Doug Nye – partying into the night at Goodwood

This has sometimes proved a boon at the annual Goodwood Revival Party. Once the band strikes up and conversation becomes impossible, a large percentage of the old f—- brigade bale out anyway.  And as a fully qualified old f—-ist I must confess – if you promise you won’t tell Lord M – that on occasion I have in fact led the exodus.

Revival bashes like this are immensely popular.  Competition for invitations between participants, sponsors and guests has often been every bit as intense as competition on track. And why not?  They have certainly been fun, and while I have attended them all as a non-alcoholic goodie-two-shoes, even when leaving early I have often provided a sympathetic taxi service for the already faintly whistled, the extremely jolly three-sheets-to-the-wind and even for one or two totally- smashed-they-won’t-be-driving-before-lunchtime-tomorrows…

Driving into the Party on Revival Saturday evening is often supremely evocative, frequently accompanied by the finest flying display of the entire weekend – normally executed by a pair of The Old Flying Machine Company’s single-seat warbird fighter aircraft. This year it was the turn of Supermarine Spitfire and North American Mustang, zooming across the car park fields, campsites and airfield in the gathering dusk.

This year I didn’t see them land but in past years once down their hugely-skilful pilots taxi the aircraft round to the Party and park them just beside the entrance as guests are arriving. Seeing the canopy slide back, the pilot emerge, unzipping his flight suit to reveal – James Bond-style – an immaculate DJ, dinner suit, I mean, NOT donkey jacket, would score pretty high on my grandaughter’s ‘Cool’ chart.

But the best remark I ever recall from this greeting flypast was one year when I drove our former Chaplain Lionel Webber and his wife Jean into the Party. We came in through the main gate, weaved left then right to the paddock crossing at the Woodcote end of the pits, then back down the circuit against the racing direction, and through the chicane. Then left onto the aerodrome infield where we were being directed to park.

And at that moment, out of the pastel-orange sunset, we glimpsed it. A Republic P47 Thunderbolt - ‘Whistling Death’ itself – down to about 20 feet and streaking straight for us across the grass. And dear old Lionel, with the reflexes of a Jim Clark or Jackie Stewart, bawled instantly: “Quick Doug. Turn on your wipers…”

This year’s Revival Party theme involved Batman, Robin and other comic book heroes. Well short of Dan Dare, Rockfist Rogan and Dennis the Menace this turned out to be a bit out of my generation’s orbit, but the resultant mix of DJ/Tuxedo-wearing and fully-in-the-spirit costume wearers proved quite a heady sight.  Cat Women?  Blimey… there was a flock of them. I might have to sit down for this one. Batmen and Robins by the score. Then, BRILLIANT! Asterix and Obelix – favourites I developed in middle-age. And my pals from the Bonhams Auction company arrived dressed as Power Rangers… with a problem. All their Lycra full-body suits had been delivered at least a size too small.  One said he felt like an icing bag… maybe I should not have confirmed his impression…

And at my table I found myself seated beside Vintage Sports Car Club friends, of course potty as a box of frogs, as one would expect of the VSCC. The Joker was explaining how he’d struggled technically to do all his own make-up – as a charming waitress leaned in to ignite the fuse of the chocolate bomb in his dish. Sparklers and indoor fireworks flared, the music began to thump, almost time to leave.

But it did remind me of bygone fun with VSCC luminaries. As at the 1908-2008 Centenary of the first Mercedes victory in the French Grand Prix at Dieppe. I was there to show some films and make a presentation for Daimler-Benz, who were running their 1908 cars around the old 62-mile Dieppe circuit, and we bumped into a totally independent VSCC group with their own cars doing the self-same thing. With the agreement of the German management we invited them to join the D-B dinner that night, as one would, and they did – pitching up at the hotel with everyone – yes, girls as well – all wearing painted-on Kaiser Wilhelm moustaches…  The Merc men blinked, and roared mit laughter - Englischer Humor indeed…

And in the roundabout centrepiece lily pond outside, floated four wooden wheels from an early Sunbeam, swelling the timber nicely to tighten the dried-out and loosened spokes… There’s a swag of knowledge within the VSCC.

And that reminded me of a lovely story starring bygone Club worthy ‘Jumbo’ Goddard. This larger-than-life enthusiast’s car collection included a D-Type Jaguar, the world’s fastest vintage Bentley – an 8-litre engine in a 4 1/2-litre frame, and equipped with two turbochargers “for extra zest” – and a Bugatti Type 51 amongst others. ‘Jumbo’ as a young man had sailed before the mast on a tall ship around Cape Horn. He had made a small fortune on the New Guinea gold dredge and had been mate to Captain Alan Villiers on the replica ‘Mayflower’ in her 1957 maiden voyage across the Atlantic, 337 years after the original Mayflower, when they beat her predecessor's time by 13 days. ‘Jumbo’ never war socks, and his trousers were habitually held up by a length of rope. You get the picture?

On one Bugatti Rally in France, ‘Jumbo’ suffered constant trouble with a sinking carburettor float. At the Chateau Hotel lunch stop he tore down the troublesome carburettor, removed the punctured float and took it into the Hotel kitchen, where he wanted to boil it in a saucepan of water, to vaporise the methanol fuel which had filled it, so he could solder the hole and return his Bugatti to clean running.

With many hand signals and much volume he explained to the Chef what he wanted to do, and he was assigned a gas ring, a saucepan full of water, and some tongs. But what ‘Jumbo’ had overlooked, and what the Chef was not warned of, was the explosive nature of vaporised methanol.

Laid out in that kitchen, ready for service, were plate after plate of cherishingly-crafted hors d’oeuvres, many in aspic or decorated with mayonnaise. But as ‘Jumbo’s fuel-filled carburettor float reached the critical temperature, methanol gas began to bubble from its puncture. ‘Jumbo’ lifted it from the saucepan whereupon, with a penetrating whistle, a fine spray of heated methanol shot out as if from a garden sprinkler. That airborne spray was instantly ignited by the lighted gas ring.

BLAMMMM!!!!

Deafened, dazzled by the flash, the kitchen staff stumbled around, tall hats blown off. And – worse – the blast had filled the air with floating ash, which began to settle on those exquisitely crafted hors d’oeuvres. The panic was like a Marseilles bus queue in the rush hour.

And from it all strode the majestic, Britannic, figure of ‘Jumbo’ Goddard, triumphantly clutching his dry, and empty, carburettor float in those borrowed tongs.

Within minutes his Bugatti was running clean - which is more than could be said for the Chateau Hotel’s kitchens.

So the moral of this story is to be darned careful who you might invite to your Party…

Images courtesy of The GP Library.