THEATRE DOWN TO THE LAST DETAIL

Nick Larkin considersthe spirit of Goodwood

Oh no, it’s the dreaded time of year when we motoring journalists try (and usually fail) to sum up this astonishing event in print without sacrificing ourselves to obscene clichés such as (the achingly apt, sadly) ‘Glorious Goodwood’.

Nothing matches the Revival, anywhere. Pebble Beach and its cars are crushed Coca-Cola cans dumped under Blackpool Pier by comparison.

This is the nearest you could ever get to physically being back half a century or more – even down to the odour of Spitfire fighter fumes mixed with Chanel No 5. And the cars. The cars, the cars, the cars, the cars! Priceless machinery raced to their limits, Austin A30 and 35s haring around the track like manic wood lice and cars that you could sell, and build a new hospital from the profits.

It’s all a beautifully crafted melée of priceless vintage machinery, Hillman Minx taxis, minidresses, millionairesses dressed as charladies, Bentleys, celebrities and chocolates marked at 2s 6d in a 1960s-style Tescos. The post-war era up to 1967 is being celebrated, so there’s no 1970s gaudiness and 1980s plasticky things to spoil the view. Sights, sounds, smells. Awe, amazement and (let’s be honest) lust and even a little envy all come to the fore.

Yes, this is a big, glamorous moneyfest, and you wouldn’t have to be a Marxist revolutionary to smirk when one of the children in the pedal car race – most likely called Toby Fotherington-Whitstable, or similar – cries or falls over. But this is money put to great use. The organisers are obviously superhuman and fazed by nothing. Stupid me for asking Lord March whether, with a special tribute being paid to Formula One impresario, Bernie Ecclestone, the great man might actually make an appearance.

Take a walk through the tunnel under the track. Walking towards us are vicars, ‘spivs’ with tiny moustaches and macs, policeman PC49, Marilyn Monroe, Winston Churchill, a Jools Holland impersonator (sorry, that actually you, Jools) a nurse straight from another Marilyn, Barrie ‘Whizzo’ Williams and then, spilling into the sunlight, you are confronted by vintage buses and ‘Glamcab Girls’, all fixed smiles, pleats and sheer nylons.

And it’s not just the spectacular vehicles and people that make this event. It’s the minute attention to the tiniest period details, from reproduction identity labels for the press to Fanny Craddock-style cookery demonstrations and the period-