Dodgy Business

By and large, the media corps covering Formula One rubs along well. There's some good natured ribbing based around national stereotyping and the expected schadenfreude at world/European championship time. Other than that it's pretty harmonious.

Sometimes, though, there's a bit of tension among the national press boys over McLaren's Thursday Lewis Hamilton media scrums. In Montreal recently it led to some fine comedy.

You might reasonably wonder what Lewis has to say of any great interest on a Thursday, before he's even set foot in the car for the weekend. But you'd be missing the point. The newspaper boys obviously have to file their Friday morning stories before a car has turned a wheel. The Sunday paper guys have a different agenda again and will be looking for a feature-based story that won't be dated by any qualifying action.

And so, what happens is that a few minutes are allocated to international press in general, then a few minutes for agency/wire journalists, then a few more for the British daily press, followed, finally, by the Sundays.

There's a bit of consternation if an unfamiliar face shows up and things can get a bit tetchy, much to the amusement of Lewis himself.

It must be quite funny for a 23-year-old to watch grown men twice his age getting all steamed up about a bit of general fat-chewing over nothing in particular. And it's easy to appreciate how young superstars can get drunk on their own importance. We don't help...

What the national lads want to avoid is their 'exclusive' quotes ending up on some website half an hour later, leading to "I've read that bloody story yesterday!" complaints from stroppy sports editors.

What tends to happen is that, instead of everyone sitting transcribing the same material afterwards, someone takes it upon himself to do the job and circularise the rest, while the others head off to talk to Jenson, DC, etc.

In Montreal, a Canadian journalist who obviously didn't know the protocol tried to hang around for the British media session. It fell to my good buddy and erstwhile travelling companion, Simon Arron, to do the honours with the transcript that afternoon.

For amusement value, he also transcribed the pre-session spat. He added boxer Joe Calzaghe's 'Pride of Wales' moniker to News of the World man Ian Gordon, in recognition of their shared nationality and Ian's pugnacious approach. Referee for the occasion was Steve Cooper, who has just switched from journalism to PR and was making his McLaren debut. It went as follows:

Steve Cooper: "Sorry, this is only for the British media..."

Tubby Canadian: "That's OK, I just want to listen."

Ed Gorman (The Times): "No, no, no, no."

Cooper: "Sorry, it's for the British daily press."

Ian 'Pride of Wales' Gordon (News of The World): "It's for the British daily press!"

Tubby Canadian, unmoved, finally bends down to pick up his 'just listening' tape recorder.

Gorman: "Come on..."

Canadian: "What's so funny? What makes you laugh?"

Pride of Wales: "Sorry, mate, we're just trying to work here."

Canadian: "Yeah? That's what I'm trying to do, too."

All: "Yes, but this is for the British daily press."

Canadian: "Right..."

Pride of Wales: "Go on, f**k off!"

Exit Canadian, stage left.

Lewis Hamilton: "I love this!"

Simon, as you might have guessed, didn't actually know the Canadian journalist's name, hence the disrespectful 'Tubby' label. What happened next defies belief but I promise you is entirely true.

Out of a press room full of 250 plus media, the aforementioned Canadian just happened to walk along behind our desk row as Simon was mid transcript. Delayed by an extended chair, he glanced at Simon's laptop screen and noticed what was being typed. Including the reference to a tubby Canadian...

"Would you like a name on that?" he enquired in a loud voice, before continuing on his way, smiling. It did have a certain class, that...

Obviously I found all this hugely funny and was delighting in Mr Arron's embarrassment. I'm known as a bit of an optimist at times but Simon took the biscuit with his next line.

"There's a good chance they won't be familiar with 'tubby' in Canada..." he suggested. Cue more uncontainable laughter. A bit like saying they won't know what a vindaloo is in Delhi...

Anyway, in Magny-Cours he got even.

If you looked at this column post-Monaco, you will know that myself and Messrs Arron and Hughes spent a convivial evening with the Irish (Setanta) press contingent, being superbly entertained at former Grand Prix driver David Kennedy's lovely villa in Vence. At Magny-Cours it was our turn to reciprocate.

Obviously we couldn't compete with the villa but we did manage a strip of grass on the banks of the Loire and a disposable barbecue. All was going well and we'd only managed to smoke out the one set of miffed Germans. With Gary Anderson (on red) and Kennedy (on water) in full flow, I decided to take a picture for posterity - not to mention use in bloggy-style columns.

Simon stood up to peruse the happy snap. "The only problem is," I said, "the way I've taken it, everyone's going to think that shitbox in the background is our motorhome."

Whereupon a voice over my left shoulder said: "That's mine actually. The name's Dave. Pleased to meet you." Oh dear.

As Dave headed for his fridge to grab a beer and rejoin us, I reverted to optimistic type and suggested that possibly he hadn't heard the 'shitbox' bit.

"No mate, sorry, you didn't get away with that, you're in the barrier..." Simon said, just managing to stem tears of mirth.

But 'Shitbox Dave' - as he became known for the rest of the weekend - would get the last laugh...

