When I’m back in, he tells me, “Brian, it’s getting like glass out there. Take it easy, don’t snap the gas. Easy, smooth, okay?” “Okay,” I say. This is what all the hard work’s been for, this fifty minutes or so. I’m starting to feel my neck and arm muscles; my, that G-force is a little bastard. “Don’t do anything wrong, son,” I tell myself. One of the strange things about racing on a track like Sebring is it’s 3.7 miles long, and for the first twenty minutes I never saw another car. “Where the hell is everybody?” It gave me a chance, on my own, with nothing to hold me up.
Then, all of a sudden, just like a jam on the M6 road, the whole friggin’ world’s there. “Now, be careful, kidda. Take your time.” After many mini-adventures, the checkered flag dropped. This time, I knew the boy done good; the whole team was up on the wall, the marshals cheering. Straight into the winners’ circle. Third overall, first in class, first index of performance, three cups, and three visits to the podium. I gave the crew the first-in-class cup for the factory. God, I smiled a lot. I’d done it in my first race! I was pumped, happier than a dog with two cocks. And I never said “fuck” once in the interview.
On the podium, this very young professional German driver who’d won the race overall looked at me. “You are Brine Chunsen! Zis iss not pazzibol. You are ze zinker wis ze AC unt zu DC. How iss it pazzibol zat yu are up mein schvartzepoofen fur der whole raze? You are tu ault for zis.”
“Watch it, bonny lad!” I said. “That was me first race. You’ll be lookin’ up my poopenchuten when I get the hang of this car.”
“No, vait! You must giff me an outogram. This was a bit more like it.” He paused. “For my muzzer. Ha, ha, ha!”
Cheeky twat! He was actually trying to be friendly; it’s just that German humor’s not humorous to anyone but Germans.
A German friend of mine, Ralph Kellener, is a great professional driver: Le Mans twenty-four-hour, Daytona, etc., etc. Gunther the Demon Driver told me a joke once: “Brine, vy do chermen men like new carss?” “I don’t know, Gunther. Why?” He was laughing so hard whilst trying to deliver the punch line: “Because zey luf virchins unt ze smell of lezzer.” Bemused, I pulled out my Luger and shot him in the German funny bone—that’s the bit between the eyes. He said it smarted a bit, but you can’t keep an old German driver down. Do you know they don’t have a word for nipples in Germany?
They’re called chest warts. “Gervospriktechknicker.”
Chapter 18
TVR
TWO SEATS AND A SHELF
Every band had one, and Tom Hill was Geordie’s. Tom Hill was our bass player and, like everyone, he had a hobby. His was money, so parting with it meant a lot to him. One day, in London, he saw an ad for a TVR Griffith, and he went to see it, and me and the drummer Brian Gibson tagged along. I can’t remember the engine size, but I’m sure it was a Ford 1.6-liter engine. Built in Wales, it was a snazzy-looking fiberglass sports car, two seats and a shelf. Tom Hill bought the car, I sat on the shelf, and Brian Gibson in the passenger seat, and we drove back to our glamorous council flat, you’d call them projects, in Hackney (not a place to be in 1973).
As we were driving back, the most incredible thing happened. The horn button sprang like a snake on speed straight into Tom’s face, and it sounded like it hurt. Did the car know something? I’ve had a soft spot for TVRs ever since.
Chapter 19
The Mini
THE BEATLES OF CARS
I suppose the coolest car I had when I was young was my Mini. It was white with a black roof. It was an Austin, thirdhand, with sliding windows and a floor start (but it actually started, unlike the Ford Popular I was used to). I loved that car. It was the sixties, and I was in the Beatles of motorcars. I could go to parties and not have to hide my old “Pop” ’round the back of the house. I could say “fab” and mean it. It would always get me to work on time. It had a heater that heated, wipers that wiped, and a built-in smileometer. I had GT go-faster stripes on the bottom of the doors and a pretend Cooper S exhaust, which made it sound fast even though it was under 1000 cc. So, basically, it was like trying to polish a turd, but I didn’t give a flying fart—it looked the part.
