F1 - Favourite Drivers

Anyone with a merest smidgeon of sporting knowledge knew the biggest names in Grand Prix. Of course it helped that Britain, then as now, boasted some of the best. Graham Hill and Jackie Stewart were the latest in a long line of oily-faced gents such as Clark, Moss and Surtees flying the Union Flag on circuits around the globe and were always in the headlines.

The fiercely proud Ferrari tifosi may disagree but the UK has long been closely associated with the UK. Many of the top teams, from McLaren to Williams, Lotus to Red Bull, have been based here, and so we have done pretty well in the driving stakes, too. The problem is, so many of them have been dull as ditchwater. OK, so it doesn’t help when the modern driver is so rarely seen in public. How can we mere mortals identify a personality if it’s so carefully concealed? Even more than the top golfers, tennis stars or footballers, they seem to inhabit a rarified bubble. Their huge earnings finance a life of superyachts, Monte Carlo mansions, Isle of Man tax havens and personal private jets and on the few occasions we do get to see them on the tour, they are mostly swaddled in sponsors’ overalls and helmets. I have to take the commentator’s word that it really is Fernando Alonso or Sebastian Vettel beneath all those logos.

The Brits have been a mixed bunch. Nigel Mansell was notorious for having such a dreary demeanour, and it has been difficult to warm to the likes of Damon Hill John Watson or current champion, the slick, sharp but vacuous Lewis Hamilton. At least David Coulthard has proved his personality pedigree in the commentary box, and Jenson Button displayed some youthful enthusiasm in his early days. The lad from Frome may have become world champion but he never quite satisfied the UK media’s craven need for a true blonde playboy driver.

Johnny Herbert had his moments but none ever lived up to James Hunt. In the Seventies he went from ‘Hunt the Shunt’ to top of the pile, while simultaneously living in an even faster lane encompassing a voracious appetite for booze and women. For all this I confess I couldn’t stand him – or at least the man sold to us through the TV and Press. I much preferred him as Murray Walker’s sidekick post-retirement, but I never forgave him for taking the 1976 title from Niki Lauda, who had been lucky to survive his mid-season crash let alone be in contention to win the championship.

For some reason, it was the relatively morose Austrian who captured my imagination. He propelled Ferrari to the title in ’75 and was miles ahead a year later when his season was sunk by that conflagration at the Nurburgring. His extraordinary recovery and single-minded determination not to succumb to his burns, helped Lauda win again in ’77 but the one I remember most fondly was his comeback success – by just half a point! – in 1984.

From the Seventies to the Nineties there was genuine competition. In the Eighties, Prost, Piquet, Mansell, Berger, Patrese and Rosberg were usually in contention but it was Ayrton Senna who stirred the senses more than any other. I’m not qualified to assess the Brazilian’s technical ability but, just by watching his car on the track, he seemed to possess the X-factor, an aura which his main rivals simply didn’t have. That’s what made his fatal crash in the San Marino GP at the peak of his powers so tough for the sport to take.

Sebastian Vettel was a breath of fresh air when he burst on the scene, but when someone is fortunate enough to be at the wheel of an invincible car, continuous success breeds boredom with the casual spectator, and – let’s face it - the Brits have never liked Germans. Michael Schumacher epitomised the xenophobic British view of the ‘arrogant Hun’. For starters, he had an unfortunate sneer-shaped mouth. But the principal reason for the antipathy was his sheer brilliance behind the wheel. His five consecutive world titles with Ferrari between 2000 and 2004 represented an unparallelled period of dominance. What appealed to me was his ability to win in adverse circumstances. His first world titles came with unfancied Benetton in the mid-Nineties then he almost single-handedly restored Ferrari’s faded fortunes, going on to a further five consecutive titles. Nobody could touch him, especially in the wet, and with Ferrari’s technical team also rediscovering their mojo, F1 was becoming a procession for Schumacher et al. Such dominance led to all sorts of rule changes but in the end, credit where credit’s due. Unlike Barbara, the mother of my ex, Jan, I’m not a globetrotting superfan, but I always admired Schumacher more than any other since Lauda. The more the UK Press hated him, the more I liked him.