Calls home throughout the weekend were getting a coldish reception. Not arctic but definitely a bit Jack Frost. I decided some time ago that we should rent out the family home for The Open Golf championship at Royal Birkdale, which is about three miles from our place. Many of our friends were doing it and the returns were so attractive as to make it a no-brainer. My wife Angela didn't agree.

"Don't worry," I said, "we're too far away from the course to get a golfer, so we'll have sponsors or the media. All they'll want to do is come back late, put their heads down and head off again first thing in the morning. I know how it works. You won't even know they've been there. And we can go and have a nice holiday."

She reluctantly agreed to give the house to the golf agent in Southport as we continued with a few improvements which now became urgent. But with no word and the tournament less than a month away, she started to content herself that the house wasn't going to rent. Two days before I left for Magny-Cours, however, the agent rang. He had a client. A golfer. Could we negotiate on the price?

Angela, sensing the way the conversation was going, was shaking her head vehemently. I knew better than to argue. "No we can't," I said, "I've just watched him trouser a very healthy wedge in the US Open, so I'm sure it won't break him." Fair enough, said the agent, "I agree with you but we've got to ask. Done deal."

A confidentiality clause forbids me from letting you know which golfer it is but, being a sports fan, I was quite excited about it all. I had recorded the final round of the US open and got him up on freeze frame to show Angela, who seemed curiously indifferent.

Then I started to trawl the internet to find out a bit more about him. I was then informed that time would be much better utilised getting off my butt and getting on with decorating the upstairs bathroom. Yes, miss...

Her mood blackened further when, 20 minutes after I'd just headed out the door for Magny-Cours, she got a call from the agent informing her that the golfer was bringing with him his wife and two children, plus another couple and their two children and, potentially, another couple. Could we juggle the beds around a bit?

My first call from France to enquire about the wellbeing of wife and kids didn't go well.

"Hi love, how's things?"

"Do you know they've asked for 10 beds and that means 20 sets of linen!"

"Better get down to Primark, then."

Click. Brrrrrrrr.

"Hello. Hello? You there?"

I figured it might be politic to get back from France ASAP and help. The lads volunteered to check into a hotel on Sunday night and so, deadline work done, I left Nevers on Sunday night for an early Monday ferry.

Dover to Southport is about the same distance as Nevers to Calais and I was only about an hour in on Monday morning when our American motorhome decided to drop a valve on a bend between junctions four and five of the M25.

Stuck on the hard shoulder, what to do? First, discover that AA membership only covers vehicles up to 3.5 tons. The motorhome weighs 5.5 tons. So, pay £200 (GBP) to have 'roadside assistance' tell me, "It's knackered, mate. Hope you've got a big bank balance..."

Yes, thanks for that. Pay another £200 and wait for the recovery man. Just like Monopoly in reverse, this; you keep paying instead of collecting and you never get to pass 'Go'.

Next question: where to take it? The recovery man, understandably enough, would like to know, and it's going to cost five million pounds per mile. The local Ford dealer is probably not the answer.

Quick phone call to mate, who sources American vehicle specialist in Redhill, 20 miles away. Phone them up. Yes, they say, bring it to us. Thank God for that. Southport is 200 plus miles away.

Sit in motorhome awaiting recovery man as sleepy Polish artic drivers thunder past a foot from the wing mirror. Muse on the fact that I've got 120 litres of LPG and 50 litres of unleaded on board (you have to keep the fuel tank a quarter full even when running on gas, or else the generator shuts off in case it runs you out of petrol).

Decide it might be a wise move to step outside. Sit on barrier and comtemplate repair bill. Start to actively hope that sleepy Polish artic driver piles into the back of it. Only joking, for the benefit of the PC brigade... Realise that my best chance is probably Shitbox Dave. He lives in Brackley and will probably be coming around anytime soon. And he'll be laughing so much he's bound to crash!

Recovery man is an absolute star. He has to disconnect the propshaft before he can tow the beast and he's a bit cheesed that roadside assistance hasn't already done it. He's within his rights to refuse but, instead, lies underneath, two feet from passing wagons, wrestling manfully with four stubborn propshaft bolts until the job is done.

The only casualty is his can of WD40, which rolls out into the fast lane and is obliterated. He then conducts a combined 53ft length through the backstreets of Redhill, past rusty posts with an inch to spare each side and into a tight yard. With a permanent smile. Do it every day, mate...

Hugely impressed, I feel the need to press a note into his hand for his efforts. I know it's his job, but not one I'd want for all the tea in China. I've got no sterling and so it has to be euros. Next time you cross the channel get yourself a drink...

The phone goes. "What time are you getting home?"

"I've broken down, love," I tell her. There is a small but perceptible thaw in the ice cap. A lift, a cab and three trains later I walk through the door at 10pm, about 25hrs after I set off. Or, about the same time as it takes to get back from Melbourne ...

"How much is it going to cost?" she wants to know. I haven't the heart to tell her that fettling a 6.8-litre Ford Triton V10 will probably cost about the same as you get for renting your house for 10 days during The Open...

Next stop Silverstone, but we're down three beds.

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