CLARKSON: Talking of terrible weekends, can I ask about diet when you're on the road?
PIASTRI: Yep.
CLARKSON: 'Cause I remember -- where was it, where you couldn't even keep a slice of toast down?
PIASTRI: Baku, 2023.
CLARKSON: Yeah, it was 2023, right. Do you know what caused that, and is there anything that you avoid when you're on the road?
PIASTRI: I still don't know exactly what caused it. It was food poisoning, but I don't know what from. I generally try to stay clear of sushi and raw food too close to a race weekend, which is a shame because I really like sushi, especially when we go to Japan, it's very hard. I also have -- not instructions, but warnings from Mark, because he's also had a very nasty episode from food poisoning himself!
CLARKSON: Fuji 2007, vomiting into his helmet, I remember that.
PIASTRI: Exactly, so he's got probably the worst experience of that, so I take his advice very sternly, and I try and avoid that, and eat quite simply, but when I get into the race weekend, then I normally just eat the same thing every time.
oscar piastri interviewed by tom clarkson on box box box, 2026
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The newsroom had been empty for hours, the hum of the building settling into the kind of quiet that makes every sound feel louder than it is, prickling at your skin. It was a little spooky being in the archives of the Daily Planet this late at night.
You had just closed the last file drawer, back to the door, when the air shifted -enough to raise the hairs on your neck. You rushed to gather your papers, ready to lock up.
βThought youβd slip out before I got back?β
You turned at the sound of his voice, finding him in the doorway. No tie. Shirt sleeves rolled. His glasses caught the low light. Clark stepped inside, letting the heavy door click shut behind him.
Your hand flew to your chest. βGeez, you scared me, Clark. This place gives me the creeps this time of night β guess Iβm a little jumpy. Also didnβt think you were coming backβ¦β You flashed him a cheeky grin.
He crossed the room in two long strides, brushing the folder from your hand and setting it aside without breaking your gaze.
βI was justββ
βYou were justβ¦?β he echoed, slow and deliberate. βWalking past my desk all day in this little skirtβ¦ thinking I wouldnβt notice?β
He closed the last inches between you, guiding you back until the filing cabinet met your hips. One hand gripped them firmly; the other skimmed your thigh. Your heart pounded in your throat, and you were certain he could hear it.
βYou okay, sweetheart?β he murmured. βQuiet all of a sudden? No witty comeback this time?β
His fingers pushed the hem of your skirt up, inch by inch, dragging it higher until they grazed the lace at your hip. His breath hitched like heβd won something.
The file drawers rattled when he pressed you harder into the cabinet, his mouth brushing your ear, wicked grin on his face βTell me, sweet girlβ¦β his voice a low ache, βdid you wear pink just for me?β
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