The one not to miss
"I've got a box at Market Rasen, Gitau!" the aristocratic male voice at the end of the telephone boomed. "Bring a couple of chums along on Saturday afternoon." Not a lot else was said and he promptly rang off and left his assumption-loaded sentences bouncing around in my brain. His assumptions were threefold. First, that I recognised his voice, secondly, that I knew where Market Rasen was and thirdly, that I had any mates. When I gave the matter some thought I realised that it was I who was being dim. I could hardly fail to recognise the plummy drawl of a gentleman named Pettifer for whom I had spent a summer working in Barton-upon-Humber in north Lincolnshire. Similarly, it was scarcely going to be an effort to persuade two fellow poor students to spend an afternoon eating posh nosh and quaffing expensive champagne at the races! And, even for the most slow-witted of people, it did not take too much sleuthing to establish that Market Rasen was the only racecourse in all of Lincolnshire.
I rounded up my mates Douglas and Joe - the latter principally because he owned a vehicle! - and we set off for Market Rasen on the appointed Saturday. It was a joyous afternoon in the sun and Pettifer's box filled one with the joys of summer. The fly in the ointment was my woefully poor horse selection techniques. Mister Incredible at 12/1 proved himself to be aptly named - he was incredibly stupid and wanted to run round the track the wrong way. I gave up when Dawn's Progress fell at the first hurdle and concentrated instead on Pettifer's excellent Veuve Clicquot. Douglas proved just as pathetic as I was and gave up when he realised he was getting through about half a pack of fags each time the horses set off. For Joe things could not possibly have been better. Against our impassioned pleas about the folly of what he was determined to attempt, Joe stuck £20 on Whistler's Mother for a win at 20/1. Would you believe it, Whistler's Mother came in first! Our looks of utter horror were matched only by Joe's yelps of unadulterated joy (tempered only when advised that his behaviour was not quite becoming of a person in the hallowed confines of a posh box: "steady on, dear boy!").
Lincolnshire lasses have good noses. It was not long before the attentions of the county's comeliest ladies were lavished on a very receptive Joe. Fill an impressionable lad's pockets with dosh and wave a bit of totty at him and all reason flies out the window - such is the moral strength of youngsters. At the end of the racing afternoon, Joe weighed his options - drive all the way back to Guildford with two dejected lads with minds sozzled by Veuve Clicquot (Joe had been forced to abstain, you see) or have a night on the town with the best bit of skirt east of Cheltenham. Douglas and I thought it very mean-spirited of the chap to choose the latter option without even giving it a moment's thought but there is little to be said when a chap has nothing but totty on the brain. So, there we were: high and dry. Needs must, as they say, so Douglas and I got onto a clapped out old bus headed for London and left Joe to his celebrating.
The bus gave lots of reasons to be grateful for small mercies. Along with a jolly, singing bus driver, the bus company had thrown in a VCR and telly which, unbelievably, was showing the 1955 Monaco Grand Prix. Watching the 1950s racing cars winding their way though the money-soaked streets of Monte Carlo was a rare treat. Then some Italian fellow flew off the racing track into the harbour. "Hang on a minute," I thought, "racing cars aren't supposed to be in the Mediterranean!" I put it down to champagne fuelled hallucination and allowed myself to fall asleep. Years later I learned that, in one of the most bizarre Monaco Grands Prix, double world champion, Alberto Ascari, had made a near fatal mistake and ended up in the harbour in 1955. Such is the extraordinary nature of the Monaco Grand Prix. For anybody who has no more than a passing interest in motor racing I consistently say this: if you watch nothing else watch the Monaco Grand Prix.
I am sure I have mentioned before that for any Formula One driver there are two prizes. The first is winning the world championship. The second - and the one that makes them shed tears and want to shower the world with gold - is winning at Monaco. Even hardened men like Ayrton Senna, the Monaco master (he won six times - five of them consecutively!), are reduced to snivelling wrecks when handed the coveted trophy by Prince Albert II (I met His Serene Highness some years ago on another island but this one had only donkeys, not Ferraris!). Of the four championship contenders, two have won at Monaco and two haven't. Kimi Raikkonen won in 2005 and Fernando Alonso received the honours last year. Lewis Hamilton and Felipe Massa are yet to go weak-limbed after a Monaco win. That last sentence is not quite right; it ought to be qualified by the addition of the words "Formula One" before the word "win". For Hamilton already has Monaco silver in his home in Hampshire. He has won there in the lower formulas - including F1's younger brother, GP2 - and knows his way round the Monte Carlo Streets only too well.
Crucially, there is no pressure on the youngster. I cannot believe I am writing this but this will only be Lewis Hamilton's fifth Grand Prix. The pressure, therefore, must sit squarely on the shoulders of reigning world champion, Fernando Alonso. He would never admit this in a million years but a win for Hamilton at Monaco would be galling for Alonso. It would mean that the headline writers have been right all along. It would be confirmation that all bets are off; that 2007 and beyond may well belong to the young British driver and not to him. It would also mean that he would never see the huge cheques Michael Schumacher became accustomed to as of right. In other words, disaster.
The key to Sunday at this circuit more than any other is Saturday. Overtaking is a no-no here. The only chap who seemed to manage it was Schumacher - like he did last year (but towards the end of his career Schumacher's reputation was such that drivers would see his Ferrari in their rear view mirrors and soil their pants). Qualify on pole in Monaco and you pretty much have it in the bag. This has been Massa's strength so far and could well work in his favour. Hamilton has not made pole yet and will need to if he is to earn his maiden win. I dearly hope he does. For the first time in years I am off the fence. I am not ashamed to say that I am now terribly partisan: I am a fervent supporter of Lewis Hamilton. If he wins in Monaco I shall prepare myself for the inevitable angry phone call from my bank manager and crack open the champagne.
