I used to worry about young fellas who disappeared in to the attic to play with their Scalextric, emerging three days later, pasty-faced, answering only to the name of Emerson Fittipaldi.

I worried about them when they grew up a bit and, armed only with a provisional driving licence, would kindly offer you a lift to the shop in their father's car, only for you to discover they viewed the trip as their last chance to clinch pole position for the Monaco Grand Prix. I worried about them when they started humming "dum - dum de dum dum de dum de dum dum" (their version of that Fleetwood Mac tune the BBC used for its Grand Prix coverage) as they revved up outside the house before canonballing out the front gate. "A loaf of milk and a sliced pint, please," you'd ask the shopkeeper when you arrived. I worried about them when they turned their garage into Ferrari's HQ and removed their Da's engine from his company car, returning it with more horsepower than he ever really needed. (He'd leave home at 8.30 a.m. and could never understand why he was at his desk at 8.33 a.m., especially as he lived 10 miles from the office. To this day `Fangio' still can't fathom how his Vauxhall Viva did 0-120 in four seconds). "I need to get some onions out of that box," you'd say, on entering the garage. "Okay - but don't disturb Niki," Ferrari's head mechanic would say. "Who's Niki?" "Lauda." I SAID: `WHO'S NIKI?"' "Get your onions," he'd sigh.

I worried about them when they viewed the birth of the Jordan team as the eighth wonder of the world and were regularly heard to mutter "our Eddie who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name". I worried about them when they rang home from America every second Saturday night to ask their mother to look up teletext for news of the latest Grand Prix qualifying session and had her declaring "Rubens is an absolute flier, isn't he?". I worried about them when Damon Hill won Jordan's first Grand Prix, in Belgium on August 30th, 1998 and they proclaimed it to be the greatest day in the history of Ireland, greater even than the day Ray Houghton headed a ball in to a Stuttgart net. I worried about them when they became a father for the first time earlier this year and announced that the sight of Formula One on telly threw their baby daughter in to a state of frenzy. "Are you sure she hasn't wind," I asked. "Get your onions," he sighed.

I worried because I reckoned an obsession with Formula One was an unhealthy thing and that there were far more important things going on around us, things that would shape the future, like the FA Cup and Leinster football finals. "What's the attraction of cars going around in circles saying nothing other than vrrrooom," I'd ask, but I never received a satisfactory answer. But now I'm worried because I very nearly, almost, understand what all the fuss is about. The answer, I think, lies in the fact that Formula One is a soap opera worthy of a slot at the top of the TAM ratings, one that, as we speak, has provided us with a 1999 season cliffhanger that Miley could only but dream of. Every successful soap, as we know, is based on a tried and tested formula, one that gives us characters to loathe, love and lust after and plots that leave us gasping in exasperation or wonder.

Formula One has the lot. After the last Grand Prix, Les Battersby (Eddie Irvine) drew level with Curly Watts (Mika Hakkinen) at the top of the drivers' championship, but Ashley the Butcher ( Heinz-Harald Frentzen) moved within 10 points of the top two with a gutsy victory. Jack Duckworth (David Coulthard), meanwhile, is trailing in their wake. Formula One's boss, Mike Baldwin (Bernie Ecclestone) is chuffed with the thrilling climax to the championship, as is Jordan boss Fred Elliott (Eddie Jordan), who has set about trying to undermine Curly's brittle confidence by questioning his and his team's nerve. Les, meanwhile, is shooting his mouth off, as usual, and has dismissed Ashley's challenge for the title as a "red herring". Elsewhere Mavis (Damon "I don't really knooooow. . .if I still want to drive cars at 200mph for a living" Hill) and Spider, Emily Bishop's nephew (Toranosuke Takagi) are more concerned with just finishing the remaining races (preferably while the cameras are still rolling), although the viewing audience has lost faith in Spider's mechanics.

(Spider's races so far - Spa: retired, clutch problems; Hungary: retired, driveshaft failure; Hockenheim: retired, engine failure; Austria: retired, engine failure; Silverstone: finished 16th and last; Magny Cours: finished, but was later disqualified; Montreal: retired, gearbox problems; Barcelona: finished 13th and last; Monaco: retired, engine blew; Imola: retired, engine failure; Interlagos: retired, engine failure; Melbourne: wey hey! finished seventh).

While remaining unconvinced by all this talk of pit-stop strategy (you're driving from Dublin to Galway - do you fill your tank in Athlone and hope it gets you to Eyres Square, or do you half fill it in Athlone and top up in Ballinasloe?) and other Zzzz-inducing F1 techie talk the three-way battle between Les, Curly and Ashley has us transfixed. For the record we, like Maxine, are rooting for Ashley. "Get your onions," we can hear an Eddie fan sigh.