Japan polarises the Paddock. People either love the efficiency, cleanliness and completely alien (to us Europeans) culture or they hate the lack of working phones and Blackberries, the virtually carb-free diet and the fact that no-one, well very few people, speak English, the defacto language of Formula One. The love of the place is not enhanced by this being the second week of a back-to-back flyaway, one on which sleep seems to be the major topic of conversation as bodyclocks try to adjust to the travel and Singapore schedule.

Our team hotel is half an hour’s drive from the circuit in Yokkaichi, which is probably a better place for night-time entertainment than Suzuka, but a longer commute. The hotel itself is situated in an area where ladies stand for a little too long on street corners for the good of their reputations, but it does boast right next door possibly the best bar in the world. Out of a tiny bar the size of a hotdog kiosk, it sells about three items of food (noodles, spicy noodles and a meat dish you cook yourself on portable miniature barbecues they supply), its furniture consists of planks of wood stretched across upturned beer crates and… it sells draught whisky. Yep, they pull halves of scotch, add ice and apple flavouring and sell it as their speciality.

Needless to say it has become our local. This in spite of the slightly inebriated non English-speaking resident who kept trying to get the female members of our team to eat his snails (this is no metaphor).

The hotel itself is your typical Japanese business residence. The rooms are a mattress plus six inches wide, there’s no cupboard or closet and the bathroom is a single piece of injection-moulded plastic which contains the regulation heated toilet seat and a shower which has more in common with a garden sprinkler than luxury bathing.

Other local highlights have included the vintage vinyl and clothing stores for those born before 1975 (although a copy of Nevermind for ¥4,550 [35 euros] is pretty steep) and Starbucks for those people who fall into the bracket marked ‘It’s Not Like At Home, Is It?’

And if you don’t have ¥4,550yen…

The best rumour doing the rounds this weekend is that the Singapore authorities, keen to avoid calamity, have been cloud-seeding; basically stalking any likely-looking nimbus and encouraging it to disgorge it’s cargo well away from the city and the race weekend. They really don’t want a wet race.

…which is rather ironic, because this is the wettest race of the year by far. Humidity hit 81 per cent, during qualifying; much more of that are we’re going to fit the RB5 with a rudder and give Mark and Seb paddles. It’s easy to spot the primadonnas and marketing men this week; they’re the ones who bought eight sets of kit with them.

Actually the kit situation engenders a feeling of sympathy for senior management. It isn’t exactly the usual emotion but this weekend they’ve probably earned it. As is the case with most teams, it isn’t deemed proper for them to wear shorts, so they’re all suffering in long trousers, while the rest of us scamper around like it’s dress-down Friday at a beach bums convention.

Of course, that’s the de rigueur uniform for most of the guys whatever the weather. There’s even a few hardy souls who will turn up on at dawn for winter testing, breathe steaming in the cold air, woolly hat firmly in place, cup of tea clutched tightly in a fingerless glove – oblivious to the fact they’re also wearing shorts.  It’s like their legs are afraid of the dark.

Oddly enough, a cold and frosty morning seems like quite a pleasant place to be at the moment.

A race track during F1 weekend can be a difficult place to get to. The more traditional venues tend to be a touch bucolic. It gives them plenty of space to spread out and build grandstands for a 100,000 spectators, but the flip side is that all of those spectators want to arrive at the same time down a road better suited to a donkey cart (and yes Magny-Cours, I’m looking at you, and don’t think you have anything to snigger about either, Silverstone or Spa). City races are a little bit different; you can get to the circuits easily, but getting in can be a struggle. Or, as it turned out yesterday, getting out.

Many of the teams, ourselves included, are staying within the immediate vicinity of the circuit, which encompasses many of the downtown hotels. Getting to the pitlane is simply a question of stepping out of the door and walking down the road.

For anyone coming into the circuit from outside, the City Hall metro station is the main transport hub. It arrives directly in basement of the big shopping centre, spectators pour out and, via a series of interconnected, air-conditioned malls make their way to the relevant gate. After the racing they leave the same way. Or at least that’s the theory.

