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!.