The year F1 ripped my face off and I loved every moment

Uneventful races, single-team domination, constant rule changes, predictable grids and untranslatable technologies have all been charges laid at Formula One’s decline in ratings and reduction of fan engagement.

The media in turn, document these headaches in the daily quest for content which only serves to antagonise teams and stakeholders who – rightly or wrongly – suggest the press should be promoting the technology of the sport.

That would be fine of course if it wasn’t for the first point; given the technology is often undermined by rule changes before the public can grasp the fundamentals or allow middling teams an opportunity to close the performance gap.

In the absence of digestible tech, journalists then inevitably revert to fanning flames underneath the smallest hint of controversy or rivalry.

Currently the biggest conflict centers around the Hamilton-Rosberg championship battle, but most of their opening salvo sound-bites tend to exhibit all the firepower of a Selena Gomez/Justin Beiber Instagram feud.

Rivalries are crucial for any sport. It’s what puts bums on seats, but even the most anemic hostilities will inevitably be watered-down by nervous corporations attempting to preserve harmony for their brand image.

With dollars becoming harder and harder to find, teams opt to cover their expenses with a larger portfolio of smaller sponsors, but with that brings a bigger risk of negative publicity; the driver or team overpowering the sponsors brand or negative impact through association. Moral clauses are often signed at the beginning of a season to prohibit conduct that might reflect unfavourably on the sponsor’s reputation or its products.

So when commercial rights holders and teams are unwilling to promote the sport as – well, a sport – then those duties inevitably fall to circuit promoters and broadcasters, which have their own set of restrictions that are comparable to fighting a tiger in a telephone-booth.

According to revered F1 journalist Dieter Rencken, the Australian GP Corporation’s contract with Formula One Management “permits the promoters to stage various side-attractions while most European organisers are restricted to Porsche races, GP2/3 (championships owned by FOM’s parent company CVC Capital Partners).”

That’s good news for us spoiled Aussies, but it demonstrates Formula One’s unwavering obsession with controlling the spectacle.

So that just leaves broadcasters. Trouble is Sky Sports’ exclusive new five year deal will ensure that we – well those who can pay for it – will have to endure F1 being depicted as the milquetoast of the sporting world for another half decade.

One only has to look to broadcaster’s by-the-numbers F1 intro to see how far we’ve drifted from a genuine representation of motor sport and set a new nadir for sports broadcasting.

Sky Sports F1’s opening titles begin with Alistair Griffon’s anthemic Just Drive sauntering in (as it has done for over four three-numbing years) over slow-motion images of a cauldron of activity and TV presenters at their asinine best – asking drivers “what’s it like out there?” and “are they ready for the fight?”.

It’s the kind of stuff you’d expect from a gardening presenter thrown in to replace a UFC host at the last minute.

It’s not long before we’re then treated to a computer-generated on track ‘incident’ between title protagonists Nico Rosberg and Lewis Hamilton – the event nothing more than an innocuous case of low-speed wheel-banging that hardly warrants Martin Brundle’s awkward “fantastic wheel-to-wheel action!” exclamation.

As Paul Keating would accurately suggest, “it’s all tip and no iceberg.”

Back in 2010, the BBC used Just Drive for their final montage in Abu Dhabi and it served its purpose as a wistful and somewhat majestic look back at the season just gone.

That might be good enough if you like your tennis with strawberries and cream, but it’s not the material you serve up to drag in potential punters with a mere casual interest in the sport.

In the nineties, long-running sports anthology, Channel Nine’s Wide World of Sports set the gold standard for sports production.

Flicking on the TV on a Saturday usually meant your senses would be assaulted by a barrage of sporting action that had been edited within an inch of its life and can induce excessive synchronous neuronal activity in even the most hyperactive millennial.

Nine’s Formula One coverage of the Adelaide Grand Prix was no exception. While loose in structure, so was its style and taking your eye off the set would run the risk missing unforeseen nuggets.

Barry Sheen’s interviews would be in constant threat of sabotage from Nigel Mansell, and Jackie Stewart would casually drag George Harrison into the commentary booth for a chat and gentle ribbing. This is in high contrast to Brundle’s struggle to remember the name of the most recent lanyard-adorned Euro-pop offering during his pre-race grid-walks.

But it was Nine’s credits that were the real work of art. They showed a genuine enthusiasm and desire to grab the channel-surfing viewer’s head with both hands and literally blow their mind. Credit sequences (insert clip: ) resembled a carnival of masculinity akin to Animal House set in a tumble dryer set to warp speed.

Then, having succumbed to the guilty pleasure of Steve Stevens’ Atomic Cowboys as a backdrop during the 1001 blink-and-you’ll-miss-’em moments of fire, carnage and spins, you could bottle the testosterone left hanging in the air and sell it off as Brut 33.

It was irresponsible, sexist, ridiculous and utterly awesome.

Formula One is a sport entwined with sensory overload and should be marketed that way.

In the nineties there was probably no more passing than there is now, but the sport’s caretakers understood the product they were selling. Formula One represented an intoxicating into a world of excitement and danger akin to buying a chimp – you know you’re in for fun but inevitably you know you could get your face ripped clean off.

Currently, F1’s coverage merely serves as a polite invitation to come along for a plaintive journey of shiny cars and glamorous appendages with zero personality.

Personally I’d rather have my face ripped off.