Dodgy Business

As I write, May 8 is one of those dates. You might notice it at the top of a newspaper, glance at your watch, whatever. But every time there's just one thought - Gilles.

For motor racing enthusiasts a generation on from me, April 7 has the same effect. That, of course, was the day when Jim Clark, legend and genius, was killed in a Formula 2 race at a wet, soggy, Hockenheim.

It goes without saying that racing was so much more dangerous back then but there was still disbelief about Clark's death. If it could happen to him ...

You could never say the same about Villeneuve. He was a daredevil, he was sideways, he was committed, he was exciting, he was pure adrenalin. And an inspiration to so many. I can't recall anyone having the same impact after such a relatively short - less than five year - presence in Formula One.

Gilles Villeneuve (Ferrari 312T4)1979 Grand Prix of Monaco © LAT

People always talk about what they were doing when JFK or John Lennon were shot but I'll always remember that Saturday afternoon when a sombre-faced David Coleman announced that Gilles Villeneuve had been 'very seriously injured' in a crash during practice for the Belgian Grand Prix at Zolder.

The spooky thing is that it was a quarter of a century ago, because I can remember details as if it were yesterday.

Coleman said there would be further updates as and when they became available, but his face, his tone, told you to expect the worst.

I'd just scoffed a plateful of sandwiches and grabbed my tennis bag from a bedroom with not one square centimetre of wall left unadorned by Gilles/Ferrari posters. The South Shields and Westoe Club had a home match that afternoon and all of a sudden I couldn't have been less interested.

Not quite five years earlier, in '77, I'd set off for Silverstone with my Dad to see my first British Grand Prix. It was Villeneuve's F1 debut and I'd witnessed first-hand the remarkable job he'd done with an old McLaren M23.

He'd reappeared with Ferrari towards the end of the year, when Lauda had clinched the title and moved to Brabham, leaving a hole at Ferrari. There had been the huge shunt at Fuji when Gilles went over the back of Peterson's Tyrrell, but he was still confirmed for '78.

Early in the year Gilles led at Long Beach and I must now correct an error in my scribblings from a fortnight ago. As I mentioned then, while discussing the relative merits of various drivers over a beer, I keep mentioning that Carlos Reutemann outqualified Gilles 12-4 that year. Well, he didn't. Mark Hughes informs me that there were huge timing problems at Long Beach and that Madame Dubosc, who could apparently operate 20 stopwatches at once and was unofficial timekeeper of note, had Gilles on the pole, as did Ferrari's Mauro Forghieri. So that actually makes it 11-5.

Anyway, by the end of the year some of Villeneuve's drives with the 312T3 were scintillating and he started '79 looking like a championship contender in the T4. Having finished school that year, I'd gone to Silverstone again and also, with a mate, on a Page & Moy trip to the Austrian GP.

I'd always wanted to watch F1 cars at the majestic Osterreichring's Bosch Curve and had worked as a 'play leader' in the summer break to afford the trip and a grandstand seat. It involved organising football/cricket for kids and trying to stop them killing each other at the same time as preventing bunches of bored local 'skins' from nicking their bikes or the schools' gym equipment.

Gilles Villeneuve (Ferrari 312T4) leads at the start of the 1981 Austrian Grand Prix at the Osterreichring © LAT

You could just about keep the skins onside by taking them on at five-a-side at the end of an afternoon, while the kids watched goalside. I was chuffed to get through the month with my charges fully intact when, on the last afternoon, a wayward shot from yours truly hit an 11-year-old full in the face and knocked his head back into a bracket sticking out of the gym wall. The cut was deep, obviously he was blond, it looked pretty spectacular, the wait at A&E was eternal, the mother was particularly highly-strung, and so on.

As far as I was concerned, I'd earned my right to be sat at the Bosch curve. Which is why I was deeply hacked off when the Italians plastered the chainlink fencing with Ferrari/Villeneuve banners and blanked out the view.

Sharing their enthusiasm for Gilles and the Scuderia, I was amused at first, thinking they'd been left overnight and would obviously be removed. But no, the idea was that they stayed for the race. There was almost a riot and, happily, common sense prevailed and the local marshals ripped them down.

Looking through binoculars I was focused on the first couple of rows as the lights changed. A red blur came shot through my field of vision as Gilles made one of the most amazing starts ever witnessed, squeezed the Ferrari between Arnoux's Renault and the pit wall.

He led into Hella Licht. He was still in front as the field hove into view for the first time. The whole grandstand erupted. There was no way Villeneuve could take on the Alan Jones Williams over 54 laps having qualified nearly a second and a half down, but he led for three glorious laps. It was typical of the spirit of the man and he finished a comfortable second, easily clear of a race-long battle between Laffite and teammate Jody Scheckter in the other Ferrari.

No sooner had I returned home than a friend rang to say he'd persuaded his Dad to go over to Zandvoort for the Dutch GP and did I want to come? Silly question.

Necessarily, this was a budget trip, there was no grandstand seat and I took a backpack and a piece of foam. Walking around the track on Saturday night I got talking to a group of Dutch fans who'd roped off an area at Scheivlak. There was a space for me. They said they'd look after it while I went for a mooch around the paddock.

You could do that in those days. Well, maybe you couldn't but nobody stopped you. It was dark as I wandered around the garages watching mechanics prepare cars and I remember stiffening as I approached Ferrari and caught side of an Alsatian. I was just about to head sharply in the opposite direction when, to my relief, it became apparent that the dog was on a lead. Its handler was a slight figure in a red jacket. It was Gilles!

