From ramped up F1 techno trickery to an old-school flashing oil light

Funny how attitudes can change. Lando Norris was having a go – in a nice way – at Max Verstappen’s blunt criticism of the latest Formula 1 cars. “F1 changes all the time,” chided Norris. “Sometimes it’s a bit better to drive, sometimes not as good to drive. But, yeah, we get paid a stupid amount of money to drive, so you really can’t complain at the end of the day.”

Well, no, you can’t complain in the same way as a Premier League footballer should avoid moaning about the cost of a tank of fuel for his bespoke McLaren 765LT. But does being paid “a stupid amount of money” bring with it a gagging order issued by PSC (Persons with Significant Control) within F1? I wouldn’t know; remuneration at Autosport could scarcely be described as ‘stupid money’. Or, at least, not with reference to the upper end of the publishing pay scale.

Verstappen has never been reluctant to shoot from the hip, his comments on this occasion being of substantial interest to anyone wishing to have even the remotest idea of what it must be like to drive an F1 car – particularly the latest generation. Norris is entitled to his opinion, of course. But there does seem to be a less than subtle change in the McLaren driver’s views.

In August last year, before Lando was invested with the accountability and public persona that comes with being world champion, he was thinking out loud about a wish list for an F1 car that would be good to race. “Honestly, I don’t want to do all this DRS nonsense,” said Norris. “I just want to drive the car. I just want to upshift, downshift – and that’s it. That’s what I enjoy.”

A quadratic equation is about as convoluted as Merc’s chosen model name ‘Mercedes-AMG GT63 Pro4Matic+ Motorsport Collectors Edition’

To be fair, Lando has got his wish with the absence of DRS after 15 seasons of an artifice that, in truth, was attempting – badly, as it turned out – to paper over the fundamental failing of one F1 car being unable to run in close company with another. Go racing, in other words.

As for the techno trickery crammed into the 2026 cars, Norris should have been careful what he wished for. “I just want to drive the car.” Yeah, right. If he focuses solely on steering, braking and shifting gears, our world champion will be going nowhere in the manner of trying to run across an ice rink in his handmade leather loafers while, at the same time, solving a quadratic equation with non-integer coefficients.

No, I don’t know what that arithmetic sophistry means either. But trust me on this one (as Sky F1’s David Croft would say); a quadratic equation is about as convoluted as Merc’s chosen model name ‘Mercedes-AMG GT63 Pro4Matic+ Motorsport Collectors Edition’ – you know, the Supercar Kimi Antonelli recently shunted near his country home in San Marino.

No other big names (and I mean cars) were involved. Kimi was unhurt, but the same cannot be said for the Mercedes-AMG GT Sixt – you know the rest.

The ‘sticker over a warning light’ ploy wouldn’t really work here. And should this even be described as a wheel?

Photo by: Jakub Porzycki / NurPhoto / Getty Images

Back on the race track, we’ve got a situation where drivers will suddenly be going slowly through here in order to go quickly over there, while remembering to push boost buttons, energy savers and aero tweaks at certain places providing, of course, a thousand technicians back at base agree it’s OK to do so – but only if Strat 6, sub-section C, has been engaged using the third knurled knob from the left – or is it the right? – on a games control panel that has a secondary function as a steering wheel. Talk about making life complicated.

If you want a totally different perspective, come with me to Kirkistown, a club circuit in Northern Ireland where I watched my first motor races more years ago than I care to remember. It’s where I first noticed John Watson, a soft-spoken teenager who would go on to win five grands prix.

In the 1960s, Wattie was cutting his competition teeth at the wheel of a Crossle 5S. This was a neat little sportscar, manufactured by John Crossle, a local man who was just as adept at designing race cars as he was at driving them.

Crossle had a modest bearing to match his easy manner. At one particular meeting at Kirkistown, John was about to have his lunch – a sandwich filled with his favourite Robertson’s Strawberry Jam – when a customer came rushing across the paddock.

Crossle finished his sandwich, peeled the sticker from the jam jar, walked across the paddock, leaned into the agitated driver’s cockpit and placed it across the flashing oil light

“Mr Crossle! Mr Crossle!” he said in some desperation. “My oil light’s on! What do I do?” With the races about to start, Crossle reckoned there wasn’t much anyone could do at that stage. He quietly assured the distressed client he’d be over in a minute.

This was in the days when Robertson used a contentious caricature as a marketing symbol. Collect enough stickers of this icon from each jar of jam, send them to the factory and you’d receive an enamel lapel badge in return.

Crossle finished his sandwich, peeled the character from the jam jar, walked across the paddock, leaned into the agitated driver’s cockpit and placed the sticker across the flashing oil light. “It won’t cure the problem,” said Crossle. “But it’ll take your mind off it.”

The moral of the story is that F1 might be in a happier place if the concerns of Verstappen and others about massively complex F1 cars could be assuaged by the price of a pot of jam.

This article is one of many in the monthly Autosport magazine. For more premium content, take a look at the April 2026 issue and subscribe today. 

Verstappen: never one to be afraid of shooting from the hip

Photo by: Mark Thompson / Getty Images