Formula 1 News: Red Bull mocks McLaren over disqualification
The electric pulse of the Las Vegas Strip thrummed on long after the checkered flag, but for McLaren, the night ended in a cold, clinical reckoning. It was November 23, 2025, and the neon-lit street circuit had delivered one of Formula 1’s cruelest twists.
–by Mark Cipolloni–
Lando Norris, helmet discarded in a haze of orange triumph, had climbed the podium’s second step, his grin wide under the confetti storm. Oscar Piastri, the unflappable Aussie, stood one below in fourth, the duo’s MCL39s having danced through the desert chill overshadowed by Max Verstappen’s dominant pole-to-flag charge.
Then came the stewards’ verdict, sharp as a skid block scraping asphalt. Both cars disqualified. Planks worn perilously thin: Norris’s at 8.88mm, Piastri’s a whisper at 8.74mm, both shy of the 9mm minimum. Porpoising on the bumpy track, they said—unintended bounces and a rogue manhole cover nibble—had ground them down. From podium glory to parc fermé pariahs in minutes. Norris points lead deflating back to a defiant 24 points with just Qatar and Abu Dhabi left to fight over.
In the Red Bull garage, as the team’s sim racing crew huddled over screens, the air crackled with that familiar mischief. No Christian Horner to orchestrate the shade this time—the old fox had been shown the door months back, his empire of barbs and brilliance dismantled by boardroom blades. Laurent Mekies, the new principal with his measured Italian poise, had decreed a cleaner rivalry: wins on track, not in memes. But the digital warriors in the sim division? They thrived in the shadows.
By dawn, as the Strip’s revelers stumbled home, Red Bull Sim Racing dropped their payload on Instagram. A slick, 15-second clip from the EA Sports F1 game: the camera dipping low under a virtual RB21, sliders maxed for pristine ride height, no sparks, no scrape. Text burned across the screen: **How to Not Get a DQ**. Cut to a cartoon McLaren bucking wildly, underside kissing tarmac in a shower of pixels. The caption? “Just a bit of friendly advice.” It hit like a DRS zone ambush—millions of views in hours, fans flooding the comments with fire emojis and roasts sharper than Vegas blackjack.
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EA Sports F1’s official account piled on, their reply a velvet dagger: “We do not endorse this savagery (funny tho).” One punter nailed it: “That’s absolutely simply lovely roasting.” Across X and TikTok, the mockery metastasized—Norris photoshopped as a deflated balloon, Piastri measuring his coffee stirrer with a micrometer. Verstappen, ever the stoic, liked the post quietly from his hotel suite, a ghost of a smile on his face. No victory parade needed; the internet was parade enough.
Meanwhile, in McLaren’s hushed hospitality, the sting settled like desert dust. Team principal Andrea Stella faced the media gauntlet, his voice steady but laced with regret. “We apologize to Lando and Oscar for the loss of points today, at a critical time in their championship campaigns after two strong performances from them all weekend,” he said, owning the blunder. The breach? Unintentional, he insisted—high-speed porpoising over the track’s unforgiving seams, plus that accidental manhole graze on Norris’s lap one. “No deliberate attempt to circumvent the regulations,” Stella added, vowing a deeper post-season scrub on setups. Norris, cap low over his eyes, shrugged it off in a team huddle: “Gutted, but we’ll bounce back. Qatar’s got straights that suit us.” Piastri, ever the optimizer, nodded: “Lesson learned. Measure twice, race once.”
As the paddock packed for the Gulf, the viral jab hung in the air—a reminder that in F1, disqualifications hurt, but the echoes? They echo louder. Red Bull’s “friendly advice” wasn’t just a poke; it was a prod at McLaren’s fragile lead, a digital middle finger wrapped in gaming gloss. With two rounds left, the title fight teetered: Verstappen, the hunter, reloaded; Norris, the hunted, plotting his counter. Vegas had taken its toll in points and pride, but the real gamble? The one still unfolding under the floodlights. Lights out, engines on—revenge served cold, or hot, depending on the tires.