Παραθέτω μερικά κομάτια από την αυτοβιογραφία του DC που θα κυκλοφορήσει σε λίγες μέρες, ο ήρωάς μου!

Pre dating any lurid tabloid headlines as an 'F1 Ladies Man' in later life, back in primary school I was a popular man with the ladies. I remember a girl putting a clothes peg on my willy in the dolls tent in class once. Fortunately it didn't become a fetish of mines.

I tried rugby but it didn't take long for me to realise it wasn't for me. One day I was playing a match on a public pitch and I fell in some dog shit. It was vile so I cleaned it off my legs as best I could with the sleeve of my shirt. Then when we came to scrum, I turned and politely apologised to my team-mate who was about to put his head right on this smear of dog shit. He put his mouthpiece in, growled and scrummaged down with a loud grunt, his face rubbing all over this dog shit. I remember looking down and thinking, 'Okay, these people are different people to me! They are cut from a different cloth, excuse me, am I allowed to take my leave?'

Italy in 1986 was of particular note, but not for karting historians. For it was there that I lost my virginity - not in the back of the motor-home as my racing obsessed father would have it! It was to a girl called Caroline who had a set of knockers on her that - as a teenage boy - you'd never seen the likes of. Her nipples were like Scania wheel nuts. The magic moment was in her hotel room (for some reason I can't quite recall I was actually staying in a tent!). I rarely went out on the evenings of race meets - it was always '9 p m bedtime'. Got to be up early tomorrow.........- but, on this occasion, I was out on the town. Well more accurately we'd gone to a disco called Lido de Jesolo and Caroline basically came in, grabbed me by the ear and hauled me away to be 'taken'. It was my turn. I think she'd done my friend the night before. Then, horribly, as I was going into the hotel my mum and dad were checking in, so I shat myself and had to hide. She took me upstairs and, three-and-a-half minutes later I was smoking a cigarette. I went to Italy a boy and came back a man.
For years I'd had these conversations with my uncle Richard about losing my cherry and he kept giving me all this 'advice' saying stuff like, 'Aye lad, once you've had one there'll be no stopping you, they'll be coming along one after another........' To a teenage virgin it was the stuff of dreams, literally. Anyway, the night after Caroline, I somehow ended up in a Transit van with two Dutch girls. I can clearly remember in the middle of all that Nertherlandish activity thinking, 'It's true what he said, it's fucking true'.

Jackie (Stewart) had designs on creating a three tier team based in Milton Keynes, catering for Formula Vauxhall Lotus, Formula 3 and Formula 3000. He set up Paul Stewart Racing (PSR) and called it his 'Staircase of Talent' and over the years it has proved a very successful concept - many of his drivers have gone on to successful Formula 1, Sports Car or Indycar careers. Allan McNish is a Le Mans winner; Gil de Ferran has taken the chequered flag at the Indy 500 and two Champcar titles; and Juan Pablo Montoya - the chubby chap and potential future Michelin model - has also raced and won in both F1 and Indycar.

To prove my point, I think maybe Cawthrone might have benefited from a bit of karting. He's always been a crap driver, and unlike me, didn't pass his test first time. He eventually passed in his mum's Volvo and we were on the way back home when he scraped it down the full length of another car. His dad could be a bit fiery at times, so I volunteered to break the news. I knocked on the door.
'Er, hello Mr Cawthorne, I've got some good news and I've got some bad news....'
'Hello David, what's the good news?'
'Well, your son has passed his driving test!'
'Excellent, and the bad?'
'He's crashed the car...........goodbye!'
................And off I ran

After the crash in Spa, I was taken back to the medical centre and, in front of Jackie Stewart and my parents they started to cut off my race suit. I was lying there, leg broken, still stunned from the crash thinking, 'Shit, my lucky underpants are about to greet the world........' They cut my suit off and there I lay, in all my glory, my pants with more holes than cloths left, my bollocks hanging out of one hole, my dick falling out of another, it was a sorry sight. My mother was mortified.
Actually, I have to admit, for years I carried them with me to every race. I have a little bag I take to races with off little keep-sakes in, I don't really consider myself to be superstitious, but I had a St Christopher from my great-grandmother, some gold coins that someone else gave to me and those lucky underpants. Fast forward another six years to my time at McLaren, a team famed for its clinical precision and immaculate presentation and those lucky pants were still in my little bag. Then, one day, a McLaren employee was cleaning my things, saw these pants - which in all fairness were now over a decade old - and threw them away. I don't remember if I wont than day ort not, but I do recall my bag seemed a lot fresher.

