German Grand Prix diary

The crowds were sparse at Hockenheim on Friday but they certainly know how to enjoy themselves.

Monday Don't let anyone - I suppose I'm minded of those who speak of the German way of doing things and how 'efficient' it is - tell you otherwise: getting out of a sporting event over there can prove just as problematic as anywhere else. No matter that the Autobahn runs right past Hockenheim; it was just as susceptible to the sudden dash for the car parks and proved just as constipated out there on the road itself. We left three hours after the race had finished and were cutting it pretty fine by the time our coach reached Frankfurt Airport. We had to get a move on...but first a quick diversion to the nearest Gents to get changed into one's civvies. After all, what difference would five minutes make? With hindsight, it was not the best idea. I mean...from just where exactly had that massive queue suddenly appeared? The clock was ticking - much faster than the queue seemed to be moving. Perhaps desperate measures were called for? No, I couldn't: there's all manner of ignominy an Englishman would rather suffer than jump a queue. Instead, I stood there and simmered while, inevitably, a small child nearby burst into tears. Boiling point was reached when the bag was eventually dropped at 8:56pm; boarding commenced at 9 and yet the twin bottle necks of security check and passport control had still to be navigated. "I've got to make that plane; I can't miss that damn plane," I thought again and again as I made a dash for it. I also imagined the tannoy announcement that might be played at any second: the strangulated Germanic pronunciation of my name for all in the airport to hear. Oh God. Feelings of embarrassment had to wait, though: I had to keep running. Was a four-minute mile needed? It seemed that way. Of course, there only ever could be one outcome: I arrived at the departure gate looking flustered, and probably more dishevelled than Fernando Alonso had after winning yesterday's race, only to find, inevitably, that the plane had been delayed. I stood there checking my clean-on t-shirt for sweat patches while nearby, movers and shakers - the likes of Boris Becker and Ted Kravitz - stood with calm nonchalance as if at an embassy drinks reception. I don't want to do that again in a hurry and yet there's no let-up: Germany and Hungary are back-to-back races, so it's only a flying visit home this time. We fly to Budapest on Wednesday before F1 enters its summer break and those who work in it can take some much-needed r and r. Looking out of the window, it is actually summer now...wonders will never cease! Time to go and make the most of it. Sunday A hurried entry this, given that I have to leave pronto. The time I had set aside to try and give a little more Hockenheim flavour was decimated this morning owing to the story about Red Bull and their 'dodgy or is it?' torque map. There almost seemed an atmosphere of deflation when the FIA decided upon a course of no further action; we all love a bit of controversy, right? The World Champions didn't escape, though, with Sebastian Vettel handed a 20-second penalty for his overtaking manoeuvre - all four wheels off the track exiting Turn 6 - on Jenson Button two laps from the end of the race. Vettel drops from second to fifth place as a result, with the German Grand Prix remaining something of a bogey race for the local boy. He already felt hard done by, owing to the decision of Lewis Hamilton - racing in Nowheresville after an early puncture - to unlap himself before Vettel made his final stop. Lewis's move cost Vettel precious time and enabled Jenson Button to get ahead. Perhaps a sense of grievance was playing on Sebastian's mind when he made the move to take back second place; a feeling that McLaren had stitched him up? It certainly seemed that way in the post-race press conference; the stewards decision - hot off the press as I write - is hardly going to help his mood. Or that of his fans. Still, I'm sure the locals enjoyed the balance of their day here: the rain held off at least. No Elvises to report, alas, not even a Hulk Hogan or a Mr T (I saw them fight each other once on the Western Terrace at Headingley) but plenty of multi-coloured wigs and other assorted F1 fan paraphernalia. I hope too many of them aren't swaying this evening after too much Warsteiner; there's a bus to catch and I'm late. As usual. Friday There's a contrariness about leaving London - about to become the sporting hub of the known universe - and heading off to work at a sporting event elsewhere. Implicit in London's winning of the Olympic bid is the fact that it is also very much the hub around which the United Kingdom revolves - arguably holding more sway than a capital city should. That's not the case with Germany, whose federalism is definitely reflected around these parts. I suppose that's a convoluted way of saying that everything is about half an hour from everything else. Mannheim, where we're staying, is about half an hour from Frankfurt, where we arrived; Hockenheim is about half an hour from Mannheim, while Sebastian Vettel's hometown of Heppenheim is also about half an hour from the track. The autobahn network does the rest and so it was that our bus peeled off route six and chugged into the town of Hockenheim for the first time. It's a sleepy-looking sort of place, yet all the lazy stereotypes are easily confirmed. Men sport moustaches and a certain long-at-the-back haircut while a flyposter advertises a forthcoming gig by local AC/DC tribute band 'Big/Balls'. Much like Silverstone, a downhome atmosphere pervades and campsites abound in the surrounding forest. Alas similar weather reared up, particularly at lunchtime and into the afternoon - albeit without the consequences seen two weeks ago. This might have had something to do with the fact that spectator numbers were far fewer. The stadium section of the track was sparsely populated but the fans bothering to brave the conditions certainly seemed to be enjoying themselves. How so? It might not have been down to the performance of Michael Schumacher, who still seems far more popular than Vettel around these parts and yet who crashed out in session two. A potential answer revealed itself later as we walked to the bus and it came in the swaying forms of several men bedecked in Ferrari regalia, one of whom was carrying a cassette recorder playing, inexplicably, the Johnny Mathis Christmas classic 'When A Child Is Born'. They were singing along, or at least trying to. Scanning the scene quickly revealed more of the same and we could only conclude that German motor racing fans sure do love a beer. The weekend has only just begun; might tomorrow bring even more of the same? Test match cricket-style fancy dress, perhaps? I'll keep my eyes peeled for a posse of Elvises.