Dodgy Business

Had to go to a party last weekend. It was a 30th, and for a bit of variety it was 70s-themed.

For those who sort decades by music there was some decent - and I use the term advisedly - Bay City Rollers garb, and a good Ziggy Stardust effort.

But music never rang any particular bells for me. Sport was where it was at. Not that there was anything specifically banning you from liking both, it's just that I've always been an all-or-nothing sort of person.

I thought back 30 years. Niki Lauda, fresh in the world's consciousness after his incredible Monza comeback the previous year, was en route to his second world championship.

Bjorn Borg had just taken the second of five successive Wimbledons. That was it, I'd go as Bjorn.

"Oh Bjorn'll be chuffed!" mocked a pal when I told him the plan. "I saw him at Wimbledon this year and he's wearing a bit better than you. I reckon you could do a much better Niki ..."

Niki Lauda, 1977 Monaco Grand Prix © LAT

Thanks, mate.

Undaunted, I had a bit of a rummage in the wardrobe. Well I would have done, but a few months ago 'er indoors gave me 15 minutes notice that her brother was coming round to rip out our perfectly serviceable fitted 'robes because the room was going to be decorated and we needed free-standing ones. I was still in bed at the time.

My clothes are still living in an assortment of plastic containers under said bed. The children, of course, have 432 wardrobes. Each.

Anyhow, lo and behold, there it was, my Fila kit. The same stuff that Bjorn wore. Well, some of it anyhow. Minus the original Wimbledon and US Open warm-up tops that go for about a hundred and fifty quid a throw on eBay these days, but which my beloved secretly took upon herself to donate to an Oxfam shop about five nanoseconds after I mentioned they were a bit small. Some shrewd punter will have paid three quid for a hundredfold profit ...

Remember 70s tennis kit? The guys actually looked like athletes rather than refugees from the aforementioned charity shop. But it was immaterial. Or, more accurately, not enough material.

The shorts, which looked more like Daisy Duke's hot pants, had a 28 inch waist. And the shirt was tailored for just the one belly

In desperation, I looked out my Parmalat cap and my shiny, tailored 70s Ferrari racing jacket. But that, perhaps unsurprisingly, was nowhere to be found either.

So it was neither Bjorn nor Niki. In the end it was black shirt, white tie, trilby and dark shades - any-decade generic gangster garb. A bit of a cop out really.

I'd just come back from that remarkable Nurburgring weekend. Ten minutes into the party I got talking to Kevin Keegan - well, a bloke wearing a retro Liverpool shirt and a naff 70s curly perm.

"That Winkelhock story was pretty amazing, wasn't it," he said. "I remember watching his Dad race a Porsche."

I did too. In fact I remembered going to Manfred's last Grand Prix at Nurburgring in 1985, when Markus would have been just five. That also seems like yesterday.

I was a cub reporter with Autosport covering a hugely exciting Formula Ford season being fought out by the likes of Johnny Herbert, Damon Hill, Mark Blundell and Bertrand Gachot, all who made it to F1 of course.

There was a bowling night in the basement of what is now the Dorint Hotel, I think sponsored by Penthouse, if memory serves.

Autosport's photographers invited me along and as well as the lovely 'hostesses' what sticks in the mind is meeting Manfred Winkelhock and thinking what an affable and entirely normal bloke he seemed to be.

Manfred Winkelhock, 1985 RAM 03 Hart © FORIX/Sibo

Manfred had a choice of two RAM03 chassis to drive, chassis number three and four, but it really wouldn't have made any difference if he'd had 10. He qualified 22nd and the engine went after eight laps.

In the very next week's Autosport, I was deeply saddened to be reading Manfred's obituary as I did the horrible 36-hour Monday/Tuesday grind that always pre-empted the magazine's arrival on a Thursday. In those days, journalists doubled up as production staff.

The obit was written, with feeling, by Ian Phillips, now Spyker's commercial director but then covering Formula 2 for Autosport.

Ian portrayed well Winkelhock's unaffected attitude. Manfred had never actually considered being a real professional racing driver until he tested an ATS.

In fact, it was friends who first persuaded him to drive in amateur races when they got fed up with Manfred scaring the hell out of them on the roads.

At 24 he had won the VW Scirocco Cup and came to the attention of BMW's Jochen Neerpasch when he won a celebrity race against the top German drivers of the day.

He went on to develop a strong friendship with Munich's Paul Rosche, which probably explains why he was allowed to also be a works Ford driver in categories that didn't clash!

Winkelhock liked Formula 1, but it was not the Holy Grail. He enjoyed himself even more in saloons and sportscars, which is where he built up a strong following among the German fans.

He was unflappable, and politics left him numb. Which is probably why he managed to survive for three seasons in an ATS F1 team run by the volatile Gunther Schmidt.

It was also why, Philips reckoned, he always found himself in a shitbox. Without doubt a one hundred per center - one hundred and ten was probably more appropriate in Manfred's case - he simply couldn't be bothered with the annual round of manoeuvring and back-stabbing needed to get himself into a decent seat. He'd rather go away and drive a sportscar.

The weekend after the German Grand Prix he did precisely that, for the last time. Manfred's Kremer Porsche 962C careered off the road at Mosport's 140 mph downhill turn two left-hander, went through the catch fencing and hit a concrete wall bordering an earth bank.

Without a broken bone, he succumbed to head injuries 24 hours later despite the best efforts of surgeons in Toronto.

The Kremer car had been delayed earlier in the race and Winkelhock was pressing on in typical style. He was always a brave driver, perhaps too brave for his own good.

Ironically too, he is probably best known for surviving a horrific F2 shunt at Nurburgring without a scratch.

Markus Winkelhock, 2007 European Grand Prix © LAT

If you want to see what I mean by 'horrific,' have a look at this video on YouTube. Manfred had damaged the nose of his March on the opening lap but pressed on regardless while the team readied a new one in the pits, expecting him to stop.

Instead, he took second place and started to close in on race leader Teo Fabi, getting ever-quicker through Flugplatz (literally 'flying place') where the cars became airborne every lap.

On lap five, the air got under his damaged front wing and sent the March into a backward flip. It truly is remarkable footage, including rounds of applause from some of the spectators!

Legend has it that Winkelhock walked in as if nothing had happened, but later passed out when he saw a video of the accident. Sounds apocryphal to me, and I guess there's no point asking Markus - it was the year he was born!

But what a lovely story, Manfred's son leading his first, and what may be only Grand Prix, at the same venue - albeit a pale shadow of the majestic Nordschleife. They say there are spirits aplenty in the forests of the Eifel mountains ...

"Spirits?" I can see Mike Gascoyne spluttering, "it was a bloody good call on the pit wall!"

It was, too, but the elements had to oblige with their timing and they couldn't have done it better.

In another 30 years, what will people remember about the name Winkelhock and Nurburgring - an upside down March or a Spyker on 'pole'?

A lovely moment.