The weather could be a factor. When it rains in Monaco things tend to go haywire. I usually like this but not this weekend. This one is too important. Even if you have to watch it from behind your fingers, by all means
Enjoy Monaco!
23 May 2007
I rounded up my mates Douglas and Joe - the latter principally because he owned a vehicle! - and we set off for Market Rasen on the appointed Saturday. It was a joyous afternoon in the sun and Pettifer's box filled one with the joys of summer. The fly in the ointment was my woefully poor horse selection techniques. Mister Incredible at 12/1 proved himself to be aptly named - he was incredibly stupid and wanted to run round the track the wrong way. I gave up when Dawn's Progress fell at the first hurdle and concentrated instead on Pettifer's excellent Veuve Clicquot. Douglas proved just as pathetic as I was and gave up when he realised he was getting through about half a pack of fags each time the horses set off. For Joe things could not possibly have been better. Against our impassioned pleas about the folly of what he was determined to attempt, Joe stuck £20 on Whistler's Mother for a win at 20/1. Would you believe it, Whistler's Mother came in first! Our looks of utter horror were matched only by Joe's yelps of unadulterated joy (tempered only when advised that his behaviour was not quite becoming of a person in the hallowed confines of a posh box: "steady on, dear boy!").
Lincolnshire lasses have good noses. It was not long before the attentions of the county's comeliest ladies were lavished on a very receptive Joe. Fill an impressionable lad's pockets with dosh and wave a bit of totty at him and all reason flies out the window - such is the moral strength of youngsters. At the end of the racing afternoon, Joe weighed his options - drive all the way back to Guildford with two dejected lads with minds sozzled by Veuve Clicquot (Joe had been forced to abstain, you see) or have a night on the town with the best bit of skirt east of Cheltenham. Douglas and I thought it very mean-spirited of the chap to choose the latter option without even giving it a moment's thought but there is little to be said when a chap has nothing but totty on the brain. So, there we were: high and dry. Needs must, as they say, so Douglas and I got onto a clapped out old bus headed for London and left Joe to his celebrating.
The bus gave lots of reasons to be grateful for small mercies. Along with a jolly, singing bus driver, the bus company had thrown in a VCR and telly which, unbelievably, was showing the 1955 Monaco Grand Prix. Watching the 1950s racing cars winding their way though the money-soaked streets of Monte Carlo was a rare treat. Then some Italian fellow flew off the racing track into the harbour. "Hang on a minute," I thought, "racing cars aren't supposed to be in the Mediterranean!" I put it down to champagne fuelled hallucination and allowed myself to fall asleep. Years later I learned that, in one of the most bizarre Monaco Grands Prix, double world champion, Alberto Ascari, had made a near fatal mistake and ended up in the harbour in 1955. Such is the extraordinary nature of the Monaco Grand Prix. For anybody who has no more than a passing interest in motor racing I consistently say this: if you watch nothing else watch the Monaco Grand Prix.
I am sure I have mentioned before that for any Formula One driver there are two prizes. The first is winning the world championship. The second - and the one that makes them shed tears and want to shower the world with gold - is winning at Monaco. Even hardened men like Ayrton Senna, the Monaco master (he won six times - five of them consecutively!), are reduced to snivelling wrecks when handed the coveted trophy by Prince Albert II (I met His Serene Highness some years ago on another island but this one had only donkeys, not Ferraris!). Of the four championship contenders, two have won at Monaco and two haven't. Kimi Raikkonen won in 2005 and Fernando Alonso received the honours last year. Lewis Hamilton and Felipe Massa are yet to go weak-limbed after a Monaco win. That last sentence is not quite right; it ought to be qualified by the addition of the words "Formula One" before the word "win". For Hamilton already has Monaco silver in his home in Hampshire. He has won there in the lower formulas - including F1's younger brother, GP2 - and knows his way round the Monte Carlo Streets only too well.
Crucially, there is no pressure on the youngster. I cannot believe I am writing this but this will only be Lewis Hamilton's fifth Grand Prix. The pressure, therefore, must sit squarely on the shoulders of reigning world champion, Fernando Alonso. He would never admit this in a million years but a win for Hamilton at Monaco would be galling for Alonso. It would mean that the headline writers have been right all along. It would be confirmation that all bets are off; that 2007 and beyond may well belong to the young British driver and not to him. It would also mean that he would never see the huge cheques Michael Schumacher became accustomed to as of right. In other words, disaster.
The key to Sunday at this circuit more than any other is Saturday. Overtaking is a no-no here. The only chap who seemed to manage it was Schumacher - like he did last year (but towards the end of his career Schumacher's reputation was such that drivers would see his Ferrari in their rear view mirrors and soil their pants). Qualify on pole in Monaco and you pretty much have it in the bag. This has been Massa's strength so far and could well work in his favour. Hamilton has not made pole yet and will need to if he is to earn his maiden win. I dearly hope he does. For the first time in years I am off the fence. I am not ashamed to say that I am now terribly partisan: I am a fervent supporter of Lewis Hamilton. If he wins in Monaco I shall prepare myself for the inevitable angry phone call from my bank manager and crack open the champagne.
The weather could be a factor. When it rains in Monaco things tend to go haywire. I usually like this but not this weekend. This one is too important. Even if you have to watch it from behind your fingers, by all means
Enjoy Monaco!
23 May 2007
posted by Gitau at 5:17 pm
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