Being Canadian, Gilles was used to motorhome culture and much preferred to stay in the paddock, with the family. Jacques, at this stage, would have been eight and was probably there too. It was almost 10pm and I watched, fascinated, as Gilles stood in the garage quietly observing the guys work on his car.

He exchanged the odd word, smile and bit of banter with them but, mostly, he just watched. You didn't want to bug him, ask for autographs or make it too obvious you shouldn't really be there. So you just watched too.

There was no place on earth I'd rather have been and after about three-quarters of an hour I headed off around the circuit in the pitch black looking for Scheivlak. Despite the dark I had a warm feeling inside. I'd been to the inner sanctum and stood shoulder-to shoulder with a hero. I finally found the spot and with the help of a few Dutch beers, fell asleep under the stars.

Gilles Villeneuve (Ferrari 312T4) 1979 Dutch Grand Prix at Zandvoort © LAT

Race day was hot and sunny and it seemed like an eternity before start time. The crowd was deep and good-humoured but quite a few headaches were winning and, by race time, I reckon 25 percent of my neighbours were snoring blissfully in the seaside dunes.

It was the same story as Austria. The Williams and Renaults were on the front two rows and the Ferraris were on row three. But, again, Gilles made a barnstormer of a start and was tucked up behind Jones' Williams as they came past.

After 10 laps he brilliantly outbraked Alan into Tarzan - on the outside! He opened himself three or four seconds and led for the next 30 laps or so. Zandvoort was 75 laps and you started to think that he might even do it.

Just then, someone came tooling through with a sick sounding engine, trailing oil. The marshals at Scheivlak didn't seem to realise the significance. Villeneuve was due anytime and people began to shout at them. Then throw things at them - apples, oranges, beer cans. By the time they got the message the Ferrari had arrived and Gilles had a wild moment on the oil, going off on the exit and, probably, damaging the left rear tyre that deflated a couple of laps later and led to the three-wheeled incident for which he became world famous.

By the time Jones came through a few seconds later they had woken up and the oil flag was out. Alan, at a stroke, took back the advantage Gilles had worked hard to protect over the past 30 laps. The mood among the Ferrari faithful was black when Gilles retired a few laps later. The spin had not at all been about a man refusing to accept the inevitable and over-driving a recalcitrant car. It had been about that unseen moment on the Scheivlak oil which had punctured his tyre.

I rejoiced when, in '82, it finally looked as if Gilles had a car worthy of him. Now, I grabbed the family radio as I reluctantly headed for the club. I hoped to pick up snatches of news between change-overs.

There is still the odd posh club tennis club, even in the north-east, and playing with a mate, who, like me, was 21, we found ourselves confronted by a pairing considerably older and awfully stuffy. One of them, a small, bespectacled man with nervous mannerisms, was deeply intense and reminded me of someone. My mate thought likewise but we couldn't place him.

Putting a radio courtside, even switched off, was definitely frowned upon and I overheard Mr Intensity's jibe about the youth of today always having to listen to music. He couldn't have got me more wrong and, as we changed ends, I told him I was sorry if it offended him but I was anxious to hear news about the racing driver Gilles Villeneuve, who had been in a big accident.

Perry McCarthy attempts to qualify for the 1992 San Marino Grand Prix © LAT

"Well," he said, with pompous smugness, "that bloke was never going to make old bones, was he?" As if I was obviously stupid to be a fan in the first place.

As the match developed, Mr Intensity became ever more irritating and judging by his line calls, increasingly blind as well. Then, in the middle of a rally, it clicked. We were both at the net and had been lobbed. We were haring back to the baseline when my partner shouted: "It's Woody Allen!"

We ran into each other, our return lob was hopelessly out and we both collapsed on the court in hysterics. Which obviously was not etiquette either. This bloke was indeed Allen's double. My mate spent the rest of the match coming out with Orgasmatron (Sleeper, 1973) one-liners every time the bloke hit a winner (not often, thankfully).

Finally, with both pairs at the net, I managed to plant a meaty smash right into Woody's midriff. Which is definitely not done. But was tremendously satisfying all the same.

The Woody levity brought at least some relief but any cheer was blown away when I heard the later sports bulletins and then, later, my worst fears were confirmed.

Ten years on I was covering my first season of F1. In the middle of the Montreal circuit they had a Gilles tribute marquee. There were a number of his cars, from Atlantic days on, and some tremendous footage. Inevitably there was Dijon '79, the action playing out on a big screen as Kenny Loggins' 'Danger Zone' boomed out at top volume. It gave you goose bumps.

In the pitlane, poor Perry McCarthy was having his latest adventure with the Andrea Moda shitbox. A Villeneuve fan, Perry had had his crash helmet painted up in Gilles's colours. He walked to the pit wall and held it up to the grandstand on Friday morning. Total silence. As if the act was sacrilegious.

"Oops," Pel said quietly, "Don't think they quite understood ... Just as well I haven't got a cat in hell's chance of qualifying - probably get lynched ..."

Not a man to become too intoxicated by his own importance, Perry quickly saw why they didn't fancy the man in the Andrea Moda wearing their hero's helmet. "Think I misjudged that a bit," he added, a bit sheepish.

The crowd reaction said it all. Gilles was quite simply irreplaceable.