For some of our more geographically diverse colleagues, leaving the circuit this morning proved to be a little more challenging. The malls and the mass transit system close in the early hours; plenty of time for spectators to exit, not so useful for anyone working in the paddock, leaving at 3am. Without an open door to walk through a city circuit turns into 5.5km of impenetrable steel-link fence. A couple of our colleagues ended up wandering the circuit for the best part of an hour, desperate to find a way – any way – of getting out. Having been reduced to 17litres of coherent sweat in sandals they were contemplating simply coming back to the paddock and sleeping on a bench. Fortunately a kindly cleaning crew took pity on them offered a lift on the back of a street sweeper to a previously un-noticed service exit.

Of course, the way they tell it today it was more like Steve McQueen at the end of The Great Escape. Though Steve, obviously, didn’t make it over the fence.

A few years ago, Sonia Irvine, sister of former racer Eddie Irvine, started up a venture known as “The Amber Lounge” for the F1 high rollers to enjoy a very exclusive and upmarket night out. Maintaining its exclusivity, it only takes place on two nights of a race weekend and only at four Grands Prix, this one, Barcelona, Valencia and Monaco. It’s not cheap, but that’s the point. However, here in Singapore, there’s a rival night time venture called “The Official Formula 1 Lounge.” It’s a cheaper sort of deal, but it has one thing going for it that might just give it a some extra publicity: it’s being fronted by Tamara Ecclestone, aka the Daughter of God. Interestingly enough, while the big newspaper here, “The Straits Times” ran a story about both events, the one that got the free plug at the end of the story, complete with contact phone and web site was the one bearing the Bernie Badge of Approval.

The speed is here in the shape of the F1 cars, the rock ‘n roll is all present and correct thanks to the F1 Rocks event, but drugs? Surely not, in Singapore where, on landing with any airline, passengers are warned that drug smuggling carries the death penalty. However, because of the need to deal with the double whammy of jet lag and working the night shift, lots of the F1 workers have arrived armed with legal prescription sleeping pills and potions. Stand by the paddock gate in the morning (that’s around 3pm on our shift) and you can spot the ones who got the dose wrong, by the very fashionable wobbly leg walk. Maybe they’ve been listening to paddock guests ZZ Top all time hits including, “She’s got legs, she knows how to use them…”

Every grand prix has two specific sets of journalist: there are the internationals, follow the series around the world, living on free paddock food and juggling enthusiasm and cynicism with hopeless dexterity; then there are the nationals, who turn up at their local race looking for a bit of colour. It’s easy to tell them apart by the questions they ask in press briefings. Internationals are all prying enquiries about contracts, performance and the scandal of the moment. The locals usually start things a little more gently with a “So, how are you enjoying your time in WhereverWeAre?”

Of the two, it’s the latter that’s deadly. Any driver good enough to get all the way to an F1 drive is a dab hand at batting away questions about where he’s going next year, why he hasn’t been constantly on the podium, and what it’s like having a manager crooked enough to walk through a corkscrew sideways. But the other questions, the ones about local nightlife and attractions, require a rather more deft touch. The brave ones (and both Mark and Seb fit into the category) dive in and talk about whatever they’ve seen or done this year or in the past. The others do the bunny in the headlights ‘very happy to be here; great fans; lovely circuit; thank you for the welcome.’ And they dread the follow-up. Men who will unflinchingly keep it planted through 130R suddenly adopt a mannerism best described as ‘clenched’, fearful of being asked for specifics on why they’re so happy to be here; what’s so great about this set of fans etc.,

This week more than any other it’s easy to feel a degree of sympathy. Last night, leaving the track at half past two, there were plenty of drivers still around: running the track with their trainers, talking to engineers, and generally doing the stuff they do at work. It’s very unlikely any of them will have been planning to nip back to the hotel for a shower and then set out to see the sights at 4am.  They might get out in the afternoon for a sponsor event in another hotel, but most of what they’ll see this week is paddock, garage, circuit and hotel. Good luck generating a story from that.

Of course it’s the same for the crews, who will finish work in the small hours. The exception is going to be Saturday night. With everything locked down in Parc Ferme there is a limit to what the team can do after debriefing, cleaning the garage and preparing for the morning. In the past they’d have probably torn both cars to pieces and rebuilt them before clocking off, so when the parc ferme rules came in the paddock mechanics greeted it like all their birthdays had come at once. Of course with a race to run on Sunday, it isn’t exactly a wild night of hedonism that awaits – team managers tend to take a dim view of that – but after four days of hard graft, even a quiet night with a good meal and a glass of wine is very welcome.

