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This article first appeared in GP Racing magazine.
Just like your grandad, he wanders in chewing a toffee. But the eyes are utterly alert, lizard-like, darting over the disparate throng of European journalists assembled in his Kensington lair. Then, briefly, he actually seems bewildered - an expression well honed over decades of wheeler-dealing; it's a look calculated to disarm, to charm even - this endearing little old man wouldn't hurt a fly... Surely?
But you're promptly disabused. "I've just started to record all my interviews," he announces as he sits down. "I began to realise that my quotes weren't being written down accurately." He casts a furtive glance around the table: "I know what you bastards are like - you never spoil a good story with the truth."
Nobody dares mention that the 'truth' is something we quite possibly won't be troubling over the next hour or so...
