In the high-octane, multi-billion dollar world of Formula 1, image is everything. Drivers are often perceived as gladiatorial machines, conditioned to speak in perfectly curated soundbites about tire degradation, aerodynamic downforce, and strategy execution. We see them behind visors, encased in carbon fiber, or standing stiffly in sponsor-laden team kit, reciting lines that have likely been vetted by three different PR managers. But every once in a while, the mask slips. The polished veneer cracks, and something delightfully human shines through.
This week, that moment belongs to Ollie Bearman. A video recently surfaced from the paddock—courtesy of the Behind Grand Prix channel—that has done more to endear the young Brit to the global fanbase than perhaps any lap time or qualifying sector ever could. It wasn’t a clip of a daring overtake or a podium celebration. It was a clip of a hungry young man trying to eat a bologna sandwich, fighting with a mechanical door, and dropping a very relatable F-bomb in a moment of pure, unscripted frustration.
The “Save the Engine” Deflection
The video opens in what appears to be the media pen or a paddock access area, the less glamorous backstage of the F1 circus. The context is immediately set with a question that usually invites a somber, technical response: “Hey Ollie, what was the reason for retirement?”
In a sport where reliability issues are analyzed with forensic seriousness, Bearman’s response is deadpan perfection. “Save the engine,” he quips, barely missing a beat. It’s the kind of dry humor that British drivers have become famous for, a way of deflecting the disappointment of a DNF (Did Not Finish) with a shrug rather than a sulk. It sets the tone for the minute-and-a-half of chaos that follows—Ollie isn’t here to be the corporate robot; he’s here to survive the weekend.
But the real comedy gold isn’t the racing talk. It’s the battle with the environment.
The Door That Wouldn’t Budge
We often forget that F1 drivers, for all their superhuman reflexes and G-force endurance, are still subject to the mundane annoyances of everyday life. At around the 30-second mark of the clip, we witness Bearman engaged in a battle of wits with a sliding door or gate.
“Roll, thank you, this is not working, push as well…” he mutters, clearly struggling with the mechanism. Then, the frustration boils over in a way that anyone who has ever fought with a jammed printer or a sticky drawer can understand: “For f*** sake, okay I can…”
It is a moment of pure, unfiltered humanity. Here is one of the 20 fastest drivers on the planet, a man trusted to pilot a missile on wheels at over 200 miles per hour, defeated by a sliding door. The juxtaposition is hysterical. It strips away the superstar aura and leaves us with a relatable twenty-something just trying to get from point A to point B without a mechanical failure—of the architectural kind.
The Bologna Incident
If the door struggle was the appetizer, the main course—quite literally—is the interview itself. As the camera setups shift and the media personnel swarm, we hear the voice of the interviewer (and fellow driver interactions suggesting Esteban Ocon is nearby) realizing they have interrupted a sacred ritual: Lunch.
“Hello, am I delaying your lunch?” the interviewer asks, perhaps realizing too late that the driver’s mouth is full.
“Yes, sorry about that,” comes the muffled reply.
The commentary from the sidelines is what truly elevates the clip to viral status. “Ollie is still full of bologna in his mouth,” someone notes, painting a picture that is delightfully at odds with the elite athlete aesthetic. We are used to hearing about drivers’ strict nutrition plans, weighing every gram of carbohydrates and protein. To hear that Ollie Bearman is just stuffing his face with bologna moments before getting into the car is a breath of fresh air. It breaks the “superhuman” illusion and replaces it with the image of a hurried student grabbing a snack between classes.
The urgency of the situation adds to the comedy. “We’ve got you for just a few minutes so these are going to have to be real quick fire questions,” the interviewer insists. Why? “Because we’re about to get in the car, you’re racing, that’s more important!”
The scene is a chaotic intersection of two worlds: the high-stakes professional requirement to race, and the basic human need to eat. Bearman, caught in the middle with “bologna in his mouth,” represents the chaotic reality of the sport that television broadcasts rarely show.
The “Gun” and the Apex
As the clip winds down, the energy shifts from the comedic fumbling of lunch and doors to the impending adrenaline of the track. There’s a chaotic exchange of instructions—”A little bit in front Ollie, don’t move”—as they try to frame the shot.
Then, a voice cuts through the noise with a command that sounds like a switch flipping: “Give him a gun, give him a gun, hit some apexes.”
Whether this is a reference to a wheel gun, a metaphorical “give it the gun” (accelerate), or just paddock slang, it signals the end of the break. The bologna has been consumed (or hastily swallowed), the door has been conquered (or ignored), and it’s time to go to work. The juxtaposition of the silly lunch moment with the command to “hit some apexes” encapsulates the life of a modern F1 driver: flipping between the relatable goofball and the precision athlete in the blink of an eye.
Why This Matters: The Humanization of the Grid
Why do clips like this matter? Why write a thousand words about a minute of footage? Because in the modern era of sports consumption, fans crave connection over perfection.
For decades, Formula 1 was a distant, aristocratic sport. Drivers were unknowable figures hidden behind sunglasses and PR statements. But with the rise of social media and the “Drive to Survive” effect, the curtain has been pulled back. We’ve seen the rise of the “Twitch Quartet” (Norris, Russell, Albon, Leclerc) and now the next generation like Bearman, who grew up on the internet and understand the language of transparency.
This video is a masterclass in unintentional personal branding. It shows Bearman not as an untouchable idol, but as a guy who gets hangry, swears when things don’t work, and eats processed meat like the rest of us. It makes him accessible. It makes him someone you want to root for, not just because he’s fast, but because he’s funny.
In a season often dominated by technical regulations and team politics, it is these flashes of personality that keep the sport vibrant. We tune in for the racing, but we stay for the characters. And judging by this “disaster” of an interview, Ollie Bearman is quickly becoming one of the most entertaining characters on the grid.
So, the next time you see Bearman diving down the inside of Turn 1, precision-perfect and ice-cold, just remember: ten minutes ago, he was probably fighting with a door handle and choking on a piece of bologna. And somehow, that makes the racing even better.
