There really is nothing in the world like the Goodwood Revival. It takes your breath away. Racing stars and rock stars, TV personalities and captains of industry, spectators and guests, all dressed up and playing their parts in a 1950s extravaganza. The racing is real, but the backdrop is pure pantomime.

The bizarre atmosphere can be illustrated by a few brief episodes. Take the spectacle of Robert Brooks, now Chairman of Bonhams, walking back to the pits after completely demolishing the chicane with his Lotus 19, carrying a helmet in one hand and a potted geranium in the other. It seems the floral tribute landed gently on Brooks’ lap as the prettily decorated red-and-white chicane exploded on impact.

	Or the incongruous sight of Sir Stirling Moss, standing in the assembly area in period overalls, loudly reprimanding his Mk VII Jaguar team-mate in the two-driver St. Mary’s Trophy. “Come on, come on! We’re supposed to be out on track, for Heaven’s sake!” Sir Stirling didn’t give two hoots that his team-mate was Rowan Atkinson, meekly apologetic and looking more like Mr Bean than a millionaire superstar. Was this all part of some pre-planned sketch? No, just Goodwood. Groups of men, everywhere, complimented each other on their outfits and asked where they got hold of such a fetching little hat. “Is it a Fedora?” I ask you, what other event in the world sees men meeting up, weeks in advance, to discuss what they’re going to wear? It’s easier for us women: I bought four post-war outfits, with matching hats and bags and even shoes at a provincial charity shop for the princely sum of £26.
	But most incongruous of all was the Thursday pre-event cricket match at Goodwood House. Here, Sir Jack Brabham and Derek Bell faced up to the batting talents of Richard Attwood and Jackie Oliver. While touring car stars Will Hoy and David Leslie shared fielding tactics with Alain de Cadenet and Dire Straits’ Mark Knopfler. And all played to the Earl of March’s esoteric rules: when, for example, Tiff Needell bowled out ex-MGOC racer Tony Dron on the first ball, a contrite Tiff apologised profusely for this appalling breach of manners and his opponent was duly reinstated at the wicket, where he gallantly failed to score a single run. According to 6-foot 5-inch Dron, this was largely due to the fact that he’d been given a cricket bat which was too short to reach the ground.
	Jochen Mass was absent from the cricket match this year, and the F1 star’s prodigious batting talent was sorely missed. I just hope he hadn’t taken offence at his team-mate’s comment after his commendable performance at the last Revival, “You know Jochen, you might be German but you could have had a decent career in cricket.”
	In fitting revenge for the cricket match, Tony Dron won the Sussex Trophy in a Ferrari 246S Dino, forcing Tiff Needell’s Lister Jaguar into second place. When offered a passenger ride on the victory lap, I leapt at the chance. Only there was first the struggle of getting into a racing car in a post-war frock with hat and handbag and my grandmother’s bulky mink. And then to add to the humiliation, the elderly mink coat responded to the heat of the engine and the 120mph wind over the open cockpit by giving off a musty stench of long-dead rats. It did rather spoil my sense of sartorial elegance.
	The weird and wonderful pageant was, of course, overshadowed by the week’s events in America and everywhere was evidence of the recent atrocities: the Stars and Stripes fluttered at half mast all along the pit-lane and each day saw a dignified three minute silence. The atmosphere in the paddock during the silence was deeply moving. Gentlemen removed their hats – a rare sight at a modern gathering – and there was no sound but the cracking of the hot engines as they cooled in the autumn sunshine, and the faint breeze, rattling the wires of the stalls. The indomitable spirit survived and, despite world events, there was still excitement and good humour.
	And was it Gerry Marshall who muttered that Barrie “Whizzo” Williams had faced the biggest challenge of his career at this year’s Revival? “It was the three minutes’ silence. Whizzo’s never kept quiet that long in his life.”