Frank Williams and I grew up together. Not in the sense of boyhood friends, but as wannabe members of the Formula 1 establishment; Frank as a respected entrant, me as a journalist. During the time I was a salesman in the early 1970s, Frank was also using fast talk to inveigle money from whoever might help him go racing with a variety of cars that retired more often than they finished. But I’d seen a rare exception at first hand when a keen fan in 1975. My weekends were spent going to motor races, with grands prix high on the agenda if …