The first time I drove the Williams in anger was in qualifying at the Spanish Grand Prix, my first ever F1 race. As I finally sat in the blue and white Rothmans Williams, awaiting the signal to heading out on to the track for qualifying in a Formula One Grand Prix, it was a great moment. The team radio hissed at me and it was Patrick Head. 'Okay David, we're not looking for anything dramatic, just take the car round, keep it off the kerbs, make sure you qualify.' I couldn't resist.........'Thank you for that Patrick. Remind me, when I pull out of the garage do I turn left or right into the pit lane?'

That's why, if you look at a driver's neck, it is quite often relatively out-sized compared to other parts of the body, except for the obvious, and I've never had any complaints in that department.......and if I have, you'd have probably read all about it in the tabloids.

At one of the West functions they had a Beatles tribute group supported by this Freddie Mercury impersonator. As I wasn't involved in the actual driving, I had a 'couple' of drinks and I thought this guy was absolutely brilliant. I was a big Queen fan as was my father.
His birthday was coming up and I wanted to get him something really different, so what I did was fly this Freddie Mercury impersonator all the way down to Spain to perform at my father's party the next night. I think this eastern European Freddie Mercury was completely bemused. I thought my dad would love is, because he had famously once seen 'Pete Loaf' sing 'Bat Out Of Hell' and would announce to anyone who would listen that he was 'categorically better than the real thing'. So I got Pete Loaf there as well and my father had had a few drinks and was already in full clapping mode by the time Freddie's turn was up.
I, however, was cold sober this time around so when Freddie walked on, I looked at him, listened to him and thought, 'Oh my God, what the fuck have I done?' They introduced him with suitable fanfare: 'Please welcome, ladies and gentlemen, all the way from Eastern Europe.........' It was a very surreal moment. I could see my father sitting there thinking, 'Why the fuck has David flown a Freddie Mercury impersonator in to Spain from the Eastern Bloc.........?' To be fair, the guy did play up the fact that he was crap and he eventually won the crowd around. And my father does have high musical standards. Even Meat Loaf
can't live up to Pete Loaf, after all.

Heidi and I had some good times, but some bizarre and rather comical ones too. We were on holiday in Antigua with Paul Stewart and some friends one year. I said to Heidi that I was going out with some friends for a beer - it was only a small island so I could hardly get up to any mischief on a island where you are a stone's thrown from everywhere. Apparently, so I was later told, as I walked out of the door I said to her with a glint in my eye, 'Prepare yourself I'll be back in an hour.'
Two hours later I was still out with the boys and had sunk quite a few beers. We got back in the car and headed back to the house we were staying at, and as we drove along the road, Heidi drove past at high speed in the opposite direction with a face like thunder, obviously looking for me. She eventually turned up back at the house and threw a complete fucking wobbler, which she was prone to do, shouting that 'You said you were going to be an hour! Where have you been?' etc. It turns out she had literally 'prepared' herself for a night of good Scottish loving in the bedroom so I can see that when I didn't actually come home on time that would be annoying. It had only been a throwaway comment as I walked out the door but it caused an almighty stink.
We were due to go out for dinner at Mick Jagger's house - the Stones singer time-shared the house with a friend of mine. Heidi had started to drink, but the problem was she was always a shit drinker, so she got pretty drunk pretty quickly. She was just getting her own back, but after about two hours, she was decidedly pissed. We arrived for dinner and the table was set on this elegant decking, a landscaped area on top of a beautiful fish pond. Heidi was the worse for wear but I couldn't have anticipated what happened next! As we were eating she leant across the table and vomited copiously into the fish pond. At this point, while we all sat there in stunned silence there was a feeding frenzy in the pond; the fish were going nuts for these chunks of vomit, these pre-chewed pieces of gourmet food, they were in heaven.

