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Pit straight A, seat A 373 — that is the very seat that housed me as I took in the action that was to unfold at the British Grand Prix. I got hot, I got sweaty, I got sunburnt but every deafening nanosecond was completely worth it.

The land of strawberries and cream — and now also a drought — hosted a splendid race. Okay, so if I had been sitting at home it probably would have been very difficult to write this column because, let’s face it, it wasn’t exactly Monaco. There was one race incident in the first lap which brought out the safety car and that was thanks to Ralf having a little tag with Scott, spinning and ruining Webber’s already miserable weekend. And then of course there was that little moment when Jenson spun straight into the gravel trap, leaving only DC to try and bring back some home pride (which he failed to do).

Now before the start of any race it is tradition for the drivers to parade themselves to the public revelling in their adoration — almost like gladiators using the crowd to fuel their own egos before commencing with battle.

Normally the lads are taken on a lap of the circuit on the back of a flatbed truck but since this is England and the proud owner of the Rolls Royce heritage what better way to drive the boys around than in these vintage cars.

First in the queue were the Honda pair and what greeted them was rapturous applause and thousands of airhorns blown in admiration. Few cars down came the Ferrari duo of Schumacher and Massa — the response, well there was clapping and there were a few airhorns but there was also a lot of jeering and plenty of boos which Michael clearly chose to ignore as he proceeded to smile and wave to the crowds!

Does the man just not get the message? What will it take for him to acknowledge that he made a mistake and apologise? Perhaps the crowd should have been more action rather than words and thrown a few ripe British tomatoes at him — would have blended right in with his scarlet team shirt. Wonder what he thought of the banner that read "Schumi, my granny can park better"?

Silverstone is a track that combines both speed with some slow, tricky corners which you don’t really feel the full effect of until you’ve watched it live. Watching the mechanics come out onto the grid in preparation for the race makes the hair on your arms stand to full attention. Hearing the tumultuous roar of those engines for the first time during a race weekend is enough to make a grown person cry and to smell the rubber and oil burn is like, well, smelling oil and rubber burn.

As with most sports, watching an event live is a brilliant experience as you mingle with the crowds resplendent in their cacophony of team colours — each one adamant that their team is the best, each one believing that their driver has the raw talent to win (except maybe for the Super Aguri ‘fans’ who were probably paid to attend the event wearing the team’s official clothing).

Actually now that I think about it, Super Aguri were the only team that didn’t seem to have a merchandise store. You could buy Fernando Alonso underwear and I suspect that an enterprising entrepreneur bottled some of Liuzzi’s sweat and sold it for a few quid as an aphrodisiac. (Unfortunately by the time I hit the ‘Bullshop’ all that was left was the normal range of T-shirts, polos and caps but I did pick up some ear plugs which came in a funky little Christian Klien replica helmet).

When Alonso crossed the finish line to claim another victory and cement his position in the world title fight every single person stood and cheered. This young man is revered not only in Spain but everywhere in the world for his humility, charm and driving talent. He qualified in pole in splendid style particularly as it emerged that he had a good few laps more worth of fuel than either of the Ferraris and the McLarens. Instead of cloning sheep, why don’t the scientists clone Fernando Alonso instead — the female population would definitely be grateful. Imagine going shopping one afternoon and coming home with your own little Ferdi! Okay, maybe not such a great idea.

I have always considered myself to be more than just an ordinary fan. I love watching the races, I love writing about the races and I love reading about all the technology and mechanical prowess that goes into making those cars go as fast as they do but having met a lady who had Michael Schumacher tattooed on her right arm and the Ferrari insignia on her left I have been forced to eat humble pie. I guess that us fans come in all shapes and sizes and appreciate the sport in varying degrees but that is where I draw the limit — I ain’t tattoing nutting on any part of my body (well maybe I could be convinced to have a little Kimi Raikkonen’ish something tattooed on the top of my wrist).

As I sit on the train and type away I can’t help but feel I wish I had bought suncream with me! There were some great drives including that of Jackie Villeneuve who has finally gotten married, having been engaged to at least four different women — just as well he gets paid well because I wouldn’t want to cover the expense of those engagement rings. It looks like he will be giving up his Playstation for nappies as the pitter patter of little Villeneuve feet make an appearance sometime in October.

After the chequered flag had been waved the end result saw Fernando on the top step of the podium followed by Michael and then Kimi. Although it wasn’t a great race, I had a whale of a time! Wish you were here! No really! Honest! I completely mean that…