Maybe his legacy was tarnished by his lucrative return to F1 with Mercedes, after a three-year ‘retirement’. He could no longer work miracles behind the wheel. Sadly, his fearlessness, skill and ultra-sharp reactions honed in karts and 200mph cars let him down in a split-second in 2013. Not on the track, but off-piste in the French Alps. For all his millions in the bank and portfolio of palatial properties (every excursion I take in Europe seems to take me past one of them), his resulting head injury has left him unable to walk or talk, probably permanently. A desperately distressing story.

Of course, F1 is a worldwide sport, funded by global corporations and broadcasting rights deals, demanding names from Russia, Asia and the USA to attract TV audiences and sponsors in those lucrative markets. Yanks, Brazilians, Aussies, Finns and Spaniards have all been in the mix but we still await the first Muscovite, Chinese or Indian winner. I’m sure it will come. But first there is a 19 year-old Formula 3 champion called Mick Schumacher to consider. While his dad languishes in a paralysed body, it would be wonderful if Schumy Junior could keep the Drivers Championship in the family. Anyone to end the Hamilton hegemony!.

NeeeeeeeEEEEEEYYYYYYAAAAOOOoooowwww!

“And there – he – goes….. “ Ah, the voice of Murray Walker conjures up memories of motor sport throughout my formative year and beyond. To be honest I have never been especially keen on watching 750cc bikes, souped-up Cortinas or the 200mph advertising boards on wheels which contest Formula One Grand Prix. However, my weekend afternoons during the Seventies were often punctuated by Murray’s excitable exclamations.

Whether on two wheels or four, helmeted heads were often seen haring around rainswept swathes of tarmac, from Brands Hatch to Donington, Thruxton to Lyddon Hill, all to the soundtrack of Mr Walker’s commentary. The occasional shunt made the races moderately interesting and at least these segments in Grandstand were more entertaining than the 2.15 from Catterick.

Even in black-and-white, the mud-spattered sport of Motorcross definitely had appeal for this young boy. Umpteen bikes actually raced against each other in close proximity, scrambling around rugged fields, generating a genuine sense of excitement. This YouTube clip brought it all back to me. Rally driving seemed to feature similar elements, but without the danger of overtaking. On the few occasions I watched on the box, it always seemed to be Finns winning everything and, while it looked a thrilling spectacle for the spectator, I never felt the inner rush to travel to some godforsaken forest and see a soggy Subaru fishtailing its way down the lanes. I was happy to leave such adventures to the true petrolheads.

Rallycross and saloon car racing had the advantage of featuring vehicles broadly recognisable from those I saw on the way to school (Vauxhall Chevettes, Ford Escorts!), while  Sports Car events had slightly more glamour but without the global cache of F1. Not enough to convert me to the Castrol-veined Clarksonesque community. As they say, every cloud…!

No, I preferred my cars smaller. Much smaller. I do remember on our 1970 summer holiday to Cornwall buying a Roger Clark Ford Capri complete with stickers, the closest I would ever get to rallying! Whilst my own ‘races’ on the living room carpet were more likely to involve the larger Corgi or Dinky models, amongst my modest collection of toy cars were a few peeling metal Matchbox Jaguars or Lesney Lotuses, either bought for me or passed down from my uncles. Welcome to the word of Formula One. 

Like most sports, the BBC tended to dominate motor sport broadcasting and, being part of a Beeb-favouring family, I probably watched F1 from a young age. I don’t recall exactly when I became aware of the sport’s epitome but I do remember discussing the well-publicised death of Jochen Rindt in 1970 with a classmate who was more into such things than I ever was; he even went to Brands Hatch with his family, a distinctly exotic activity compared with my stamp-collecting, bike-riding or back garden cricket with Dad.

