Global Sport Stories

The British Grand Prix. Silverstone. An ever present gem in the crown of the Formula 1 calendar – probably an understatement now for a certain Nico Hulkenberg. 

With the unpredictable British weather, paired with the daring, high speed nature of the circuit – year on year this is the one that delivers drama. Silverstone is the banker. 

Due to this being the case, as a lifelong Formula 1 fan, I knew I had to get inside the gates at the Northamptonshire based circuit in any way possible.

And this way, you may ask? Car parking. At 5am. Friday, Saturday and Sunday.

I’ll be the first to admit, it’s not glamorous. Nor is it really meaningful (despite the fact that somehow the British public do need supervision on how to park in a field). However, having stood in said fields for eight hours on both Friday and Saturday, gratefully I swapped the scorched grass of the car parks for the tarmacked motorsport cauldron on the infamous Copse corner.

I’d done it. I was in a grandstand. What a surreal feeling.

Sure you can watch on the television, with almost certainly a better viewing experience, but what you don’t get from your armchair is the implosion of noise and the horrifically wonderful waft of seared rubber. Who would’ve thought the joy that sitting and watching thunderous blurs of carbon fibre bolt past you can bring!

Practice and qualifying came and went as quickly as the overwhelming home favourite’s, Sir Lewis Hamilton, pole position hopes. My appetite was firmly whetted. I’d seen the stars in their cars and heard the terrifically turbocharged v6’s, all that was missing was some racing…

Not so fast though, one more 5am stint in the car park before such luxuries. Last night’s spellbinding entertainment from Fat Boy Slim seemed like a distant memory, as I unwrapped my festival style anorak in preparation for the torrential downpours seemingly upon me on race day.

On this one occasion I was willing to let off whoever operates the nation’s weather machine, so long as they continued the undoubtedly drama-inducing showers until lights out.

Mercifully, my prayers from beneath my poncho were well received. The rain continued to fall ensuring it was at least a wet start to the race.

Now I’m lucky in the fact that I have a great sense of personal nostalgia attached to Formula 1, meaning that I simply shrug off any suggestion that it may actually be quite dull to spectate. However, I can appreciate that when the weather stays fair and the drivers remain well behaved, an uneventful hour and a half of cars going round a track is not to everyone’s taste.

And I was aware of this prior to the weekend – ensuring my hopes and expectations were kept at a sensible yet optimistic low level. But with the guaranteed wet start to proceedings, this now meant drama was guaranteed.

The stakes were raised. I had to get a good spot. Again my surprisingly mature expectations remained low as I jostled and weaved through the fellow late comers to the circuit; well organised punters had had their camp chairs set out track side since I started my shift! And with the grandstands now inaccessible, a good vantage point was anything but guaranteed. 

Did I return to the faithful Copse corner that had served me well during practice and quali? No, I could do better. What about Luffield? The view was so-so and with not long until lights out temptation was rife to stick where I was. Still not satisfied though, the search continued. My nerves were now definitely jangling; the start is nine times out of ten the best part of the race, I simply could not miss it!

As luck would have it, my determination paid off. Despite a few slips down the back of some muddy spectator banks and a few unavoidable puddles leading to sodden feet, I arrived at Abbey’s general admission zone. Turn number one in other words.

Although I’m sure this isn’t the cream of the crop in terms of viewing spots, positioning myself at the end of the Lewis Hamilton straight with views of the first turn, before Farm and Village to follow, seemed like quite the find. No sooner had I arrived did the 20 state of the art cars set off on the formation lap – I had made it in the nick of time.

What followed over the next hour and a half or so can only be described as marvellously hectic, in typical British summertime fashion. Of course, virtually everyone surrounding me was no doubt helped by the commentary they had playing through their Amex headsets purchased beforehand. But I was there on a budget, that was the whole point. So with my view of the big screen slightly hindered by the wired fencing in front of me, I sat back (stood up) and let the mayhem unfold.

Firstly, only just under 75% of the cars started from the grid, with the remainder choosing to sacrifice their start for a set of dry tyres and a pit lane start – serving as a huge hint that today was going to be no ordinary race.

In spite of that, even when just 14 cars launched from their gridboxes, the magnitude of the occasion rose dramatically – similarly to the spray from the standing water remaining on the track. We were racing. No margins for error now. Somehow all 19 competitors threaded their way unscathed through the first corner, leading to fresh appreciation that I genuinely was witnessing professional athletes at the very pinnacle of their talents.

This was short-lived however, as soon began the period of safety car hokey cokey. It was in, then out, then almost as soon as it was in again, back out it came. It almost mirrored us in the crowd with our waterproof layers. On then off, then on and off again. Please don’t take these as complaints though, this was the drama I had pleaded for from under my poncho a few hours earlier. I was having to really focus to keep up with proceedings, despite the tinny announcer’s best efforts to assist, yet loving every second of it.

As Max Verstappen spun to a chorus of whoops and jeers from the hostile British crowd, the race entered its latter stages. And by this point the writing was fairly on the wall. Despite perhaps not the British winner a lot of the crowd desperately wanted, a British winner was soon to be crowned none the less, in the way of Lando Norris. This being another feather in this year’s race cap; never take for granted a homegrown winner!

And although it meant Sir Lewis also missed out on a podium, this meant Nico Hulkenberg finally, at long last, eventually, got his turn on the podium by securing a third place finish for Sauber, after 239 race starts across 15 years. Another magical moment provided by the sterling Silverstone circuit.

The race concluded, and I was full of appreciation and marvel as to what I had just beheld. “An all time classic!” one friend who was watching along at home had simply texted me. But the day was not done yet…

When refusing to turn the coverage off as a little boy post race, one would always see spectators spill on to the start/finish straight upon the race curtailment. On this certain Sunday, this had to be me. 

Understanding that the access to the track was from the Vale grandstand, I set off in haste. Upon arrival, disappointment transcended the crowd as we learnt that you had to have a wristband proving you had been in the grandstand to gain access. Curse those earlycomers, some of us had to work to be here! 

That’s when realisation struck me though, I had to work to be here. I had a lanyard with an event pass dangling off it, not some tatty paper ticket like others surrounding me. So with a confident stride and a cheap lanyard around my neck I walked up to security, flashed my event pass and walked straight on to Silverstone’s main straight. 

Mission accomplished.

I must admit that I was running to try and catch the podium celebrations – that particular part of the mission did in fact fail. Nonetheless, I was now bathing in the history the track had to offer, from the vantage point where so many idols and top athletes had gone before me.

So now can you see why I will never return?

I didn’t pay a penny to be there. Soaked up every evening’s entertainment from the likes of Raye and Fat Boy Slim. Watched every Formula 1 session that weekend. Adopted a prime position to watch a British winner and a first time podium goer in what was dubbed “a race for the history books.” And even smuggled myself on to the circuit for some post race fanboying. 

The British Grand Prix 2025 – so good, I am certainly never going back.