Sexual adventures in the backseat took on an acrobatic quality. After about two months, I could have joined the Royal Ballet, although I did lock a testicle once. As I’ve mentioned, the sliding front windows were designed for shagging only (it’s where the ankles exited)—because they weren’t much good for anything else.
A lot of girls affected the Dusty Springfield hairstyle then, and the hairspray they used came straight from the chemical-warfare lab. So if you didn’t want to lose an eye, motorcycle goggles were always a good option. The hairspray fumes made it very unsafe to fart within three feet of the said hair, so a small fire blanket was always handy, too. But the worst thing was that guys were splashing themselves with Brut and Old Spice aftershave. Which contained the other ingredients the hairspray needed to form napalm.
The Mini changed a whole generation. That’s some statement, but it’s true. It won rallies, especially the Monte Carlo. It was a joy to drive—and the memories keep coming back.
In Sarasota, there is a car museum that I frequent. In there is Paul McCartney’s Mini and the Beatles’ first Bentley. I often have a sit in the Mini when no one’s about and start singing, “There are places I remember . . .”
The new Mini is a wonderful car—the Germans got it just right. But for me, when it’s standing next to the original, it’s the sixties one I want to drive. It’s got that “we’ve got the best bands in the world, Union Jack, buy British, see you in the King’s Road, ‘Jumpin’ Jack Flash,’ ‘My Generation,’ Ban the Bomb, England 4–Germany 2” feel about it. Paddy Hopkirk was a national treasure, and he starred with his rally-winning Mini on Sunday Night at the London Palladium—the only car to ever headline a TV variety show. Geddin’ there!
Chapter 20
Phil Rudd
OCCUPATION: WORLD’S BEST DRUMMER
You’ll usually see Phil driving alone, the reason being everyone is too scared to get in the car with him. You see, Phil thinks all the other cars on the road are there for his entertainment. The rest of the lads would make all kinds of excuses; mine was, “Sorry, mate, I’ve got to stay home and rearrange my fridge magnets.” Undeterred, he would venture out looking for other band members. Angus’s excuse was that he’d forgotten the riff to “Highway to Hell” and had to practice it again. Cliff feigned endless nausea attacks, and Mal just said, “You’re fucking joking.”
Phil loves racing, though, and has a saloon race car in New Zealand, one of the big V8 jobs, but we’ll get to that later. Phil’s first exotic was a Ferrari 308 GTB—red, of course. I was riding with him (he’d used ether to get me in) and we were ripping up the A1. It was a chain drive, and something was wrong with it; it sounded like Big Ben on acid, steroids, and a large dollop of cocaine—until it broke. He sold it broken, and bought a series of exotics that were legend then. But Phil being Phil, he wanted them now.
One night in 1983, we were going to do a big show at the Birmingham NEC, a huge monstrosity of English design. It looked a bit like a Second World War airfield, with no bombers and no war, and as charming as Idi Amin. One hour to showtime. “Where’s Phil?” someone asked.
“He’s driving up from London in his new car,” said Jones the Drum, Phil’s drum tech. (He was Welsh. Still is, actually.)
I said, “What kind of car is it?”
“He never told me,” said Jones the Drum.
“Holy crap! Thirty minutes to showtime—where the hell is he?” The crowd was getting revved up; it was a sellout gig. What worried us was the weather. There was the mother of all rainstorms out there, and the M6 is notorious for its switchbacks.
Then, suddenly, the back doors opened and in roared Phil, in a genuine red Ford GT40, tires completely shot and him soaked to the skin. The tires were shot because he’d been low-level flying at about 140 mph all the way. He was soaked because th
e doors on the beast retract into the roof so you can get in and they don’t have adequate rubber seals to keep water out. Boy, can that guy make an entrance!
The car just glistened backstage, as did Phil. No one really cared that we only had fifteen minutes to go; we just ogled, leered, cheered, sniffed tires and brakes—all cooking nicely. There was a heat haze coming from the engine. Then the huge AC/DC bell descended from the rafters. “DONG!” it went. “Shit, we’re on!”
Then there was the BMW M1. What a beautiful car! Phil bought one and immediately found its flaws: yeah, yeah, the driver got pretty much cooked. You received an engine enema while driving. But Phil didn’t care. We were recording in Paris—“I’m going to drive the M1 there,” he said. “I’ll be there by teatime.”
