The final lap

So farewell then, Eddie Irvine: bon viveur, raconteur, professional party-goer, yacht owner, fixture of the Monte Carlo social scene, enjoyer of the company of beautiful women, and occasional Formula 1 racing driver.

Even taking into account his recent lamentable performances on the F1 circuit, the loud-mouthed Ulsterman’s retirement from the sport, which was announced last week, came sooner than most people had expected – though not soon enough for some.

“He’s shown great style and lots of character,” said Eddie Jordan upon hearing the news, presumably fighting to make himself heard over the sound of a dog barking in the distance. “Formula 1 has been richer for his colourful and intelligent presence.”

Then Jordan let slip the killer line. “He’s done well out of Formula 1,” he said. For some of so little talent? For such a mouthy little bollox? He didn’t say either but the hint was there.

Eddie Irvine certainly has “done well” out of Formula 1, in much the same way that the military hardware manufacturers of the world have “done well” out of having George W Bush in the White House.

Despite the fact that he hardly ever seemed to finish a race during his three seasons with Jaguar, Irvine still trousered stg£20 million of the company’s money. He was being paid around stg£150,000 a week, essentially to do one of two things in each race: either crash on lap 31, or finish miles down the field.

Now, though, he’s out in the cold. Jordan decided last week not to exercise their option on him for the 2003 championship, for the compelling reason that he couldn’t bring enough sponsorship to the team. With a recession coming, the belts being grimly tightened, and the hairshirts being lifted out of the wardrobe and dusted down, there is no room at the inn for Not-Particularly-Fast Eddie. So it goes…

Why single out Irvine, I hear you cry? After all, Formula 1, like umpteen other sports, is full of people whose earning power dwarfs their actual proficiency at the activity they’re supposed to be good at. Irvine, for all the unremarkableness of his record, at least demonstrated some aptitude for his chosen game – unlike, say, Anna Kournikova.

It’s a fair point and, to be honest, Foul Play wouldn’t even have bothered putting the boot into Irvine were it not for the fact that, during his years in the spotlight in Formula 1, his behaviour consistently marked him out, again and again, as one of the crassest, least likeable, most annoying eejits to be found in international sport.

In Montreal, they still talk about the time Irvine was asked to participate in a photo session. Stamping his feet, he reportedly whined: “Jesus, do I have to? Can’t we just stick my helmet on some other fucker and send them?”

He earned the undying enmity of David Coulthard for a series of genuinely nasty verbal barbs. He said of Jos Verstappen that “he hasn’t got a fucking brain”. And he once wound up Ayrton Senna so badly that the Brazilian punched him in the mouth.

Even when discussing the one tangible achievement of his entire career – his 2nd place finish behind Mika Hakkinen in the 1999 world championship, while driving for Ferrari – he was typically graceless. “Given the choice between doing it with Ferrari or with Jaguar [his team at the time], I can tell you that I would much rather it was with Jaguar,” he remarked recently.

I used to think that “DEATH OF HURLING IMMORTAL” was the funniest sporting headline of all time, until I saw one that beat it hands down, on the back page of The Guardian last year.

It read: “IRVINE BLASTS ‘ARROGANT’ SCHUMACHER”.