F1's laid-back drifter who was too nice for his own good
Jacques Laffite adored motor racing, says NIGEL ROEBUCK, but he was never consumed by it...
It is the mid-eighties, and we are chatting outside the Meridien Hotel in Montreal. A cab draws up, and out steps Jacques Laffite. He sees us, waves hello, then goes to the boot, from which he extracts his suitcase and - of course - the fishing gear that goes everywhere with him. Then he pays the driver, who starts to move off.
Suddenly Laffite's expression changes. "Merde!", he shouts, slapping his forehead with the palm of his hand, gesticulating for the cab to stop. Up goes the boot again, and Jacques gratefully retrieves the overlooked item. It is his helmet bag.
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