I have to be honest and say that, despite my protestations against being a 'ladies man', I have clearly had dalliances with quite a few ladies over the years, including on one occasion, one from an aristocratic blood line. I was at a stately home for a big society event and I went, as I often do for these very formal gatherings, in my kilt. One of the young daughters of a certain aristocrat was chatting away with me and we were having a great night. One thing led to another and we wandered off across a courtyard where I proceeded to show her my family tree. There was a flurry of grunts and groans and what have you, and then, as we were finishing up, this young lady heard her mother coming across the courtyard towards the room we were in. I was all for jumping out of the window and legging it across the manicured lawns, but she said there was security and guard dogs, so that wasn't an option.
We waited in the shadows until we thought no one was around and made our break for freedom. Unfortunately, as we passed the family portraits and priceless silverware on our way towards this huge, ornate staircase, we spotted the mother trying to climb the stairs. We had no choice but to continue walking, but as we did, by way of an alibi, I was fingering my chin and musing up at the ancient oil paintings on the walls, desperately trying to look as though I was being shown the family jewels (which in a way I had been). 'That's a very interesting picture isn't it?'
When we met her mother halfway down the stairs she was looking very stern. I was a little dishevelled, but passable; the young lady, on the other hand, looked somewhat more ruffled. 'What are you up to?'
'Er, I was just giving David a tour of the house, Mummy' said my companion. Her mother stepped up a level with us, tucked in her daughter's bra strap, which was protruding very obviously from her dress, looked me in the eye and said, 'I see you've had the full tour,' then went on her way.*

Save a bit of typing - they are on DC's yacht in Sardinia, Cawthorne, another friend named Guy Laliberte and DC - the headline - 'Coulthard's Lesbian Love Boat'.

Guy brought these two girls on board as his guests. One of them was wearing a long dress but when she fell asleep on the sofa the garment rode up her thighs and, let's just say, gave us all a view of Sardinia that we hadn't experienced before. Eventually, unbeknown to me, one of the women started going down on the other girl on the foredeck of the yacht who was, incidentally, smeared in strawberries and daiquiri. I was just minding my own business, drinking some tea out of a Wallace and Gromit mug on the deck. Meanwhile, a few hundred meters way, the paparazzi were snapping away like crazy - the next day, the photographers perfectly captured Guy and this girl entertaining each other in the background with me and my Wallace and Gromit mug in the foreground.

Για τον Μοntoya:
He didn't help his cause by making harsh remarks about me, but I've forgotten what he said, so I can honestly say it troubled me even more briefly than his time at McLaren lasted. I wouldn't stoop so low as to be that childish. I pride myself on being a consummate professional and always coolly diplomatic. I'll say this though, he's a chubby little fella.

Παραθέτω μερικά κομάτια από την αυτοβιογραφία του DC που θα κυκλοφορήσει σε λίγες μέρες, ο ήρωάς μου!

Pre dating any lurid tabloid headlines as an 'F1 Ladies Man' in later life, back in primary school I was a popular man with the ladies. I remember a girl putting a clothes peg on my willy in the dolls tent in class once. Fortunately it didn't become a fetish of mines.

I tried rugby but it didn't take long for me to realise it wasn't for me. One day I was playing a match on a public pitch and I fell in some dog shit. It was vile so I cleaned it off my legs as best I could with the sleeve of my shirt. Then when we came to scrum, I turned and politely apologised to my team-mate who was about to put his head right on this smear of dog shit. He put his mouthpiece in, growled and scrummaged down with a loud grunt, his face rubbing all over this dog shit. I remember looking down and thinking, 'Okay, these people are different people to me! They are cut from a different cloth, excuse me, am I allowed to take my leave?'

