#jblifetothelimit

Ralf Schumacher

I’d been a Formula One driver at Williams for all of 10 seconds - stammering, holding back tears and thinking, I’ve got to tell Mum and Dad - when suddenly Ralf bustled into the room, took up position opposite Frank Williams and pulled his best diva face.

“I’m not coming in tomorrow if the car isn’t waiting for me,” he pouted.

I was thinking: “Bloody hell, you can’t speak to Frank like that.” But Frank’s equilibrium was undisturbed as Ralf continued, giving it the full Mariah Carey.

“I mean it. I mean it, Frank. If the car’s not waiting outside the hotel for me, or if it’s late, I’m not coming in. I’m not going to test.”

“We’ll make sure it’s there for you tomorrow,” said Frank, unruffled, and Ralf was about to flounce out, toys successfully jettisoned, when Frank added, “More importantly, Ralf, I’ve chosen Jenson as the second driver.”

Ralf looked at Frank and then at me. “Yeah, I know,” he said imperiously.

Whether Ralf really did know or was just being a cocky b------, who can say? Either way it was a strange way to start a relationship with a teammate.

Ralf always came across as a bit insecure to me, as though he feared he was being usurped. He never quite treated me as an equal, which might have been my age or the language barrier.

David Coulthard

At the start of my career, DC took me under his wing; we’d spend time together, go on holiday together with our girlfriends and so on. On one particular boat trip from Monaco to Sicily and then Sardinia, I remember me and him sitting on the boat drinking Bloody Marys all the way down to Sicily.

Undeterred we went out on land and kept drinking, no doubt attracting attention, because when we arrived back there must have been 15 paparazzi hanging around on the quay waiting.

We made our way onto the boat and continued the party, things getting a bit messy, until DC announced, “Right, I’m going to give them a show, these photographers,” took all his clothes off and dived towards the curtains, planning to fling them back and, “Give the paps a proper show in me birthday suit.”

Only my rugby tackle saved his blushes. The fact that he was about to do it? So DC. The fact that he remembered and thanked me afterwards and then told the world how I’d saved him from making a d--- of himself? That’s him all over.

Jacques Villeneuve

The only person who didn’t want me at BAR when I joined the team in 2003 was Jacques Villeneuve.

At our first press conference, he was asked what he thought of his new teammate. “Well,” he said, “he’s inexperienced, he looks like he should be in a boy band.” This kind of open hostility floored me.

After that, Jacques didn’t speak to me. He wouldn’t even look at me. If we passed each other in the paddock he’d find something interesting to look at in the opposite direction.

At the season opener in Australia, he was supposed to pit on lap 30 and me on 31. However, Jacques had saved a bit of fuel through the first stint of the race and didn’t pit, even though they were calling him in. Instead, he deliberately came in on lap 31, knowing I wouldn’t be able to go any longer than 31 and that I’d have no choice but to pit behind him.

Why did he do it? Partly mind games, partly because he wanted to beat me. But it was a dick move, and for a driver of his quality, a fairly incomprehensible one. He might have felt that he didn’t want whatshisname from Westlife coming in to beat him, but as a former World Champion he would have known the importance of keeping the team onside, and with that one act of petulance he turned them against him.

Michael Schumacher

He was a tough driver but he was always fair with me. He never took the p--- when it came to racing; he’d push me to the limit but never over it.

A controversial character, for sure – just ask Jacques Villeneuve and Damon Hill – but it was always fun fighting with him. Especially when you put him in the rear-view mirror.

Flavio Briatore

When I first joined Benetton in 2001, Flavio was good fun and great company. However, it soon became apparent that he expected me to win races, which in that car was an impossibility. And when I didn’t win, he started being no fun and s----- company. He was particularly forthright with the media, especially when you’d had a poor race, which was pretty much every race that season.

Just before Monaco he told the press he thought I was ‘a lazy playboy’. The dictionary I’m looking at defines ‘playboy’ as ‘a wealthy man who spends his time enjoying himself, especially one who behaves irresponsibly or is sexually promiscuous’.

Okay, so ‘wealthy’, yes. Guilty. I had, somewhat foolishly in retrospect, listened to my manager who told me that my continued prosperity in Formula One was assured and that I should rent an apartment in Monaco, which I did. I also bought a yacht, that I called Missie. And I had, also somewhat foolishly, parked that yacht in Monaco harbour. A bit flash, I grant you.

But I wasn’t lazy and I didn’t spend my time enjoying myself, certainly not at Benetton, because it was a miserable year by anyone’s standards. And as for being sexually promiscuous, well that’s just not true either.