For today’s Formula 1 drivers, the glare of the media spotlight is relentless. TV cameras haunt every corner of the paddock, there are daily press conferences throughout a grand prix weekend, and harassed PRs are for ever setting up Meet the Driver sessions for journalists. So it’s impossible for, say, the Ferrari No1 to regard his time in the cockpit as the beginning and the end of his job.

In the 1950s, even if you were the Ferrari No1 fighting for the lead in the world championship, it was very different. Of course many of the drivers were, by any measure, exceptional human beings; yet they remained normal people, not superstars. They were approachable if a serious motor-racing writer wanted an intelligent conversation, but there were none of the press scrums that drivers have to endure now. So, if you were by inclination a modest, self-effacing individual who thought motor racing was simply about what happened on the track, you could let your driving do the talking.

Tony Brooks was like that. In fact, maybe his natural reticence explains why today, half a century after he retired, it’s only true enthusiasts who appreciate that he is one of the greatest grand prix drivers this country has ever produced. This man won his first Formula 1 race. He finished second in his second grande épreuve, and he jointly won his third. If you like statistics, he won 15.8 per cent of the world championship rounds he started — a better ratio than world champions like Surtees, Rindt, Farina, Rosberg, Hawthorn and Phil Hill. Due to a couple of perhaps unfortunate career choices, he only had three seasons in properly competitive F1 cars. But during that time he won six of the 13 grands prix he finished, a remarkable 46 per cent. And as Ferrari team leader he only lost the world title in the final round, in a characteristic application of common sense over foolhardiness.