Steve Cooper: On the Limit

McLaren's new paddock Brand Centre isn't universally loved. Big and imposing, it hardly exudes familiarity. So, while a neat, stencilled message on the front doors bids you welcome, you feel precisely the opposite as you ascend the steep staircase and enter the inner sanctum.

Inside, an impatient crowd surges and pulses around the tables and chairs, waiting for the team's Saturday afternoon media session to kick off. People want answers. And their presence makes the tight confines of the motorhome feel angular and difficult, turning the atmosphere prickly and defiant.

"We've got to practise what we preach," says team boss Ron Dennis, imperiously taking the microphone and attempting to defuse the righteous indignation. "So we're giving you the exact truth of the situation."

Ron then launches into a lengthy analysis of that controversial Q3 session - but while his summary is typically wordy and precise, it doesn't really cut it.

The journalists who like to get their heads around the tricky mathematics of the sport feel that Ron's explanation is clunky and missing several precise details. The tabloid journalists, who can sniff a story at 50 yards, can't reconcile Ron's words to what they've just seen on the media centre's TV screens. There's a growing feeling of discontent bubbling under.

"Have I explained it accurately, Fernando?" concludes Ron, turning to the uninterested Spaniard sitting alongside him. Alonso bites into a piece of fruit and lazily gives a thumbs-up. He doesn't divert his gaze; certainly doesn't even bother to open his mouth to speak. It's a distilled moment of studied insolence towards his boss.

The crowd doesn't buy it, there's a scrabble for a microphone and several angry journalists start to press Dennis for a more lucid explanation. Dennis and Alonso bat back increasingly agitated responses. But then there's a sudden scraping of furniture, Ron stands up and informs the audience that he must hurriedly leave the room to visit the stewards' office.

Almost simultaneously, Lewis Hamilton strides in. It's the first time most of us have ever seen a McLaren driver arrive late for the team's press meeting, so rigorously scheduled is McLaren's weekend timetable. "Sorry I'm late," he smiles, a little sheepishly. "I was watching GP2. I didn't realise we had this."

With Ron now gone, the Fleet Street pack quickly repositions itself, adopting a pincer movement in order to simultaneously grill both Lewis and Fernando. The questions come thick and fast - and they're indignant, angry and self-righteous. It's an impressive tirade at two drivers who are sat without the defence of their team boss.

Only Mercedes motorsport director Norbert Haug sits between the pair. But, rather than trying to redress the balance, he merely sits silently, sheepishly prodding at his Blackberry, uninterested in the mess going on around him. It's a shocking episode of mismanagement.

Without the unifying steer of their team boss, both drivers resort to fighting - and defending - their own battles. They blank each other and rebuff the other's answers without so much as an exchange of glances.

At one point, Hamilton - still well-drilled in McLaren's principles of equality - offers the slightly risible justification: "We're not disagreeing. I just told you my side, he's telling you his. I'm not disagreeing with him: that's just his opinion."

A group of McLaren's senior management, looking down from the motorhome's mezzanine, looks increasingly worried. Maybe that last comment is the straw that breaks the camel's back, for team COO Martin Whitmarsh is quickly on the floor, brandishing a microphone and breaking up the press conference, calling a truce to this mini-war.

In 10 shocking minutes, the team's solidarity has just crumbled before everybody's eyes.