My Grand Prix watching was fairly sporadic. It wasn’t essential viewing for me, not even the British or Monaco races, for all their hyper-hyped glitz and gloss. However, if there was nothing else to do or watch on a wet Sunday summer or autumn afternoon, the BBC’s coverage was a reliable friend. Let’s be honest, the best bits were:-

-        The brooding bassline and wailing guitar solo from Fleetwood Mac’s The Chain’ top-and-tailing each programme;

-        Murray Walker acclaiming a particularly nifty piece of overtaking or crash;

-        The chequered flag moment

Everything in between was rather boring. Monaco had some street scenery but no overtaking, which put the onus on speed in pre-race qualifying. Spa in Belgium had some distinctive rises and falls, Hockenheim the forests, Monza had Ferrari’s irresistible seas of scarlet banners and, more recently, the innovative floodlit Singapore brought a different look and atmosphere. However, I always found it difficult to love the rest.

Once the mad dash for the first bend, with its associated risks and potential for shunts and spins, was completed, what else is there to look forward to? Putting a stopwatch on pit stops added a touch of tension to what is basically a trip to the garage for new tyres (but without the wait and browse through an incomprehensible spare parts magazine) but even if the superbly-drilled mechanics performed their task inside six seconds, it would do nothing to boost my heart rate. Only a bumper-to-bumper contest and heart-in-mouth overtaking manoeuvres would do that.

There was nothing uplifting about a really serious accident, of course. In the Seventies, Formula One was still a dangerous business. The increased emphasis on ‘elf and safety may have produced less of a spectacle for TV audiences but it has also undoubtedly extended the lifespan of drivers and indeed those in the stands. Big stars like Rindt, Ronnie Peterson, Gilles Villeneuve and Ayrton Senna all perished for our entertainment, while others have sadly died during testing. I remember switching on to the 1994 Imola race to learn of Senna’s fatal collision with a wall. Obviously there were no highlights, no confirmation that the much-loved genius had been killed, but the downbeat tone of Walker, Brundle et al said it all and practically had me in tears. I hadn’t been watching in 1976 when the brilliant Niki Lauda was engulfed in flames at the Nurburgring but the scenes shown on the News that night were shocking. I definitely prefer my sporting heroes alive and kicking, thank you very much.

As with other sports, the migration of F1 away from BBC then terrestrial TV altogether seriously diminished my interest in motor racing. The banter between Jake Humphreys, Eddie Jordan and David Coulthard had been quite entertaining, while Suzi Perry had introduced some much-needed femininity but even Suzi couldn’t lure me into the world of tyre treads and millionaire motorhomes. The retirement of Michael Schumacher and rise of Lewis Hamilton haven’t helped either. Will there be future drivers or presenters able to lead me back into the fold? Probably not, given this household’s preference for Sunday afternoon football! However, Formula One has not been without its luminaries who have enthralled this armchair viewer.

Rugby League

Whilst I’ve never played it, or even shown any genuine close interest, a chunk of my childhood TV experience is forever bottled and labelled as Rugby League. I must confess my instant thought upon hearing or reading those two words is the voice of the old BBC commentator Eddie Waring. On a bad day, the voice morphs into that of Seventies impressionist Mike Yarwood, the image completed by the ever-present trilby, pseudo-Yorkshire sing-song delivery and inevitable catchphrase “oop and under”.  Those were the days before League was ‘Super’ and transformed by Sky into a sport played under the summer sun instead of cold rain propelled across the Pennines.

As an unashamed Southerner, League always seemed to belong to the ribbon of Roses land somewhere between the Midlands and Lake District. For me, the sport was – and still is – irrevocably associated with a generic ‘Northern’ accent. It doesn’t matter how hard the new-fangled Super League has tried to widen its revenue stream to encompass London, Paris or Perpignan, I will never be convinced of the game’s claim to be genuine without a stream of dropped aitches.

