Howay The Lads:
by Tom Clarkson.
F1 Racing, March 1997 issue.

(this account was from the 1996 Belgian GP).

"When using the toilet, please sit down. You might think you're a dead-eyed dick, but I can tell you, not at 60mph on
a Belgian motorway!" Clearly our tour guide, Roger Halfpenny, knows all the answers. But then, he has been escorting coach-loads of Page and Moy punters for 25 years. A wine merchant by trade, it's his job to steer us through the crowds at the Belgian Grand Prix, and make sure we're checked into the right hotel. This is his 304th trip as a tour guide - his original deer-stalker is still balanced delicately on top of his head - and he has evidently had time to rehearse his one-liners.

The Grand Prix de Belgique is traditionally round two of the famous 'Brits-on-the-piss European tour' (round one is Le Mans, in mid-June). Thousands of British Formula 1 fans flock to the Belgian Ardennes forest, armed with six-packs, to watch grand prix cars in their fullest glory, around one of the best grand prix circuits in the world: Spa-Francorchamps. Away from the track, there's something for everyone at Spa, be it the local homebrew - Stella Artois - honey-coated waffles, or the world-famous fries.

British GP-goers can usefully be divided into three groups. The rich, who go by plane; the wannabes, who race the locals on the autoroutes; and those who really want to party and have a hassle-free trip, who go by coach. Page and Moy currently offer 10 different ways of getting to Spa - to which they took more than 1800 people last year. I don't fancy driving and can't afford the flights, so I'm opting for the coach - with the exciting prospect of three nights in the Brussels Hilton thrown in.

Like any holiday, different people enjoy different parts. Some - the lads - actually enjoy the nine-and-a-half hour coach journey. They sit at the back drinking beer they've bought on the ferry, while tuning their vocal chords at full tilt. Some even pull the odd moony our of the back window at unsuspecting passers by....

In the middle seats are the hard-core grand prix fans. They've been on hundreds of coach trips before, and understand that lager and lager-louts are part of the game. But there's no loutish behaviour here, just arguments over who's better - Biggles or the Red Baron. And lastly, there are the fresh-faced couples who sit at the front and want a romantic weekend in Brussels, interspersed with the odd racing car. These are the only ones who will be pushing their single beds together in the hotel and won't be expected at the track on Saturday - the qualifying session is an optional extra.

The coach itseld isn't particularly posh, although there are signs it once was. There's a television, but it's broken, and the radio has gone the same way. The seats are too close together and the leg-room limited, but otherwise everything is fine. And, of course, there's always Captain Roger to keep us amused.

We leave London Victoria at 9pm on the Thursday before the race, and arrive in Spa at 6am on Friday. We're welcomed by a woman at the car park gate, but otherwise the coach park is desolate. The campers are still hidden away under their plastic sheets, and the shops aren't yet open for breakfast. Some punters leave the coach immediately to walk in the circuit in the dawn half-light. Others hang around, looking for something to do, to kill a bit of time. The last we hear from Roger is his instruction that everyone meet in the coach park 20 minutes after the F1 practice session ends at 2pm.

We spend the morning at the track until the time comes around to be rounded up and pushed onto the bus again for another two hours with Terry, the fastest - and worst-paid (he claims) - coach driver in the world. Our destination is Brussels and the Hilton, where prices normally start at a worrying £180 per night. No worries: we have a handy discount through Page and Moy. At the hotel it becomes evident that this is not what you call an overtly social trip - everyone disappears to nightclubs and restaurants about town until our next meeting in the hotel foyer at 6am on Saturday.

Anyone who doesn't fancy qualifying can watch Olympic gold medallist Michael Johnson run a race not far from the hotel. Despite the pulling power of the American sprinter, I suppose I'm expecting most people to come to the track. This is, after all, a motor racing holiday. But incredibly, only half our party come to the track. Once on the bus, an upturned hat is passed around, into which everyone has put £15 cash to pay for the trip (remember, this is an optional extra). We pull away not a second later than scheduled, leaving frail members of our party still in the lifts, with no better option than to return to bed and watch qualifying on the television. "I've left people all around the world and this trip is no different", says Roger.

Saturday follows much the same format as Friday, although there are many more people. The walk to the circuit is an entrepreneur's paradise, with ticket touts desperately outbidding each other to buy up unwanted stock: the following day's race is clearly a sell-out. I make a mental note to bring more than one ticket next time......

One aspect of our tour not included in the brochure is the weather forecast. The rain comes down hard at the end of qualifying, and by the time we queue to get back to the coach we're soaked through and shivering. But then this is not a holiday for the faint-hearted. Burning the candle at both ends ensures sleep becomes ever deeper as the weekend draws on, and it comes to a head on race day. Breakfast is at 5:15am, although I doubt if anyone notices what is on the menu. I know I don't.

This time everyone makes the coach. People try to offer big money to the person who has picked Damon Hill in the Page and Moy sweepstake. One mile short of the circuit our coach grinds to a halt, stuck in a two-way traffic jam - it must be the locals running away from the influx of people, which is to top 150,000 today. With the race warm-up looming at 9am, there's no option but to leave Terry and Roger to sort it out. We flee the coach and do the rest on foot.

After the race, more beer. This time it's the Hotel Moderne for a couple of hours to let the crowds beat us away. Then it's back on the coach to Brussels for one more relaxing night at the Hilton before the seven-hour return journey to England. Now, where are our seats again?

--End of Article--

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