Italy in 1986 was of particular note, but not for karting historians. For it was there that I lost my virginity - not in the back of the motor-home as my racing obsessed father would have it! It was to a girl called Caroline who had a set of knockers on her that - as a teenage boy - you'd never seen the likes of. Her nipples were like Scania wheel nuts. The magic moment was in her hotel room (for some reason I can't quite recall I was actually staying in a tent!). I rarely went out on the evenings of race meets - it was always '9 p m bedtime'. Got to be up early tomorrow.........- but, on this occasion, I was out on the town. Well more accurately we'd gone to a disco called Lido de Jesolo and Caroline basically came in, grabbed me by the ear and hauled me away to be 'taken'. It was my turn. I think she'd done my friend the night before. Then, horribly, as I was going into the hotel my mum and dad were checking in, so I shat myself and had to hide. She took me upstairs and, three-and-a-half minutes later I was smoking a cigarette. I went to Italy a boy and came back a man.
For years I'd had these conversations with my uncle Richard about losing my cherry and he kept giving me all this 'advice' saying stuff like, 'Aye lad, once you've had one there'll be no stopping you, they'll be coming along one after another........' To a teenage virgin it was the stuff of dreams, literally. Anyway, the night after Caroline, I somehow ended up in a Transit van with two Dutch girls. I can clearly remember in the middle of all that Nertherlandish activity thinking, 'It's true what he said, it's fucking true'.

Jackie (Stewart) had designs on creating a three tier team based in Milton Keynes, catering for Formula Vauxhall Lotus, Formula 3 and Formula 3000. He set up Paul Stewart Racing (PSR) and called it his 'Staircase of Talent' and over the years it has proved a very successful concept - many of his drivers have gone on to successful Formula 1, Sports Car or Indycar careers. Allan McNish is a Le Mans winner; Gil de Ferran has taken the chequered flag at the Indy 500 and two Champcar titles; and Juan Pablo Montoya - the chubby chap and potential future Michelin model - has also raced and won in both F1 and Indycar.

To prove my point, I think maybe Cawthrone might have benefited from a bit of karting. He's always been a crap driver, and unlike me, didn't pass his test first time. He eventually passed in his mum's Volvo and we were on the way back home when he scraped it down the full length of another car. His dad could be a bit fiery at times, so I volunteered to break the news. I knocked on the door.
'Er, hello Mr Cawthorne, I've got some good news and I've got some bad news....'
'Hello David, what's the good news?'
'Well, your son has passed his driving test!'
'Excellent, and the bad?'
'He's crashed the car...........goodbye!'
................And off I ran

After the crash in Spa, I was taken back to the medical centre and, in front of Jackie Stewart and my parents they started to cut off my race suit. I was lying there, leg broken, still stunned from the crash thinking, 'Shit, my lucky underpants are about to greet the world........' They cut my suit off and there I lay, in all my glory, my pants with more holes than cloths left, my bollocks hanging out of one hole, my dick falling out of another, it was a sorry sight. My mother was mortified.
Actually, I have to admit, for years I carried them with me to every race. I have a little bag I take to races with off little keep-sakes in, I don't really consider myself to be superstitious, but I had a St Christopher from my great-grandmother, some gold coins that someone else gave to me and those lucky underpants. Fast forward another six years to my time at McLaren, a team famed for its clinical precision and immaculate presentation and those lucky pants were still in my little bag. Then, one day, a McLaren employee was cleaning my things, saw these pants - which in all fairness were now over a decade old - and threw them away. I don't remember if I wont than day ort not, but I do recall my bag seemed a lot fresher.

The first time I drove the Williams in anger was in qualifying at the Spanish Grand Prix, my first ever F1 race. As I finally sat in the blue and white Rothmans Williams, awaiting the signal to heading out on to the track for qualifying in a Formula One Grand Prix, it was a great moment. The team radio hissed at me and it was Patrick Head. 'Okay David, we're not looking for anything dramatic, just take the car round, keep it off the kerbs, make sure you qualify.' I couldn't resist.........'Thank you for that Patrick. Remind me, when I pull out of the garage do I turn left or right into the pit lane?'

That's why, if you look at a driver's neck, it is quite often relatively out-sized compared to other parts of the body, except for the obvious, and I've never had any complaints in that department.......and if I have, you'd have probably read all about it in the tabloids.

