I long ago came to the conclusion that I hated sand. Always have, always will. There's a very good reason why I use my annual holidays to travel to V8 meetings - the beach doesn't 'turn me on'. As a young man, hoping to meet pretty young things in neck-to-knee costumes, I always had sand kicked in my face by Gorilla-like blokes. Chaps bigger than Dicky Johnson's lad, Stevie.

I also found that sand got in the most unfortunate places - like in my AWA portable wireless.

Because of the sand traps, and because it takes three days to get there, spectating at Barbagallo is a chore. It's a great track, but it's so sandy, you expect the Sandpeople from Star Wars to suddenly appear, taking pot shots at the race cars.

By-the-way, George Lucas styled the appearance of the hideous -looking Sandpeople (name Tuscan Raiders - Ed.) after meeting Big Hair Nev, when he unsuccessfully auditioned for the role of Hans Solo.

Anyway, my problems with sand actually began when I reached Perth. I decided I'd take a look at the Indian Ocean to sea, er, see how it compared to the Pacific.

I felt bloody ripped off when I got to Scarborough Beach. No sign of Indians in a canoe, just a snotty-nosed kid smirking at me with a seagull's feather behind his ear, hitting his lips as he sang "woo-woo-woo-woo".

The Fremantle Doctor began to blow up, and before I knew it, my eyes became so gritty I could barely see. So I retreated (more like stumbled) to my trusty Valiant and took off towards the circuit via the Freeway.

After 'bout 30 minutes on the freeway, my mobile phone rang. It was my wife, Jan. She was ringing me to warn me about some idiot she heard about via a radio newsflash.

"Stan, be careful," Jan said in a worried tone. "I just heard that there was a madman driving the wrong way down Perth's main freeway!"

To which I replied, "I know, love. But there isn't just one, there are hundreds! "That's when I heard the sirens... After pulling me over, the police spent ages admiring my Valiant and the 14-foot Viscount Ambassador it was towing. They said something about looking for defaults, but I told them I didn't have a computer.

It wasn't until I promised to get them Garth Tander's autograph that they issued a ticket and let me go.

Finally, I made it to Barbagallo, just before my nerves were completely shot. I then spent all weekend trying to calm down. I found that cheering on Murph, Skaife, and Ambrose as they swept all before them - including the sand - was very therapeutic.

And strangely, I found watching Rodney Forbes' antics calming. It was reassuring to note there's one bloke who has more misadventures than me!

During the last race, I decided to celebrate my relaxed state by buying a pie. I had just sat back down at CAT Corner, and was applying the sauce, when Steve Ellery had his whoopsie in the kitty litter. He kicked up so much sand, me and my pie soon sported a fine coating of grit. I was back to square one - stressed!

I got Marcos to give me a good hosing down with the champagne, and I retired to my Viscount Ambassador for a good night's sleep. That way, I'd avoid spending hours waiting in traffic to exit the circuit.

I slept like a baby, without, thankfully, waking up bawling in my own filth. So I decided to hit the road. But I couldn't move - two old Holdens had parked me in. Not just any old Holdens, but a Sandman and a Gemini Sandpiper! I hate sand. Always have, always will. - Stan