I was fairly sure that the normally redoubtable Mrs Wick had over catered the scones. There were a great deal of scones, there was practically a garage that could take two formula one cars and their assorted paraphernalia, full of scones, savouries and other delicacies. The shining marble floor that Maclaren at put in at some expense was by lunchtime swimming in clotted cream and everyone appeared to have a baby. The TMC truck, never especially fragrant at the best of times, was now being used for nappy changing and it was nearly impossible to find somewhere to smoke without withering under the death ray of the maternal evil eye, whilst their charming offspring played peek-a-boo behind the drums of bioethanol.
After some satisfactory testing in mixed conditions (wet and very wet) it was looking good for qually but on the day I just simply couldn?t put a lap together, being belligerent and Scottish I refused to follow the crowd and ended up 30th more or less last on the grid and for the first time being unable to replicate testing in qualifying, bugger.
The TMC jamboree was joined by the WAGS and WAGS in law but also the stout, well one of them anyway, men of Track and Racecar Magazine. An entertaining duel between the features editor and the editor in chief had been arranged, with LA Rob out in California the 47 car (not be confused with the even bluer now 74 car ? a cider related event in Wilsthire I suspect) was being piloted by the Editor in Chief and Brian ?Catering rUS? Mitcham?s gentlemen?s racer in the responsible hands of Features Editor. Sad to say that there was no Bjorg-McEnroe style sporting Bannockburn as the sprightly EiC ran off with the plaudits and put the 47 car on the podium in his first race. You can read their views on the matter here?.
Being the 10th birthday of Mr Champion?s formula, a parade lap of Silverstone had been organised, as we dawdled onto the famous circuit my car seemed to give up the ghost in a spluttery, sort of, I?ve run out of petrol kind of way. I didn?t even make it round to the start line despite my best efforts at propelling the car forward using nothing but invective and deep understanding of swearing. The long suffering marshals pushed me back to the pits where they availed themselves of scones and angel cakes, whilst I sought out, Cinderella style, an arse that would fit my foot. Naturally enough my total incompetence with the messy oily bit at the front of the car led me to castigate the innocent and it was indeed a proper bit of fortune as there was plenty of go juice in the car but the fuel pump had died a death. Missing the parade lap was a tiny price to pay for being able to swap out the pump prior to the race. Tony works in mysterious ways.
Thoroughly annoyed at my lack of pace in qualifying and relieved to have fuel pumping car, I employed an ancient scottish combat yoga routine that involved smoking half a pack of cowboy killers and then laying upside down on Victoria Pickles ramps till all the blood rushed to my head and then immediately getting strapped into the cockpit.
Finally a decent start with a few scalps on the grid and in the heat of battle my serene yoga and fags combo was paying off. My late breaking routine, which was just rubbish in qualifying, was actually pretty useful in the race and ever more heroic lunges up the inside was gaining me places. Matt was parked at the side of the track, his championship hopes more or less gone with this DNF. It?s a long way from 30th to the start of the points but with some attrition (sorry Matt) and a few passes I was nearly there. Since starting in Locost with some very nervous and shaky driving this was first time I really felt confident behind the wheel and getting out at the finish with a couple of real racers behind me was a feeling of satisfaction that a man of my age usually has to pay heavily for. I joined the features editor for a parc ferme fag and a review of the racing, I?ll bet we looked like a couple turf accountants that?s just seen favourite jockey appear over the fence before his mount?.
