The heat is on in Hungary
Something should have told me this was going to be an unusual evening. The air hung heavy and people’s moods seemed odd. Nevertheless, I was filled with the joys of summer in London and wanted to make as much of it as I could. It just so happened that on the evening in question I was playing host to three American law students visiting the City for the summer. My suggestion of a foot-stomping evening at Ronnie Scott’s Jazz Club went down extremely well and we made our way on the Tube to Soho. While standing in the queue in Frith Street for tickets to Ronnie Scott’s, I warned my American friends that Ronnie Scott was as famous for his bad jokes as his atrocious food, so it would be sensible to find somewhere decent to eat before joining the revelry in the jazz club.
We made our way round the corner to The Gay Hussar in Greek Street – a famous, old Hungarian restaurant, popular with journalists and politicians, which owes its name to a time when “gay” meant cheerful and merry and not something…um, well, something entirely different. Across the room from us was a largish group of journalists from a national newspaper who appeared to be celebrating a major scoop. Their groaning table was generously laden with several bottles of wine, large dishes of veal goulash, Hungarian salami, chicken in paprika sauce and various other Hungarian delicacies. The journalists seemed to be joshing one another about journalistic mistakes or silly stories in such an entertaining manner that the Americans and I gave up any pretence of speaking to each other and instead concentrated on eavesdropping on the journalists.
As ever with such situations, as the wine flowed, the banter became harsher and eventually settled on the foibles of one member of the group. The emphasis of the ribaldry seemed to be weaknesses associated with the individual’s age. He, it must be said, was considerably older than his colleagues and appeared to be touchy and, thus, more susceptible to teasing. Inevitably, a vicious cycle ensued: the more irritable he became, the worse the joshing, followed by more annoyance and then more insistent teasing…and so on. At length he decided simply to sulk and chew on some chicken.
Just then, a particularly loud journalist remembered an incident which he wished to share with the world. “Remember the time old Williams had to cover the Hungarian Grand Prix in Budapest?” he asked. “Well, for Williams, everything behind the old Iron Curtain is ten minutes apart, so he booked a flight to Bucharest – in completely the wrong country – because he said to himself ‘Budapest, Bucharest, Belgrade, it’s all the bloody same!’ and went to a city so far away from where he needed to be, he missed the Grand Prix and had to nick his copy from the Daily Telegraph’s report of the race!”
Making fun of a petulant journalist is one thing – he can just about live with it – but impugning his journalistic integrity by suggesting that he steals stories from rival newspapers is something of a different order; especially when the alleged target of his thieving is a nasty, Tory rag like the Telegraph! Williams was incensed. He got up and marched out of the restaurant at that point. I thought he was going home. I was wrong. After about a minute and a half, Williams marched back in, climbed onto the table where his colleagues were still sitting, unzipped his trousers and began pissing all over the dishes of Hungarian food. “Try some champagne with your goulash, you twats!” he declared.
With quick glances at each other, the Americans and I realised that this was the point at which to exit The Gay Hussar. As we walked down Greek Street, the sound of smashed plates, upturned tables and fists connecting with soft tissue and bone behind us assured us that our reasoning was sound. I have not been back to The Gay Hussar since that day but I am reminded of the events in that restaurant at the point each year when it is time for the Hungarian Grand Prix.
It is that point again this weekend and the Formula One watching world has its sights trained on a dusty circuit in Budapest. I readily admit that I have never considered the Hungaroring to be a great circuit. It so manifestly is not that I always ranked the Hungarian Grand Prix as my least favourite race before Bernie Ecclestone finally went insane and began introducing races in the ghastliest of places (you’ve probably read enough of my annoyance at circuits like Bahrain by now, so I think it is perhaps time to drop this point!). The race is traditionally a procession dependent on good qualifying and a clever pit strategy. So much so that losing interest in the proceedings is not unheard of.
Some years ago a friend with no more than a vague interest in motor racing found himself at the Hungaroring for the Hungarian Grand Prix as the recipient of corporate entertainment tickets. By the time the cars came round for the twenty third time, even the almighty din of Formula Cars being driven very fast (it is indescribably loud!) was insufficient to keep him awake. His host, embarrassed by a snoring fellow in the expensive seats, suggested that he took a walk. While on his walk he phoned me and asked how it was that I could sit through anything as excruciating when all he felt like doing was finding a long rope and a sturdy tree! I sheepishly had to concede that I understood the sentiment.
It is usually this bad in Hungary because the circuit is crap and the weather is always the same – sunny. Actually, that last sentence would have been true if I was writing this at any time before the 2006 Hungarian Grand Prix. Then, during the first ever wet race at the Hungaroring (and, surprise surprise, the only race worth watching there), Jenson Button threw off his monkey and became a Grand Prix winner.
Far more is at stake this weekend. Buttons chances of winning a world championship appear to be slipping away from him. Brawn need to get their act together if they are going to stand a chance of being anything more than also-rans forever more. Red Bull are lapping furiously at their heels. Worse, the big boys – Ferrari and McLaren - appear at last to be waking from their slumber.
