Since I made Belgium my European base and the FIA seems somewhat averse to holding its world championship events on South African soil, the Belgian Grand Prix has become my adopted home event.

I would, of course, far prefer to call a race in Cape Town or Gauteng or wherever in the fair land of my birth and nationality ‘home’, but it remains an unfortunate truth that the likes of Malaysia, China, and Korea, not to mention two Middle Eastern territories situated within an hour’s flight from each other, have slots on the current FIA Formula 1 World Championship calendar, while India is said to be in next year. Yet an entire continent remains so far off Bernie Ecclestone’s radar that the moon stands a greater chance of hosting a grand prix than does Africa.

In fact, when not too long ago I pointed out to an FIA spokesperson that just two continents were devoid of world championship events – Africa and Antarctica – he acknowledged the situation with a wry smile before commenting, ‘We’ll probably run a snow-mobile race in the South Pole first...’

He was joking – I hope – but that about sums up the situation, for with the FIFA World Cup forgotten (as, in book, it deserves to be unless talk turns to the humungous amounts squandered on kicking dodgy pieces of plastic about in ten massive white elephants), South Africa only rates mentions in F1 paddocks when Jody Scheckter is about.

So, for an entire grand prix weekend I had the luxury of sleeping in a familiar bed beside a familiar bod, hitting the road at 08 00 each morning, arriving at the wonderfully sinuous strip of tarmac scything through Belgium’s majestic Ardennes forests around two hours later. Given door-to-gate distances of 130 kilometres, 90% motorway and the balance rural roads, that pans out at 65 km/h. In a 250 bhp Audi TT plastered with an official FIA car pass...

A breakdown of journeys shows the first 125 clicks required a smidgeon under half that, with the final five consuming the balance. Therein lays the reason for Spa-Francorchamps endangered status, for the lack of affordable accommodation in the immediate area is trounced only by the number of usable toilets within the 7,004 kilometre circuit’s confines, forcing fans to endure lengthy travel to get their fixes at the only current circuit which truly sorts heroes from zeroes, or kip in sodden tents.

Only mainlining F1 addicts are prepared to put up with such inconvenience (or the horrendous costs of a local B+Bs). Sadly, present logistics are unlikely to change, for Spa’s location in a sprawling, undulating forest make it virtually impossible to improve access, causing tailbacks of the kind long solved by other venues. That the local police force ranks as the most obnoxious, inept body to venture anywhere near F1 certainly does not help matters, either.

So, it is very much a matter of put up or shut up, which, sadly, is what fans did in their thousands, resulting in under 50 000 punters seeing McLaren’s Lewis Hamilton put in one his greatest drives on the greatest – by a long chalk - current circuit.

Not even the lure of Michael Schumacher, performing at the scene of some of the seven-time champion’s best performances, or of current title challenger Sebastian Vettel and four other Germans could persuade the Bratwurst Brigade to make the journey to a circuit situated within easy reach of 50% of their compatriots. That said, Britain is just three hours away by car/ferry/train, yet McLaren’s ‘Looney Army’ was conspicuously absent...