Winter afternoons on BBC1 were built around live League fixtures, all described by the aforementioned Mr Waring. Dad and I didn’t always watch, but the non-stop action in front of rain-battered crowds was often breathtaking. The oval ball is the same but Union couldn’t hold a candle to League when it comes to continuous action and often brutal physical contact. Some of my clearest memories of players are not of the pacy runners but the front-row forwards, the hulks of the scrum. I can’t forget the drooping moustache and inscrutable body language of Leeds’ Sid Hynes after landing another haymaker on an opponent. Worse still was ‘Big’ Jim Mills (the nickname as unimaginative as it was unnecessary), who always seemed to be committing random acts of extreme violence in his Widnes shirt. He apparently did the same wearing the red of Wales, too.

When I first started watching, it was near impossible working out which side was which. Played in black and white, all 26 players seemed to be swathed in the dark grey colour of mud. That’s where Eddie Waring came into his own. I’m sure I was watching when, after Wakefield Trinity’s Don Fox sliced a simple kick which would have won the 1968 Challenge Cup Final, the chummy commentator summed up what everyone outside Leeds was feeling with the immortal words; “Eee, the poor lad!” Waring also featured in the BBC’s summer game show It’s a Knockout but for years he was Mr Rugby League, an epithet which could also be applied to his successor Ray French. Eddie may have been eased out because of his jokey colloquialisms but French was every bit as much the comedy Northerner.

Even the top players’ names resonated with Northernness. I recall Bev Risman and Les Dyll playing for Leeds, plus Joe Lydon at Wigan, Alex Murphy for St Helens and Castleford’s Alan Hardisty. Could they ever have participated in any other sport? I don’t have particular favourites although I have a soft spot for Widnes’ and Wigan’s charismatic Eighties scrum-half Andy Gregory. I suppose I liked him because, at five feet five, he was dwarfed by everybody else on the pitch yet was as resolutely tough as a Central Park stanchion.

Life was getting in the way of Grandstand viewing by the time titanic try scorers like Ellery Hanley, Anthony Sullivan and Martin ‘Chariots’ Offiah entered the scene although I did see them on the telly a few times. The same goes for Jason Robinson, whose unique jerky running style for Wigan in the Nineties was as entertaining as his actual try-scoring exploits.

By this time, Sky had its hooks into the sport. Union had remained amateur for a century or so but was beginning to lose its best players to professional League. Wales in particular saw stars such as Jonathan Davies, Robert Ackermann and Scott Gibbs switch codes. Union bowed to the inevitable, becoming a pro sport in 1995, after which the flow started to reverse, Robinson being a prime example. The Five Nations (as was) internationals had always fascinated me more than League so, with British Rugby Union becoming more of a running game in an attempt to keep up with the All Blacks and Aussies, the distinction between the two codes began to blur and I more or less abandoned any pretence at following League.

In my head, the game is forever associated not with Bulls, Wolves or Rhinos but Northern, Trinity or Rovers. Leeds, St Helens and Wigan are just as dominant as they were five decades ago but for me it’s the likes of Dewsbury, Hunslet or Leigh which also echo loudly across the years. It wasn’t just about the winter afternoons in grim, grey Victorian mill towns. The Wembley centrepieces of League were almost as engrossing as those of football. I recall once taking the train to Wembley for railway photos, while a Challenge Cup Final was taking place within the old stadium behind me. The atmosphere managed to permeate the white walls and reach me although I wasn’t even sure who was playing.

One game I did see on the box was a classic encounter between Wigan and Hull in 1988. Tries galore, mostly from coruscating breaks rather than mere scrappy flops across the line, showed how good Rugby League could be. Best of all were the team names: Wigan and Hull. Nine letters: simple, humble, traditional, Lancashire v Yorkshire. Rugby League in a nutshell.

