Nerves and a race in Monte Carlo
While young and foolhardy, I prided myself on my self awareness and felt able to take on the most formidable of arguing opponents without a blush. Age and experience have since disabused me of this foolish notion. The instances when I have found myself tongue-tied and embarrassed are legion and hardly worth recounting, but one leaps to the memory as I contemplate events shortly to unfold in a ridiculously wealthy principality on the French Riviera.
While living the life of the left bank intellectual in Paris many years ago, my two Welsh friends and I discovered that if we were able successfully to pass ourselves off as university students, we could avail ourselves of a hot, hearty meal in any of the lavishly appointed university student canteens dotted about the city. Parisian students enjoyed the luxury of a generous government subsidy which allowed them to eat as sumptuous a meal as steak, chips, salad and a large glass of good red wine for the nominal sum of 10 Francs (about £1 in those days). Unsurprisingly, this presented an irresistible temptation for three hungry left bank intellectuals.
While patiently standing in the dinner queue one evening, my eye was caught by the shapely form of a tall, blonde lass with hair that went all the way down to the beginning of her well rounded, denim covered behind. I thought there was no harm in striking up a conversation with the girl and, perhaps, inviting her to join us in partaking of the French government’s largesse. She seemed pleasant enough when, adopting the direct approach, I boldly grabbed her hand and theatrically declared “Je suis tombé mal pour toi et le sentir que je dois vous faire savoir. Mon nom est Iames et je suis un intellectuel de banque gauche. Quel est votre nom ? (I have fallen badly for you and feel I must let you know. My name is Gitau and I am a left bank intellectual. Pray, what is your name?”).
Nevertheless, beyond telling me that her name was Suzanne from Groningen in Holland, she said no more. I did not allow this to stem the flow of my ridiculously theatrical delivery and proceeded to regale Suzanne with all manner of nonsense. All Suzanne did was stare at me. But as I spouted more and more rubbish Suzanne’s stare became colder and colder. Soon I felt much as one might when forced to stare into two blue cubes of ice set in the frosty compartment of a refrigerator. I began to feel discombobulated. An awkward silence fell between us and Suzanne turned to face the direction of travel: the food counter.
Realizing that my time would soon be up, I racked my brains for a trick, a clincher, a thing which when uttered would cause the milk of human kindness and goodwill to gush out of Suzanne like water from a burst dyke. It was then that I remembered the date and the events which were to take place a few hundred miles to the south of where we were standing three days thereafter.
“Suzanne,” I said, “have you any interest in motor racing?”
She turned and slowly stared at me from head to toe. “I would rather stick a broom up my arse than watch cars going round and round a circuit in some shithole.”
This, surely, should have been sufficient to give me reason to shut my mouth and keep it so shut - save for mouthfuls of food and wine – until I was safely out of that student canteen, but it wasn’t. I was made of sterner stuff in those days, you see.
“Ah, that is where you get things wrong, Suzanne. This weekend’s racing action is not in any shithole. Indeed youwould not recognize its venue as a circuit of any description. It is happening on the streets of Monte Carlo! This ought to be an instant draw for one so lovely as you, Suzanne.”
Before I could allow her to say anything in response to this, I drew myself up to my full height – which isn’t very vast, I know but it’s the thought that counts – and declared “my friends and I will be watching the racing action on Sunday from noon in the Café Notre-Dame on the corner of quai St-Michel and rue St-Jacques. We shall be honoured if you will grace us with your elegant presence.” All Suzanne did was sneer at me and keep her eyes and body pointed towards the man ladling out coq-au-vin and potatoes. I made a mental note of the observation that Suzanne did not object to the food-ladler being unsparing when serving her – he too, it seemed, was smitten.
Come Sunday, as my friends and I were settling down into comfortable positions with a refreshing glass of Kronenbourg lager placed within easy each, I nearly fell off my chair when Suzanne calmly walked into the Café Notre-Dame. She pulled up a chair as she signaled to the waiter to serve up a Kronenbourg as if this were the most natural thing in the world. This was the first of many an F1 Sunday with Suzanne. Formula One does have its allure…
My thoughts turned to Suzanne on Friday evening when I met two gentlemen who said they had been somewhat turned off Formula One by the events of recent races. I was puzzled. Upon further enquiry I was able to establish that they were not fans of F1 as a sport but fans of particular elements of each racing weekend. One, a diehard Ferrari fan, had lost interest in the sport because, in his words, “What’s the bloody point if Ferrari aren’t even scoring points?” The other, a Lewis Hamilton fan who has arranged an appointment with the local tattoo clinic to have the words “Lewis Champ Hamilton” tattooed on his forehead cannot bear to see his hero being outpaced by Jenson Button and all the other “small” guys.
Well, well, well. If you are like Suzanne and only watching Grands Prix out of boredom or dedicated to individuals and not the sport itself, this is the weekend for you. If you watch no other race in the F1 calendar, be sure not to miss the Monaco Grand Prix. It is with much regret that I have never made it to Monte Carlo for the Grand Prix or anything but rest assured it is high on my long list of places to see before I die.
I have a feeling Ferrari have a point to prove. Watch this space.