If you’re a Brawn fan, pray for a hot, dry, boring race. That could be Jenson Button’s best chance this weekend. If you belong to any other camp, who knows? This is one race where it pays to be squiffy, so knock back some Unicum (a particularly nasty Hungarian liquor) if you can find it – cheap vodka will do, if you can’t - and try and keep your eyes wide open enough to,
Enjoy Hungary!
Gitau
24 July 2009
We made our way round the corner to The Gay Hussar in Greek Street – a famous, old Hungarian restaurant, popular with journalists and politicians, which owes its name to a time when “gay” meant cheerful and merry and not something…um, well, something entirely different. Across the room from us was a largish group of journalists from a national newspaper who appeared to be celebrating a major scoop. Their groaning table was generously laden with several bottles of wine, large dishes of veal goulash, Hungarian salami, chicken in paprika sauce and various other Hungarian delicacies. The journalists seemed to be joshing one another about journalistic mistakes or silly stories in such an entertaining manner that the Americans and I gave up any pretence of speaking to each other and instead concentrated on eavesdropping on the journalists.
As ever with such situations, as the wine flowed, the banter became harsher and eventually settled on the foibles of one member of the group. The emphasis of the ribaldry seemed to be weaknesses associated with the individual’s age. He, it must be said, was considerably older than his colleagues and appeared to be touchy and, thus, more susceptible to teasing. Inevitably, a vicious cycle ensued: the more irritable he became, the worse the joshing, followed by more annoyance and then more insistent teasing…and so on. At length he decided simply to sulk and chew on some chicken.
Just then, a particularly loud journalist remembered an incident which he wished to share with the world. “Remember the time old Williams had to cover the Hungarian Grand Prix in Budapest?” he asked. “Well, for Williams, everything behind the old Iron Curtain is ten minutes apart, so he booked a flight to Bucharest – in completely the wrong country – because he said to himself ‘Budapest, Bucharest, Belgrade, it’s all the bloody same!’ and went to a city so far away from where he needed to be, he missed the Grand Prix and had to nick his copy from the Daily Telegraph’s report of the race!”
Making fun of a petulant journalist is one thing – he can just about live with it – but impugning his journalistic integrity by suggesting that he steals stories from rival newspapers is something of a different order; especially when the alleged target of his thieving is a nasty, Tory rag like the Telegraph! Williams was incensed. He got up and marched out of the restaurant at that point. I thought he was going home. I was wrong. After about a minute and a half, Williams marched back in, climbed onto the table where his colleagues were still sitting, unzipped his trousers and began pissing all over the dishes of Hungarian food. “Try some champagne with your goulash, you twats!” he declared.
With quick glances at each other, the Americans and I realised that this was the point at which to exit The Gay Hussar. As we walked down Greek Street, the sound of smashed plates, upturned tables and fists connecting with soft tissue and bone behind us assured us that our reasoning was sound. I have not been back to The Gay Hussar since that day but I am reminded of the events in that restaurant at the point each year when it is time for the Hungarian Grand Prix.
It is that point again this weekend and the Formula One watching world has its sights trained on a dusty circuit in Budapest. I readily admit that I have never considered the Hungaroring to be a great circuit. It so manifestly is not that I always ranked the Hungarian Grand Prix as my least favourite race before Bernie Ecclestone finally went insane and began introducing races in the ghastliest of places (you’ve probably read enough of my annoyance at circuits like Bahrain by now, so I think it is perhaps time to drop this point!). The race is traditionally a procession dependent on good qualifying and a clever pit strategy. So much so that losing interest in the proceedings is not unheard of.
Some years ago a friend with no more than a vague interest in motor racing found himself at the Hungaroring for the Hungarian Grand Prix as the recipient of corporate entertainment tickets. By the time the cars came round for the twenty third time, even the almighty din of Formula Cars being driven very fast (it is indescribably loud!) was insufficient to keep him awake. His host, embarrassed by a snoring fellow in the expensive seats, suggested that he took a walk. While on his walk he phoned me and asked how it was that I could sit through anything as excruciating when all he felt like doing was finding a long rope and a sturdy tree! I sheepishly had to concede that I understood the sentiment.
It is usually this bad in Hungary because the circuit is crap and the weather is always the same – sunny. Actually, that last sentence would have been true if I was writing this at any time before the 2006 Hungarian Grand Prix. Then, during the first ever wet race at the Hungaroring (and, surprise surprise, the only race worth watching there), Jenson Button threw off his monkey and became a Grand Prix winner.
Far more is at stake this weekend. Buttons chances of winning a world championship appear to be slipping away from him. Brawn need to get their act together if they are going to stand a chance of being anything more than also-rans forever more. Red Bull are lapping furiously at their heels. Worse, the big boys – Ferrari and McLaren - appear at last to be waking from their slumber.
If you’re a Brawn fan, pray for a hot, dry, boring race. That could be Jenson Button’s best chance this weekend. If you belong to any other camp, who knows? This is one race where it pays to be squiffy, so knock back some Unicum (a particularly nasty Hungarian liquor) if you can find it – cheap vodka will do, if you can’t - and try and keep your eyes wide open enough to,
Enjoy Hungary!
Gitau
24 July 2009
posted by Gitau at 3:19 pm
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