But in Singapore it’s a little bit different. If everything’s locked down by 1am, the natural instinct for most is to go back to the hotel for good night’s sleep – but with the team not due to reassemble for breakfast until the following afternoon, they’re not supposed to go to bed too early. A team-manager two doors down the paddock summed up the dilemma rather neatly: “This could be the only time all season I actively urge them to go to a nightclub…”

Arriving at the track on Thursday for the start of the Singapore weekend, there was no sign of anything untoward down at the Renault garage. As is the way of Formula One, teams always seem to ride out any storms of a political or scandalous nature without too much trouble. Of course, there was no sign of Messrs Briatore and Symonds, but all the other signs seemed normal. Until Friday morning that is, when any sign of Renault’s title sponsor, banking company ING, had been carefully removed, from the hospitality area, the garage walls, the cars and the drivers’ overalls.

Last year the bus was quiet on the drive in from Changi Airport to downtown Singapore. After the dislocation of a long-haul flight it often is, and doubly so at a new venue without the prompting familiarity of good-times past. Out of nowhere the expressway suddenly rose up to cross the end of the main straight. Far below the pitlane and track were lit up like a… well, a highly illuminated racing circuit. It looked spectacular: a statement of intent for Singapore that instantly raised the bar for everywhere else. Suddenly everyone was in the mood. One team member, renowned for having a demeanour to make Eeyore seem enthusiastic, muttered ‘this is going to be the best race ever.’

Well, with hindsight maybe not, but Singapore is certainly the best of the new bunch. While the other modern venues lack atmosphere, Singapore At Night has it by the bucket. The drivers haven’t been too impressed with the lack of passing opportunities, but in terms of audience appreciation and organisation, this place set new standards. The organisers say they’ve tweaked the track to make it more exciting. Hopefully they haven’t changed anything else.

There is, of course the issue of working at night. The much-touted theory was that everyone should simply attempt to stay on European time. The hotels have played along, all black-out curtains and breakfast being served at 2pm, but really the importance of this has been blown out of proportion. Having a race in the dark is a novelty, but seeing teams working in the pitlane at midnight is anything but.

The original idea was for everything to simply shift forward six hours from the usual race schedule, but that all went out the window when the drivers’ union pointed out, not unreasonably, that doing so would mean holding the early practice sessions on Friday and Saturday in broad daylight which would, in the determination of sight-lines, braking zones etc., be about as much use as a chocolate teapot. And so everything’s got shuffled around and the natural order of things is much interrupted.

It’s been suggested things might be easier if Bernie simply got the sun to set sooner – but Mr E seems to be much too busy getting his pet Indian Grand Prix project sorted out to bother with such trifles.

It’s the drivers’ retreat, the team canteen, an office, a bar, a restaurant and (occasionally) a nightclub. But for the first time this weekend the Energy Station became an artist’s studio.

Renowned German motorsport artist Armin Flossdorf was in our motorhome painting on Sunday for a feature on television. If you don’t get German TV, fear not, we have pctures of him.

And his paintings…

Having mentioned the movie Grand Prix on Saturday, a friend from back home casually commented that F1 just isn’t as good as it used to be. Asked rather coldly to explain himself, said friend made comments, the implication of which was that the modern, safer F1 can’t possibly be as good, because the drivers simply don’t have the balls of their predecessors.

Anyone of that opinion should take a look at the footage from last year’s race here Monza, which took place in utterly appalling, borderline red-flag conditions. Sebastian Vettel won the race, but had possibly an easier afternoon of it, having been in front from the start.

A better story comes from Robert Kubica. He was puzzled to hear his engineer giving him the gap back to Nick Heidfeld: Big Robert had thought he was chasing his team-mate. Only later did he figure out he’d passed Nick somewhere on the main straight, but hadn’t seen the other car because of the spray. Just to go over that again, Robert, no stranger to big accidents, had his foot flat to the floor, on the fastest section of the fastest racetrack in F1, during conditions so apocalyptic he couldn’t see a white car equipped with a high-visibility tail light as he passed it at a distance of no more than a couple of feet.

Whether or not F1 possesses a bygone, never-to-be-repeated Golden Age is an issue both emotive and subjective, and feel free to make comment and join in the debate below, but questioning the courage of anyone prepared to do something like that just doesn’t stack up – whatever era they race(d) in.