" emblazoned in red across the centre of it. The chair spun around to reveal Mark Webber stroking a white koala bear. Then the chair collapsed, and a piece of paper floated up towards him.


Yeah, no, erm... Seb likes this chair, but we had a look and it is a little unstable. Can you refine the design somewhat, it'll be OK, we'll give this one to Mark.


"Crikey, mate" said Danny.
"Strewth!" yelled the old man. "That's the kind of bloody rubbish they've been tryin' ta give me for years."
"Who have?"
"Come on, be sensible. Who do you reckon? Flamin' Red Bull!"
"They're a stormin' collection of Bruces and Sheilas!"
"Flamin' drongos. Always on about Seb, Seb the little ripper, Mark the kangaroo's kookaburra!"
"Whatever yer swingin' at, I'm not involved, Mark. G'day to you..."

Mark's warning did not impress his countryman, but Mark was not going to give up on his vengeance!


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"We 'ave covered eet up, as your organisasion requestéd, Monsieur Perez-Sala."
"What have you covered up!"
"Why, ze fire zat Monsieur Briatore suggestéd was a set-eurp."
"But why would you be so careless to set your engine plant on fire?"
"We do not know, Monsieur, it seems we were targetéd, by un arsoneest."
"Well, who would have a grudge against Renault?"
"I don't seenk zere ees un greudge against Renault, but zere ees a greudge against our customérs, Monsieur."
"Not him again!"
"I'd just say, Strewth".


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Perez-Sala watched the latest news from Bahrain. Something had gone seriously awry. They only did one lap today - a team of such excellence! How could this be? Surely not...

An e-mail from Ray Joe Fenderman? He thought he'd been hired as Kolles' new dental nurse? Anyway, what could he want?


You seen this ad in the Canberra Gazette from January?


Wanted: Bald, middle-aged man to be impersonator of F1 designer. Travelling to England for a couple of months soon. Call Mark.
Luis didn't understand. Why did Webber need an Australian Newey impersonator?


"Yeah, no..., any progress yet, Adrian"
"G'... I mean... good day, Christian, my old pom-, I mean mate. Several redesigns have been unproductive."
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Perez-Sala decided to get away from it all. He lay on Bondi beach, the sea tickling his toes. Nothing could trouble him here...

A green bottle hit Perez-Sala's feet. As he unrolled the paper inside, he groaned. It could all trouble him here...

Tell McLaren to call off the search! I have been kidnapped by Mark Webber! He says he will kidnap team principals until Briatore has a job. Everyone needs to watch out.

Thank God they took a team principal whose absence is so well noticed.

Marty W.
Wow! He must be underfed with that level of delusion. Although, it was said that Sam Michael was conducting a search. In person.


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Webber's goons removed the spectacles of the small bespectacled Italian and threw him into the cell.

"Ah, they're not giving Briatore a job, still then?"
"Martin... is that you?"
"Ah, Stefano, I can't tell who it is without the light."
"How long have you been here?"
"Well, they grabbed me as I left Interlagos. Really enjoyed that result, by the way!"
"I imagine. Went quite well. Not as well as Melbourne..."
"They got a double podium. Magnussen 2nd, Button 3rd!"
"I'm glad. How is Jenson?"
"He's coping quite well."
"Coping with what?"
"His dad died."

Months with Whitmarsh was bad enough for Stefano, but months with a grieving Whitmarsh...


"Daniel is faster than you!"

Webber sat back. He hadn't even organised that!
He made a note of his next victim. Maybe try kidnapping a team principal the team gave a shit about...


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It had taken Webber a while, but suddenly his plans had got bigger.

The coiffured Italian looked up to see a man he thought he'd seen the back of.

"Ah, Luca, care for some bait?"
"Where am I?"
"No-one is sure, but it seems comfortable."
"Who else is here?"
"Martin and Stefano are testing Adrian's boat."
"Why are we here? What is going on?"
"We think it is an island called Screwseb, but we can't be sure."
"My God, I must escape. Before Stefano asks why there wasn't a search party."

The young one was doing well. And Webber had managed to jam the Red Bull radio. Just one word had destroyed his career. "Box!"


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Perez-Sala approached Webber's door again. He held the escapee reports in his hand.

The sights and smells of desolation appeared before him as he entered Webber's office. The white koala bear's cage had been emptied and the desk was covered in detritus. He'd clearly left in a hurry - perhaps as soon as the Accident Panel was announced.

Suitably mollified, Perez-Sala posted the reports to the police. No more would Webber stalk the careers of former F1 World Champions. If Perez-Sala was believed...


A Brazilian hospital. A man with a scarf covering his face walks out of the ward. He turned to a similarly stealthily dressed accomplice. He says but 3 words: "Plan B. Trophies."


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Perez-Sala's diving days were supposedly over, but here he was, in England, in December, diving into a lake. Webber hadn't been especially subtle this time.

It was on the shore that Perez-Sala realised the horrible truth. Only a third of the trophies had been dredged up. Why had he kept some back. So that left about 40 to be found.

He looked at the ones recovered. A lot of winners' trophies. He had nicked the number of Seb's podiums and chucked some in a lake. Where were the other 40?

What did he need them for?

A Santander trophy awarded for winning some race or other snapped in Perez-Sala's hand. His thwarting of Webber must continue less angrily.
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