FA Cup Fever

The FA Cup proper is now under way. Several League 1 and 2 clubs are already insisting they are now "concentrating on the league" having messed up at the weekend. Ah, the FA Cup. Giant killings. Wembley. The twin towers. Players dropping like flies, their calves screaming with cramp. Losers sobbing on the turf. Winners jogging a lap of honour, lid perched on one head, its base on another, and the famous silver pot passed from hand to hand. It all seems so anachronistic in the modern era of hastily-erected podia festooned with exploding tickertape and sponsors’ logos, choreographed award ceremonies and the obligatory interviews. And yet the world’s oldest football tournament endures.

In the dark hours of the early Noughties, the axe was almost visible, hovering over the premier knockout competition not only in England but the entire planet. When Manchester United withdrew in preference for the more prestigious World Team Championship in 1999, the writing seemed to be on the wall. When the walls themselves, along with the twin towers of old Wembley were destroyed to make way for the shining arch of the new, the showpiece finale was transferred to Cardiff’s Millennium Stadium for six years. A magnificent venue but it seemed to tarnish further the lustre of the trophy.

As a child, the FA Cup was a thing of wonder. Everyone wanted to win, have their day at Wembley. There was none of this nonsense of resting key players for the Europa League. Non-League amateurs had their opportunity to mix it with the big boys, bringing the stars “down to our patch” where for ninety minutes you had a chance of upsetting the odds and the local garage could have their advertising board seen by millions on Match of the Day. Sides featuring a motley crew of postmen, PE teachers and clerks would for a week or two welcome reporters and cameras into their territory for a fleeting fragment of fame. For the few who managed to sustain a decent run through the rounds, their players could write their names not only in encyclopedia footnotes but in local folklore for ever.

The first genuine shock I recall came in the 1970-71 season. As I’ve mentioned already, Leeds were the biggest guns of them all, and so provided the greatest scalp of all for plucky clubs in the lower divisions. That season, Colchester United were in the fourth tier and, after overcoming similarly impoverished opposition, found themselves in the fifth round at home to Don Revie’s team. The seeds were sown, the conditions perfect for a potential pratfall for Charlton, Giles, Clarke et al. In front of 16,000 spectators somehow shoehorned into little Layer Road, plus a BBC TV crew, the Blues won 3-2. I don’t need YouTube to relive the veteran Ray Crawford’s hook from the turf or Dave Simmons’ header over Sprake; they are goals never to be forgotten. It matters not a jot that Colchester were well beaten at Everton in the quarter-finals; legend status had been achieved.

A year later I recall watching MOTD, featuring the unfamiliar tones of a young John Motson, playing and replaying one of the competition’s greatest ever moments. Newcastle travelled to Southern League Hereford for a third round replay in February 1972 fearing the worst. Both sides missed easy chances but when Malcolm Macdonald finally found the net, the favourites had seemingly sealed their passage. However, when in the 85^th minute, Ronnie Radford crashed a thirty-yarder from a sea of mud into the Newcastle net to equalise, the thousands of kids fizzing on the touchline like bubbles in an unopened bottle of Tizer poured onto the quagmire in delight. The invasion was repeated in extra-time when Ricky George scored the winner. It was sensational stuff.

There have been many other examples of Division 3, 4 or even non-League outfits embarrassing top teams in my lifetime. Sutton’s triumph over Coventry in 1987 was outstanding but Wrexham’s humbling of star-studded Arsenal in 1992 was particularly satisfying for all but the most ardent Gooners, a nations’ revenge for that godawful away kit. What a free-kick that was by Mickey Thomas! 

More recently there have been memorable runs by the likes of Barnsley (beating Liverpool and Chelsea in 2008) and Lincoln City, who in 2017 (seems much longer ago) became the first non-League team since QPR a century earlier to reach the quarter-finals. A shame Arsenal spoiled the party by winning 5-0, the b*st*rds.

