Argentina 1997:
with Murray Walker.
F1 Racing May 1997.

Three long-haul grands prix on the trot is a killer, that's for sure. After enough crises to start World War Three, the ITV
team will be glad to be operating its all-singing, all-dancing, million-pound, mobile-everything truck at Imola, but Argenina made it all worthwhile.

Buenos Aires is as attractive as Sao Paulo isn't, and even if the Autodromom Oscar Galvez isn't to be compared with the magnificence of the Interlagos circuit, it put on a race so full of thrills and incident that it's difficult to know where to begin. Suppose Michael Schumacher hadn't been disposed at Turn 1, for instance. No disrespect to Eddie Irvine, who drove the race of his life, but Argentina would surely have seen a Ferrari win. Panis, Barrichello, and Bridgestone deserved a lot better than no points, and I'd love to have been a fly on the wall when a chastened Ralf Schumacher met his hapless team-mate, Giancarlo Fisichella, after he'd harpooned him into oblivion.

But one of my most lasting memories of a really great meeting is one of outrage and revulsion. I had a dinner with Tom Walkinshawm Damon Hill and Tom Dowe on Thursday, little knowing that even while we ate, their future plans were being betrayed to a UK paper. If the sick-minded Judas who sent the anonymous fax was a TWR mar, I wouldn't like to be in his shoes.

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