The drama of the 1973 British Grand Prix was all watched through the six-year-old eyes of Paul Fearnley, who recollects the vivid memories of his very first grand prix
It might as well be 1000 years ago: 1973. No internet. No camera phones. And neither a TV – our Pye black-and-white, what few channels it provided accessed by twisting clamped Mole Grips, had just gone bang in spectacular style.
Ah, but we were happy. Setting off for Silverstone at 'a quarter to stupid' on a Saturday morning, three of us in a two-seater that had recently celebrated its 40th birthday, we had a flask and some sarnies but no tickets for the British Grand Prix. Pay on the gate. First come, first served. Simpler times.
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