Wahayy, Hans up!
That reminds me...
Well, I say "reminds me", but some of the details are a bit vague. It was during the Friday night before the race (in the last year of the old pits/paddock, 1990?) and me and a couple of mates, having narrowly escaped the clutches of the Beausejour Butcher, found ourselves wandering among the team tents in the paddock, in a terrible state of dishevelment. We stumbled over the factory Porsche tent and struck up a conversation, using the international male language of hand signs, hicoughing, farting and inane grinning, with the lone night watchman. He had been left to keep an eye on the cars while the rest of the Porsche team slumbered, and we soon established that in true German fashion, he was keen on a drop of beer, something that we had lots of, and he had been trusted with none. For a few bottles he let us in the tent and gave us a tour of the cars, and I can proudly say that my arse was the penultimate visitor to Derek Bells seat.
Derek, if you're reading this, I'm so very sorry.
H