However, possibly the most gratifying FA Cup result came a few years earlier in 2015 when in a fourth round tie at Stamford Bridge, Chelsea chucked a 2-0 lead to lose 2-4 to League One Bradford City. Seeing Jose Mourinho’s face in defeat never fails to fill my heart with joy. For that alone I will always cherish the tournament. In 2018/19, could it be Billericay Town's year? I'd like to say stranger things have happened but...they haven't. Never mind, just one giant-killing act would be enough to create history; that's both the beauty and emotional power of the FA Cup.

Fantasy Footballing

I’ve already written plenty about England’s national sport becoming big business. It’s not just the billion-pound broadcasting rights and sponsorship deals or the sky-high superstar earnings, with all the commercial stresses and strains that go hand in hand. The internet brings global clips and opinions together for all to watch and read; everyone’s a pundit now. The insidious tentacles of betting companies have their suckers around the human suckers who, with a few clicks or taps on their phones, can make Ladbrokes, Paddy Power et al wealthier than ever. “Please bet responsibly”? Per-leaze! 

The weekly ritual of the Pools coupon has been supplanted by games such as Sky’s Super Six. Instead of sweating buckets at 4.40pm every Saturday hoping for our predictions of eight score draws coming true, we now get all clammy in anticipation of six correct scores and the ultimate million-pound jackpot. More realistically, it’s about accumulating more points than anyone else in our little league of friends and family over the course of a season, but it sure sharpens the competitive edge without the need to fork out on weekly stakes.

The increasingly realistic video games like the FIFA XX series sell millions around the world, too. As if we can’t get enough of football reality, we’re also embracing the virtual world. I’m too old to understand the digital malarkey – if only they’d invented it forty years ago – but Angie and I while away hours every week fretting over our Fantasy Premier League squads.

I first became hooked in 1994 when BBC2 first broadcast a live late Friday evening half-hour show, Fantasy Football League, starring comedian David Baddiel and the then little-known Frank Skinner. Dad and I both loved the irreverent humour, with skits and banter bound by a shared love of football, the closing credits accompanied by some atrocious karaoke singing by Skinner’s West Brom hero Jeff Astle.

However an even greater epiphany came one Boxing Day. Uncle David had the Daily Telegraph and, in the dull post-presents lull I happened across a page headed Telegraph Fantasy Football. I was invited to compile a team of individual Premier League players, each accorded different values according to their likelihoods of achieving goals, assists (then an unfamiliar concept!) or clean sheets, subject to a maximum team amount. I couldn’t fill my side with Shearers, Cantonas or Seamans (Seamen?) so I had to apply my knowledge of lesser-known players, making intelligent guesses about who might deliver a deluge of surprise points. I recall Chris Sutton being my first inspired selection.

In the coming several seasons, Dad and I indulged in friendly competition with the acceptably outlay of about a fiver a year. We never bought a Telegraph – we were after all committed Guardian readers – so the town library came into its own. If the Wednesday printed edition wasn’t available, the online version would require investigating. Indeed, Dad probably owed his entire tentative computer literacy to the search for the week’s list of player points.  There was no realistic chance of financial gain but it was immense fun.

That combination of intelligence-based guesswork, simultaneously daft yet deadly serious, continues through my participation in the Fantasy Premier League competition. Angie, Pete and I expend an unfeasible amount of emotional energy tinkering with transfers, substitutions and captaincy changes just for the love of it. Love, and a determination to wrench an advantage. Supporting a club was never this urgent – and I am just one of well over 5 million playing this single game.

To have a chance it helps to get to know every flaming player in the League, and perpetually asking myself questions. Who’s suspended? Who’s injured, and for how long? Who will Pep leave out when De Bruyne returns? Is it worth taking a punt on a cheap Burnley striker? Could I possibly have done this before I took early retirement? The list goes on.

I sometimes wonder whether this would have caught on when I first became ensnared by football’s inescapable net. Instead of swapping cards we’d be indulging in the less sociable pastime of how to afford Best and Osgood without breaking the bank. Football’s a sport you can’t ignore, reality or fantasy, and I look forward to many more years captivated by its spell.