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I watch a Formula One race in a state that most scientists call "being asleep". Usually, I miss the end. Always, I don't care about the result. And this is because I don't know very much about the drivers or the teams for whom they race.

A football manager is a larger-than-life personality. With the obvious exception of Avram Grant, who is also what scientists call "being asleep", they stamp about on the touch-lines shaking their fists, and afterwards they try their hardest to say kind words about the team that has beaten them, but usually end up laying into the ref, the officials, the quality of the ground and the sheer blind luck that gifted their opponents a win. They are, then, what experts call "human beings".

Now, let us compare and contrast this state of affairs to life on the pit wall and in the post-race press conferences in F1. Ever seen Ron Dennis and Flavio Briatore having a fight? Can you imagine such a thing? Or what about Frank Williamscalling Jean Todt a drunken retard? Behind the scenes, these people may be human beings, but at the circuit, they become human bores.

And then we have the drivers. When Didier Drogba falls over, and I will admit he does this a lot, we get a big close-up of his face as he rolls around on the ground pretending to be hurt. When he scores, we zoom right in, so we can see the dopamine rearranging his face. Football may be a team sport, and a big business, but because we can see the players, it is as human and as touching as any Sebastian Faulks novel.

Things are very different in F1. Nelson Piquet once attempted to punch a fellow driver. And Michael Schumacher was once seen storming down the pit lane in search of David Coulthard. But we never saw the claret. We never see anything.

When they are out of the cars, they are nothing more than dreary spokesmen for the companies that sponsor them. And then when they are in the cars, they are hidden from our view behind six layers of fire-retardant material and a bloody great helmet.

I want to see how they react when they overtake someone. I want to see the Liverpudlian disappointment when it's the other way around. And, if the space shuttles' windows can withstand the heat of re-entry, I do not know why their helmets cannot be transparent so this is possible.

I also want to hear, via my red button, every word said to every driver by every team. With swearing. In essence, I want some emotion. It makes plain business sense too. At the moment, my boy struts around with 'Samsung' writ large on his chest. Meanwhile, his United supporting mates unwittingly advertise an obscure insurance company. If F1 were a bit more alive, they'd be wearing Renault and BMW shirts instead.

Max Mosley has shown that the people at the top in F1 are human. And now it's up to everyone else to follow suit. I want to know, as the race begins, that the night before, Lewis Hamilton porked Kimi Raikkonen's missus. I want the boss of BMW to appear on TV after the race and say the Mercedes E-Class is a piece of crap. And I want Robert Kubica to actually admit he hates the Germans.

The BBC will do a good job of serving up the food, I'm sure. But I want the food in question to be exciting. Not a slop of lukewarm porridge.