Now the Formula 1 season is over, which is good news since it was really dull, I’ve been having a few thoughts. Mainly about the fact that so many of the drivers sound like something you might order in a restaurant or a bar.

Let’s see….

Pastor Maldonado I know the spelling of his given name is wrong, but he sounds like some robust dish you might get served in Tuscany. Probably based on some local sausage, laced with garlic. It also sounds like one of those dishes that is only served on the day of some obscure saint. Or perhaps after a baptism. Sounds OK, though, pasta maldonado.

Kvyat. This must be some delicacy from Eastern Europe. Probably based on the entrails of a wild boar.

Hulkenberg. This sounds dangerously like one of those supremely intoxicating beers brewed in silence by Trappist monks in Belgium. They’re a silent order because after a couple of Hulkenbergs they lose the power of speech.

Bianchi. One of those hideous alcohol-free wines that appear for a few weeks in a pub or supermarket, and simply disappear because they are so rubbish. Or one of those alcopoppy cider substitutes that chavettes drink in the carpark outside a downmarket supermarket.

Kobayashi. One of those dishes that cost you thirty quid in a Japanese restaurant. Nowhere near enough finely sliced beef, and you cook it yourself on a load of heated pumice stone slabs delivered to your table by a bunch of guys smirking knowingly at how badly you are being ripped off.

Ricciardo. One of those sticky Italian puddings much beloved of girlies. A really rich tiramisu sort of affair, lots of cream and cake.

Alonso. A Spanish speciality fiercely spiked with chillies. The extreme version is Infernando alonso. Be cautious with that.

Rosberg. A hefty hard cheese where the final fermentation and storage requires it to be wrapped in the leaves of some obscure plant found only in the Hartz Mountains.

Even Hamilton sounds like something you cannot make without breaking eggs.

The tradition goes back a long time, and involves the USA. Andretti, clearly some form of small pasta used in soups. Reggazzoni, a hearty regional variant on a Moldonado. Even today, in NASCAR, there’s a Montoya, a speciality dish made of pork loin.

I nearly forgot. Grosjean. I mean him no ill, but he sounds like some diabolical meal based upon foie gras, against which there is no defence. There is no defence. None.