Gilles

The phone rang; it was my sister and I could tell from the way she asked “Have you heard the news?” that it was unlikely to be good. I was aware it was Belgian GP weekend; even back in those pre-Sky, pre-internet dark ages the seriously addicted Formula 1 fans knew when the GPs were, in the hope — almost always in vain — that they might see a clip on the sports news. Unless there was a disaster of some kind, radio and television sports departments stubbornly ignored motor racing. I uttered a one-word question to my sister: “Villeneuve?” She confirmed the news was the worst possible kind.

Since the death of Ronnie Peterson in September 1978, the crazy Canadian of other-worldly talent had become my favourite — and I was not alone. There was something appealing about the story of the French-Canadian who had been plucked from the relative obscurity of his nation’s Formula Atlantic championship and parachuted not just into F1, but Ferrari, no less.

The French-Canadian had been plucked from relative obscurity and parachuted not just into F1, but Ferrari, no less