At one of the West functions they had a Beatles tribute group supported by this Freddie Mercury impersonator. As I wasn't involved in the actual driving, I had a 'couple' of drinks and I thought this guy was absolutely brilliant. I was a big Queen fan as was my father.
His birthday was coming up and I wanted to get him something really different, so what I did was fly this Freddie Mercury impersonator all the way down to Spain to perform at my father's party the next night. I think this eastern European Freddie Mercury was completely bemused. I thought my dad would love is, because he had famously once seen 'Pete Loaf' sing 'Bat Out Of Hell' and would announce to anyone who would listen that he was 'categorically better than the real thing'. So I got Pete Loaf there as well and my father had had a few drinks and was already in full clapping mode by the time Freddie's turn was up.
I, however, was cold sober this time around so when Freddie walked on, I looked at him, listened to him and thought, 'Oh my God, what the fuck have I done?' They introduced him with suitable fanfare: 'Please welcome, ladies and gentlemen, all the way from Eastern Europe.........' It was a very surreal moment. I could see my father sitting there thinking, 'Why the fuck has David flown a Freddie Mercury impersonator in to Spain from the Eastern Bloc.........?' To be fair, the guy did play up the fact that he was crap and he eventually won the crowd around. And my father does have high musical standards. Even Meat Loaf
can't live up to Pete Loaf, after all.

Heidi and I had some good times, but some bizarre and rather comical ones too. We were on holiday in Antigua with Paul Stewart and some friends one year. I said to Heidi that I was going out with some friends for a beer - it was only a small island so I could hardly get up to any mischief on a island where you are a stone's thrown from everywhere. Apparently, so I was later told, as I walked out of the door I said to her with a glint in my eye, 'Prepare yourself I'll be back in an hour.'
Two hours later I was still out with the boys and had sunk quite a few beers. We got back in the car and headed back to the house we were staying at, and as we drove along the road, Heidi drove past at high speed in the opposite direction with a face like thunder, obviously looking for me. She eventually turned up back at the house and threw a complete fucking wobbler, which she was prone to do, shouting that 'You said you were going to be an hour! Where have you been?' etc. It turns out she had literally 'prepared' herself for a night of good Scottish loving in the bedroom so I can see that when I didn't actually come home on time that would be annoying. It had only been a throwaway comment as I walked out the door but it caused an almighty stink.
We were due to go out for dinner at Mick Jagger's house - the Stones singer time-shared the house with a friend of mine. Heidi had started to drink, but the problem was she was always a shit drinker, so she got pretty drunk pretty quickly. She was just getting her own back, but after about two hours, she was decidedly pissed. We arrived for dinner and the table was set on this elegant decking, a landscaped area on top of a beautiful fish pond. Heidi was the worse for wear but I couldn't have anticipated what happened next! As we were eating she leant across the table and vomited copiously into the fish pond. At this point, while we all sat there in stunned silence there was a feeding frenzy in the pond; the fish were going nuts for these chunks of vomit, these pre-chewed pieces of gourmet food, they were in heaven.

I have to be honest and say that, despite my protestations against being a 'ladies man', I have clearly had dalliances with quite a few ladies over the years, including on one occasion, one from an aristocratic blood line. I was at a stately home for a big society event and I went, as I often do for these very formal gatherings, in my kilt. One of the young daughters of a certain aristocrat was chatting away with me and we were having a great night. One thing led to another and we wandered off across a courtyard where I proceeded to show her my family tree. There was a flurry of grunts and groans and what have you, and then, as we were finishing up, this young lady heard her mother coming across the courtyard towards the room we were in. I was all for jumping out of the window and legging it across the manicured lawns, but she said there was security and guard dogs, so that wasn't an option.
We waited in the shadows until we thought no one was around and made our break for freedom. Unfortunately, as we passed the family portraits and priceless silverware on our way towards this huge, ornate staircase, we spotted the mother trying to climb the stairs. We had no choice but to continue walking, but as we did, by way of an alibi, I was fingering my chin and musing up at the ancient oil paintings on the walls, desperately trying to look as though I was being shown the family jewels (which in a way I had been). 'That's a very interesting picture isn't it?'
When we met her mother halfway down the stairs she was looking very stern. I was a little dishevelled, but passable; the young lady, on the other hand, looked somewhat more ruffled. 'What are you up to?'
'Er, I was just giving David a tour of the house, Mummy' said my companion. Her mother stepped up a level with us, tucked in her daughter's bra strap, which was protruding very obviously from her dress, looked me in the eye and said, 'I see you've had the full tour,' then went on her way.*

Save a bit of typing - they are on DC's yacht in Sardinia, Cawthorne, another friend named Guy Laliberte and DC - the headline - 'Coulthard's Lesbian Love Boat'.