Once again, he was late, and we were getting worried. He got there about nine p.m. “Bollocks! Shit! Fuck! Piss!”
“Trouble?” I inquired.
“I was on the périphérique and stopped to get gas. I looked at the pumps: benzole or benzine, and I fill it up with benzole. It’s fucking diesel. FUCKING DIESEL!”
That one took a couple of weeks to fix. Phil went on to own a Ferrari Daytona 365 GTB, 512 BB; he’s raced Fiestas ’round Europe and now races in New Zealand in a V8 Commodore. Oh yeah, and he’s the best rock ’n’ roll drummer in the world.
Chapter 21
Sebring
“DOES ROSE KENNEDY HAVE A BLACK DRESS?”
Sebring. One of the legendary tracks in the world, hard on the car, brutal on the driver, and a crippler on the wallet. It is without doubt the bumpiest, nastiest, and most fabulous race track in the world. The town of Sebring is, well, not anything at all really. I mean, when a Chili’s wins “Best Place to Eat” five years in a row, you know you are pretty much fucked.
But I just love the place. It was, and still is, an airfield. It was used in the Second World War to train RAF pilots and is used now to train wannabe race-car drivers during the week.
I was here to drive in the three-hour enduro, for 2.5 liters and under. My ride was a Royale RP4 built in England a long time ago, but fear not, I did do my best for queen and country. I had modified this beautiful little car myself. Thomas, my trusty Swede, was at my side the night before practice. He was by my side because, if I had moved, he would have fallen down. He was very drunk, in preparation for a long weekend.
As dawn broke over Sebring, the mist cleared to reveal the most beautiful sight to these eyes—racing cars everywhere. Gorgeous, exotic, and all fucking German, except mine and a couple of Japanese jobs. There was the sound of groans from the pit crews who’d nudged the turps slightly the night before, and then my personal favorite: the toilets. The groans and farting from the cubicles, watching the toes of sneakers curling up, wait for it, the log hitting the water—splash—then “ahhhh.” And the sneakers coming out under the door. There won’t be any arse-wiping for a while, well, not until they’re rested. Remember, this is not Formula 1! Moving on . . .
I get suited and booted for the eight thirty practice session, and find out I must have a codriver for the race. It’s in the rules. Bugger, now I am in trouble. “Thomas, mate,” I announce, “we need another driver or we are screwed.”
Thomas was under the car, and all I could see were his feet. I figured he was busy, so off I went in search of a codriver, with as much chance of a Sunday dinner in Ethiopia. But there, walking up the pit lane, was Pete Argetsinger.
No, I didn’t make it up, that’s his name. And a bloody good driver he is, too.
Me: “Pete, me old tart, me old pal, how’s it hanging?”
Him: “Who are you?”
Me: “It’s me, Brian. Brian Johnson. Oh, you know.”
Him: “Nope.”
Then he winked and gave me one of those punches in the arm which make you want to deck the bugger.
Me: “You wanna codrive with me, mate?”
Then he said these immortal words: “Does Rose Kennedy have a black dress?”
And he was on board. I rushed back to tell Thomas. “Thomas, mate, listen, good news . . .” Hold on, he’s still under the car. Not trouble, I hope . . . I looked under. The guy was fast asleep. That’s where he’d crawled the night before and he’d never moved.
Okay, Johnson, me boy, I said to myself, you’ve got the smallest engine in the race, 1300 cc, and you’ve got one of the oldest cars in the race, you don’t have any rain tires because Thomas doesn’t think it’s gonna rain, and this is your very first three hours in this car. You don’t know if the engine will hold for three hours and, to top it all, you are pretty much an old fart yourself. And last but not least, a Geordie has never won here. Right, well, I’m quite optimistic! Thomas, out from underneath the Royale, cracks a smile. I know he knows something I don’t.
We do quite well in practice—Pete says the car’s driving well but, like me, he knows we have a battle on our hands. Porsches, 2 and 2.5 liters, very fast and in very capable hands. So we decide to just enjoy the race and see how far our little English car can take us.