It should be a corker of a race – Monaco always is. So grab a glass of whatever you fancy and,
Enjoy Monaco!
Gitau
23May 2009
While living the life of the left bank intellectual in Paris many years ago, my two Welsh friends and I discovered that if we were able successfully to pass ourselves off as university students, we could avail ourselves of a hot, hearty meal in any of the lavishly appointed university student canteens dotted about the city. Parisian students enjoyed the luxury of a generous government subsidy which allowed them to eat as sumptuous a meal as steak, chips, salad and a large glass of good red wine for the nominal sum of 10 Francs (about £1 in those days). Unsurprisingly, this presented an irresistible temptation for three hungry left bank intellectuals.
While patiently standing in the dinner queue one evening, my eye was caught by the shapely form of a tall, blonde lass with hair that went all the way down to the beginning of her well rounded, denim covered behind. I thought there was no harm in striking up a conversation with the girl and, perhaps, inviting her to join us in partaking of the French government’s largesse. She seemed pleasant enough when, adopting the direct approach, I boldly grabbed her hand and theatrically declared “Je suis tombé mal pour toi et le sentir que je dois vous faire savoir. Mon nom est Iames et je suis un intellectuel de banque gauche. Quel est votre nom ? (I have fallen badly for you and feel I must let you know. My name is Gitau and I am a left bank intellectual. Pray, what is your name?”).
Nevertheless, beyond telling me that her name was Suzanne from Groningen in Holland, she said no more. I did not allow this to stem the flow of my ridiculously theatrical delivery and proceeded to regale Suzanne with all manner of nonsense. All Suzanne did was stare at me. But as I spouted more and more rubbish Suzanne’s stare became colder and colder. Soon I felt much as one might when forced to stare into two blue cubes of ice set in the frosty compartment of a refrigerator. I began to feel discombobulated. An awkward silence fell between us and Suzanne turned to face the direction of travel: the food counter.
Realizing that my time would soon be up, I racked my brains for a trick, a clincher, a thing which when uttered would cause the milk of human kindness and goodwill to gush out of Suzanne like water from a burst dyke. It was then that I remembered the date and the events which were to take place a few hundred miles to the south of where we were standing three days thereafter.
“Suzanne,” I said, “have you any interest in motor racing?”
She turned and slowly stared at me from head to toe. “I would rather stick a broom up my arse than watch cars going round and round a circuit in some shithole.”
This, surely, should have been sufficient to give me reason to shut my mouth and keep it so shut - save for mouthfuls of food and wine – until I was safely out of that student canteen, but it wasn’t. I was made of sterner stuff in those days, you see.
“Ah, that is where you get things wrong, Suzanne. This weekend’s racing action is not in any shithole. Indeed youwould not recognize its venue as a circuit of any description. It is happening on the streets of Monte Carlo! This ought to be an instant draw for one so lovely as you, Suzanne.”
Before I could allow her to say anything in response to this, I drew myself up to my full height – which isn’t very vast, I know but it’s the thought that counts – and declared “my friends and I will be watching the racing action on Sunday from noon in the Café Notre-Dame on the corner of quai St-Michel and rue St-Jacques. We shall be honoured if you will grace us with your elegant presence.” All Suzanne did was sneer at me and keep her eyes and body pointed towards the man ladling out coq-au-vin and potatoes. I made a mental note of the observation that Suzanne did not object to the food-ladler being unsparing when serving her – he too, it seemed, was smitten.
Come Sunday, as my friends and I were settling down into comfortable positions with a refreshing glass of Kronenbourg lager placed within easy each, I nearly fell off my chair when Suzanne calmly walked into the Café Notre-Dame. She pulled up a chair as she signaled to the waiter to serve up a Kronenbourg as if this were the most natural thing in the world. This was the first of many an F1 Sunday with Suzanne. Formula One does have its allure…
My thoughts turned to Suzanne on Friday evening when I met two gentlemen who said they had been somewhat turned off Formula One by the events of recent races. I was puzzled. Upon further enquiry I was able to establish that they were not fans of F1 as a sport but fans of particular elements of each racing weekend. One, a diehard Ferrari fan, had lost interest in the sport because, in his words, “What’s the bloody point if Ferrari aren’t even scoring points?” The other, a Lewis Hamilton fan who has arranged an appointment with the local tattoo clinic to have the words “Lewis Champ Hamilton” tattooed on his forehead cannot bear to see his hero being outpaced by Jenson Button and all the other “small” guys.
Well, well, well. If you are like Suzanne and only watching Grands Prix out of boredom or dedicated to individuals and not the sport itself, this is the weekend for you. If you watch no other race in the F1 calendar, be sure not to miss the Monaco Grand Prix. It is with much regret that I have never made it to Monte Carlo for the Grand Prix or anything but rest assured it is high on my long list of places to see before I die.
I have a feeling Ferrari have a point to prove. Watch this space.
It should be a corker of a race – Monaco always is. So grab a glass of whatever you fancy and,
Enjoy Monaco!
Gitau
23May 2009
posted by Gitau at 10:35 am
1 Comments:
Boss, I'm not sure what I want to read more of: the goings on with Suzanne or your review of Monaco!
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