Guy brought these two girls on board as his guests. One of them was wearing a long dress but when she fell asleep on the sofa the garment rode up her thighs and, let's just say, gave us all a view of Sardinia that we hadn't experienced before. Eventually, unbeknown to me, one of the women started going down on the other girl on the foredeck of the yacht who was, incidentally, smeared in strawberries and daiquiri. I was just minding my own business, drinking some tea out of a Wallace and Gromit mug on the deck. Meanwhile, a few hundred meters way, the paparazzi were snapping away like crazy - the next day, the photographers perfectly captured Guy and this girl entertaining each other in the background with me and my Wallace and Gromit mug in the foreground.

Για τον Μοntoya:
He didn't help his cause by making harsh remarks about me, but I've forgotten what he said, so I can honestly say it troubled me even more briefly than his time at McLaren lasted. I wouldn't stoop so low as to be that childish. I pride myself on being a consummate professional and always coolly diplomatic. I'll say this though, he's a chubby little fella.

Παραθέτω μερικά κομάτια από την αυτοβιογραφία του DC που θα κυκλοφορήσει σε λίγες μέρες, ο ήρωάς μου!

Pre dating any lurid tabloid headlines as an 'F1 Ladies Man' in later life, back in primary school I was a popular man with the ladies. I remember a girl putting a clothes peg on my willy in the dolls tent in class once. Fortunately it didn't become a fetish of mines.

I tried rugby but it didn't take long for me to realise it wasn't for me. One day I was playing a match on a public pitch and I fell in some dog shit. It was vile so I cleaned it off my legs as best I could with the sleeve of my shirt. Then when we came to scrum, I turned and politely apologised to my team-mate who was about to put his head right on this smear of dog shit. He put his mouthpiece in, growled and scrummaged down with a loud grunt, his face rubbing all over this dog shit. I remember looking down and thinking, 'Okay, these people are different people to me! They are cut from a different cloth, excuse me, am I allowed to take my leave?'

Italy in 1986 was of particular note, but not for karting historians. For it was there that I lost my virginity - not in the back of the motor-home as my racing obsessed father would have it! It was to a girl called Caroline who had a set of knockers on her that - as a teenage boy - you'd never seen the likes of. Her nipples were like Scania wheel nuts. The magic moment was in her hotel room (for some reason I can't quite recall I was actually staying in a tent!). I rarely went out on the evenings of race meets - it was always '9 p m bedtime'. Got to be up early tomorrow.........- but, on this occasion, I was out on the town. Well more accurately we'd gone to a disco called Lido de Jesolo and Caroline basically came in, grabbed me by the ear and hauled me away to be 'taken'. It was my turn. I think she'd done my friend the night before. Then, horribly, as I was going into the hotel my mum and dad were checking in, so I shat myself and had to hide. She took me upstairs and, three-and-a-half minutes later I was smoking a cigarette. I went to Italy a boy and came back a man.
For years I'd had these conversations with my uncle Richard about losing my cherry and he kept giving me all this 'advice' saying stuff like, 'Aye lad, once you've had one there'll be no stopping you, they'll be coming along one after another........' To a teenage virgin it was the stuff of dreams, literally. Anyway, the night after Caroline, I somehow ended up in a Transit van with two Dutch girls. I can clearly remember in the middle of all that Nertherlandish activity thinking, 'It's true what he said, it's fucking true'.

Jackie (Stewart) had designs on creating a three tier team based in Milton Keynes, catering for Formula Vauxhall Lotus, Formula 3 and Formula 3000. He set up Paul Stewart Racing (PSR) and called it his 'Staircase of Talent' and over the years it has proved a very successful concept - many of his drivers have gone on to successful Formula 1, Sports Car or Indycar careers. Allan McNish is a Le Mans winner; Gil de Ferran has taken the chequered flag at the Indy 500 and two Champcar titles; and Juan Pablo Montoya - the chubby chap and potential future Michelin model - has also raced and won in both F1 and Indycar.