Race day. It’s a nine a.m. till noon race (the big boys race the afternoon three-hour). Pete Argetsinger says to me, “I’ll take it out first session, try to get a comfortable position and bed the car in.”
“Hmm!” I think. What if it doesn’t last that long? I won’t even get a drive. But I bow to his judgment.
Green flag: They’re off. We had qualified twelfth on the grid out of forty cars—not bad for a littl’un. The hour seemed to drag by, then Thomas shouted, “Helmet on, he’s coming in.”
This is it! Don’t get nervous, me son. Stay focused. Oh Christ, I’ve just noticed my underpants have crawled up my arse again. Too late. I’ve got $50 Calvin Kleins on and $35 are stuck up my chimney. (Why am I telling you this? I’m writing out loud again, must stop that.) In Pete roars, jumps out, refuel, quick, quick, in you get, seat adjustment, don’t forget the bottom belt that goes up your crotch. (The one that makes your balls go bang.)
Okay, I’m in. Gloves on, visor down, switch on, ignition, fire it up, waved away. Go! Go! Go! And I’m off! Sebring turn one is a nasty fast corner that goes from four lanes down to two. Oh yeah, and it’s a blind one! I gradually come up to speed, and it turns out to be one of those days when everything is right—drivers call it “being in the zone.” I was one with the car, nothing passed me, and I kept passing cars. Back markers? I didn’t know. In enduros, it’s notoriously difficult to tell who’s winning. I just kept driving. I come in for fuel. Thomas just looks grim. I think he thinks the car isn’t going to last, or maybe he’s just enjoying himself. Honestly, you never knew.
Out again, the corners come and go. The cars keep coming and I keep overtaking. The heels of my race boots stick to the floor with the rubber coming from the cars in front. So I basically heel-and-toe my way ’round (that’s driver talk for being a smart-arse).
Checkered flag, go past the pits. Thomas and Pete are standing on the pit wall, Pete clapping, Thomas smiling! Sweden must have put their first man on the moon or dropped to second in the suicide league tables. I drive back to our paddock. Take off my helmet, nobody there. Then I hear on the Tannoy, “Will Brian Johnson please come to the winners’ circle?”
Shit! I had to start the car again. Trouble was, I didn’t know how to get there. Finally, with much frantic waving and flapping of arms, the marshals got me there. Everybody was clapping and smiling. Did I get a podium? Must’ve done. I jumped out the car.
“First overall.”
“No, that’s not right.”
“Yup, you are, mate,” said Pete, which was nice of him, seeing as how he drove with me.
We climbed the podium. I was elated, as you can tell in the photo-graph. The first Geordie boy to win at Sebring. I’ll check just in case. Anyway, the first Geordie boy with Italian blood in him to win the three-hour.
I was interviewed live on the radio and racetrack Tannoy after the presentation and the shaking of the champagne bottle. I was later told I said “fuck�
�� eleven times. That’s fuckin’ awful.
Chapter 22
My Dad and Mam
TRYING TO REPAY A DEBT
I guess I took for granted my father’s sense of my love of anything motorized. He seemed to know that I was destined for something other than working down a mine, but he was a tough, hard man and couldn’t show his affection in any way, shape, or form. No hugs, no smiles, no contact. Just: “Here, I got you this”—a 1959 Ford Popular “sit up and beg” for £50, which was a lot of money to him. The car was nothing to most men. To me, it was my freedom. To him, it was all he had and it was all his love. I wish he was alive to see me race. To see me win.
I’ll never win like he did, and he never won a thing but me.
I tried to repay them for the rest of my life. I did the rock-star thing and bought them a house, but not the big one I wanted to buy. They wanted to pick their own. Their address is still in my phone book: “Mam and Dad, 82 Mountside Gdns, Dunston. Tel.: 91-4606137.” That was the place they loved. It looked over the Tyne and Newcastle. It’s where the “well-off” lived, they said. They were happy there, and so was I when I visited them. When you looked out of the window, you looked down on a house—No. 1 Oak Avenue—right into the window where I was born on October 5, 1947. No! They couldn’t have? But it’s true. My mam, Esther Maria Octavia De Luca, and my dad, Alan Johnson, bought a house overlooking the bedroom I was born in. With parents like that, you’ve got it made.
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