Zak Brown, the McLaren chief executive, had billed it as the “largest sporting event in the world this year”. Long-suffering mechanics faced the prospect of still working at daybreak.Īn event this breathlessly hyped could not afford to over-promise and under-deliver. A few diehard insomniacs watched the action from a multi-storey car park opposite the Sphere. The hapless charade under the lights wrapped up a little after 4am local time, in front of bleakly empty grandstands, after second practice became – due to “logistical considerations for our fans and staff” – a fan-free affair. Max Verstappen is right: the Las Vegas Grand Prix, F1’s ultimate exhibition of style over substance, is a clown show. It was the fact that almost four hours later, fans were left shivering in the Nevada desert chill with nothing to watch, the scream of the engines replaced by the plaintive sound of Don’t Leave Me This Way over the public address system. It was not just that the first on-track action of a £400 million spectacle lasted all of eight minutes, when Carlos Sainz had his Ferrari chassis trashed at 200mph by a loose manhole cover. The night of Novemdeserves a place in Formula One’s hall of infamy.
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