To prove my point, I think maybe Cawthrone might have benefited from a bit of karting. He's always been a crap driver, and unlike me, didn't pass his test first time. He eventually passed in his mum's Volvo and we were on the way back home when he scraped it down the full length of another car. His dad could be a bit fiery at times, so I volunteered to break the news. I knocked on the door.
'Er, hello Mr Cawthorne, I've got some good news and I've got some bad news....'
'Hello David, what's the good news?'
'Well, your son has passed his driving test!'
'Excellent, and the bad?'
'He's crashed the car...........goodbye!'
................And off I ran

After the crash in Spa, I was taken back to the medical centre and, in front of Jackie Stewart and my parents they started to cut off my race suit. I was lying there, leg broken, still stunned from the crash thinking, 'Shit, my lucky underpants are about to greet the world........' They cut my suit off and there I lay, in all my glory, my pants with more holes than cloths left, my bollocks hanging out of one hole, my dick falling out of another, it was a sorry sight. My mother was mortified.
Actually, I have to admit, for years I carried them with me to every race. I have a little bag I take to races with off little keep-sakes in, I don't really consider myself to be superstitious, but I had a St Christopher from my great-grandmother, some gold coins that someone else gave to me and those lucky underpants. Fast forward another six years to my time at McLaren, a team famed for its clinical precision and immaculate presentation and those lucky pants were still in my little bag. Then, one day, a McLaren employee was cleaning my things, saw these pants - which in all fairness were now over a decade old - and threw them away. I don't remember if I wont than day ort not, but I do recall my bag seemed a lot fresher.

The first time I drove the Williams in anger was in qualifying at the Spanish Grand Prix, my first ever F1 race. As I finally sat in the blue and white Rothmans Williams, awaiting the signal to heading out on to the track for qualifying in a Formula One Grand Prix, it was a great moment. The team radio hissed at me and it was Patrick Head. 'Okay David, we're not looking for anything dramatic, just take the car round, keep it off the kerbs, make sure you qualify.' I couldn't resist.........'Thank you for that Patrick. Remind me, when I pull out of the garage do I turn left or right into the pit lane?'

That's why, if you look at a driver's neck, it is quite often relatively out-sized compared to other parts of the body, except for the obvious, and I've never had any complaints in that department.......and if I have, you'd have probably read all about it in the tabloids.

At one of the West functions they had a Beatles tribute group supported by this Freddie Mercury impersonator. As I wasn't involved in the actual driving, I had a 'couple' of drinks and I thought this guy was absolutely brilliant. I was a big Queen fan as was my father.
His birthday was coming up and I wanted to get him something really different, so what I did was fly this Freddie Mercury impersonator all the way down to Spain to perform at my father's party the next night. I think this eastern European Freddie Mercury was completely bemused. I thought my dad would love is, because he had famously once seen 'Pete Loaf' sing 'Bat Out Of Hell' and would announce to anyone who would listen that he was 'categorically better than the real thing'. So I got Pete Loaf there as well and my father had had a few drinks and was already in full clapping mode by the time Freddie's turn was up.
I, however, was cold sober this time around so when Freddie walked on, I looked at him, listened to him and thought, 'Oh my God, what the fuck have I done?' They introduced him with suitable fanfare: 'Please welcome, ladies and gentlemen, all the way from Eastern Europe.........' It was a very surreal moment. I could see my father sitting there thinking, 'Why the fuck has David flown a Freddie Mercury impersonator in to Spain from the Eastern Bloc.........?' To be fair, the guy did play up the fact that he was crap and he eventually won the crowd around. And my father does have high musical standards. Even Meat Loaf
can't live up to Pete Loaf, after all.

