Hello everyone, Spy here, just about dry again. Somebody upstairs obviously hates F1 crews because, for the second time in a month, the minute the chequered flag comes out and we start an incredibly hurried pack down to dash off to the next race, it starts raining stair-rods.

Paul Ricard was as wet as it could be – but Hockenheim yesterday was wetter. For a while there we were trapped in the circuit because the access tunnel for the trucks had flooded. Jean-Paul Sartre may have thought hell was being trapped in a room with your friends – he should have tried it with two cars, 70 tonnes of flight cases and a pressing appointment in Budapest.

If pack down was hell, then the race itself was purgatory. Definitely not a weekend we’ll remember with any great fondness. Daniel was having a great afternoon until the point at which his engine decided he was clearly enjoying himself too much, and Max spent the afternoon banging his head against a wall, the other side of which was a shiny trophy he could see, but couldn’t touch. We thought he’d be in with a good shout when the radar started showing rain heading our way – but his late race gamble for glory didn’t pay off. No real grumbles about that: it wouldn't be a gamble if they were all sure things. And it could be worse: look what happened to Sebastian.

It’s not in Spy’s nature to display any generosity of spirit – but you had to feel sorry for the vast majority of the crowd at Hockenheim yesterday as they trooped out like drowned rats, Ferrari banners dragging through the mud behind them. Congratulations universal laws of irony, after Seb makes everyone thoroughly miserable at Silverstone; Lewis gets to do the same in Germany. On the positive side, there was a lot of them to be miserable, which is a good sign: Spy hears whispers that the German Grand Prix may not be quite so dead as people believe.

Anyway, moving swiftly on to Hungary (which is genuinely what Spy is doing today) this is the one we’ve been looking forward to. Hungary has lots of the stuff we like (corners) and not so much of the stuff we don’t like (straights), so spirits are high. Of course, the forecast suggests we’d be better off building an ark instead of a garage, which is annoying because most weekends we’d like a bit of chaos but perhaps not this one.

For added interest, silly season is going large this weekend. That was supposed to calm down when Mercedes did there thing last week but no. According to the rumour mill, every driver absolutely not nailed down (and some that are) is going to be driving for every team next year, except the one they’re driving for at the moment.

Just to be clear, any driver who says he doesn’t read the gossip pages is lying through his immaculate dentistry. It’s true that drivers don’t generally read* but they make an exception to read about themselves. The fun ones will be dodging in an out of random motorhomes all week and having very public conversations in the paddock with management from other teams they wouldn’t usually be seen talking to, just to wind up the media. Because the joy of silly season is that it cuts both ways.

* They prefer to wait for the movie