Heidi and I had some good times, but some bizarre and rather comical ones too. We were on holiday in Antigua with Paul Stewart and some friends one year. I said to Heidi that I was going out with some friends for a beer - it was only a small island so I could hardly get up to any mischief on a island where you are a stone's thrown from everywhere. Apparently, so I was later told, as I walked out of the door I said to her with a glint in my eye, 'Prepare yourself I'll be back in an hour.'
Two hours later I was still out with the boys and had sunk quite a few beers. We got back in the car and headed back to the house we were staying at, and as we drove along the road, Heidi drove past at high speed in the opposite direction with a face like thunder, obviously looking for me. She eventually turned up back at the house and threw a complete fucking wobbler, which she was prone to do, shouting that 'You said you were going to be an hour! Where have you been?' etc. It turns out she had literally 'prepared' herself for a night of good Scottish loving in the bedroom so I can see that when I didn't actually come home on time that would be annoying. It had only been a throwaway comment as I walked out the door but it caused an almighty stink.
We were due to go out for dinner at Mick Jagger's house - the Stones singer time-shared the house with a friend of mine. Heidi had started to drink, but the problem was she was always a shit drinker, so she got pretty drunk pretty quickly. She was just getting her own back, but after about two hours, she was decidedly pissed. We arrived for dinner and the table was set on this elegant decking, a landscaped area on top of a beautiful fish pond. Heidi was the worse for wear but I couldn't have anticipated what happened next! As we were eating she leant across the table and vomited copiously into the fish pond. At this point, while we all sat there in stunned silence there was a feeding frenzy in the pond; the fish were going nuts for these chunks of vomit, these pre-chewed pieces of gourmet food, they were in heaven.

I have to be honest and say that, despite my protestations against being a 'ladies man', I have clearly had dalliances with quite a few ladies over the years, including on one occasion, one from an aristocratic blood line. I was at a stately home for a big society event and I went, as I often do for these very formal gatherings, in my kilt. One of the young daughters of a certain aristocrat was chatting away with me and we were having a great night. One thing led to another and we wandered off across a courtyard where I proceeded to show her my family tree. There was a flurry of grunts and groans and what have you, and then, as we were finishing up, this young lady heard her mother coming across the courtyard towards the room we were in. I was all for jumping out of the window and legging it across the manicured lawns, but she said there was security and guard dogs, so that wasn't an option.
We waited in the shadows until we thought no one was around and made our break for freedom. Unfortunately, as we passed the family portraits and priceless silverware on our way towards this huge, ornate staircase, we spotted the mother trying to climb the stairs. We had no choice but to continue walking, but as we did, by way of an alibi, I was fingering my chin and musing up at the ancient oil paintings on the walls, desperately trying to look as though I was being shown the family jewels (which in a way I had been). 'That's a very interesting picture isn't it?'
When we met her mother halfway down the stairs she was looking very stern. I was a little dishevelled, but passable; the young lady, on the other hand, looked somewhat more ruffled. 'What are you up to?'
'Er, I was just giving David a tour of the house, Mummy' said my companion. Her mother stepped up a level with us, tucked in her daughter's bra strap, which was protruding very obviously from her dress, looked me in the eye and said, 'I see you've had the full tour,' then went on her way.*

Save a bit of typing - they are on DC's yacht in Sardinia, Cawthorne, another friend named Guy Laliberte and DC - the headline - 'Coulthard's Lesbian Love Boat'.

Guy brought these two girls on board as his guests. One of them was wearing a long dress but when she fell asleep on the sofa the garment rode up her thighs and, let's just say, gave us all a view of Sardinia that we hadn't experienced before. Eventually, unbeknown to me, one of the women started going down on the other girl on the foredeck of the yacht who was, incidentally, smeared in strawberries and daiquiri. I was just minding my own business, drinking some tea out of a Wallace and Gromit mug on the deck. Meanwhile, a few hundred meters way, the paparazzi were snapping away like crazy - the next day, the photographers perfectly captured Guy and this girl entertaining each other in the background with me and my Wallace and Gromit mug in the foreground.

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He didn't help his cause by making harsh remarks about me, but I've forgotten what he said, so I can honestly say it troubled me even more briefly than his time at McLaren lasted. I wouldn't stoop so low as to be that childish. I pride myself on being a consummate professional and always coolly diplomatic. I'll say this though, he's a chubby little fella.