Sober Singapore

When Rupert Lim and I worked together as litigation trainees, conversation was never easy. He thought I was louche and indisciplined while I considered him prudish and boring. The trouble was that being stuck together in a room without windows sifting documents for more than ten hours each day required at least the odd moment of human interaction, but Rupert's truculence accompanied by his odd snobbery did not allow for much.

"How was the weekend, Rupert?" I would ask politely.
He would typically appear startled and then give me a withering look, before saying "I do not wish to discuss my leisure activities with you, but you can rest assured that my weekend was nothing like yours. I have more sensible ways of spending my time than boozing and bonking."
"Oh. That good, was it?"
"Do you mind getting on with your work, we haven't got all day."

Charming fellow, was Rupert.

I never took offence at Rupert's strange attitude - it amused me. I found him fascinating and took every opportunity I could to tease him. He wasn't an unpleasant chap; it was just that he was the product of a very conservative upbringing in Singapore, a terribly conservative country. Rupert felt an almost magnetic attachment to the obedience of rules and the strict observance of prescribed codes of conduct: we were in that room to sift through documents to be used in a court case and that, to Rupert's mind, was all that we were permitted to do.

Even the Rupert Lims of this world have vices and his was gambling. One evening, I secretly followed Rupert after work and found that he was in the habit of making surreptitious visits to a casino on Park Lane. This particular casino seemed a strange choice for him because it was popular for its topless waitresses who plied guests with free alcohol to encourage them to gamble. But these distractions were as nothing to Rupert - he would not touch anything stronger than Coca Cola and never even cast a sidelong glance at the chests on display. "He's a gambler," I thought to myself, "let's have a bit of fun with this."

Out of the blue one day, I asked Rupert if he fancied joining me one Saturday for a day of horse racing at Kempton Park. To my amazement, he readily accepted the invitation.

I half expected Rupert to fail to turn up on the agreed Saturday but there he was waiting for me at the entrance to Platform 10 at Waterloo Station impeccably clad, as ever, in a Burberry trench coat, well cut trousers and Crocket & Jones loafers. He looked disapprovingly at my flat cap and weathered leather jacket but didn't say anything - I suppose he didn't need to.

The races went very badly for me but not for Rupert. While I was all over the place and heroically unlucky, Rupert seemed to have a knack for selecting horses and betting sensibly. By late afternoon, I was almost cleaned out and had to decide on a new strategy: all or nothing. I looked at my copy of Racing Post and chose to put my last £20 on the horse with the most interesting name I could find. Sure enough, there was a horse called "James Hunt's Last Hurrah" with terrible odds. One of the bookies - unusually for the races - was a large lady of about six and a half feet of height and an enormous chest. I thought she would be lucky for me, so I gave her my last £20 at 18/1. The Gods were smiling down on me that day, for come the 4:30 race, James Hunt's Last Hurrah won by a nose. Sadly, Rupert had gone to the loo and was not there to see my triumph.

I raced down to the bookie waving my betting slip and screaming like a little girl. She unenthusiastically counted out the £360 and reluctantly handed me the wad of notes. Thrilled at my unbelievable luck, I threw my arms round her but, since she was so much taller and larger than me, my head only went as high as the middle of her humongous chest and promptly got swallowed up in the middle of it. Just at that moment, Rupert appeared and was presented with a snapshot of what appeared to be his colleague passionately embracing a much larger, considerably older woman. I disentangled myself just in time to see Rupert standing behind me, his face the perfect picture of abject horror.

"Rupert, old chap,” I said weakly, “don’t leap to conclusions, I...”
He interrupted me. “You are the most disreputable man I have ever had the misfortune to meet.”
“Come on, Rupert. Listen, come and have a glass of champagne with me. I won - I am rich!”
"I'd sooner drink a cup of warm vomit, you nauseating man," he said with a curled lip and, with that, turned on the heel of his expensive shoes and marched towards the exit, shaking his head in disgust.

Back at work, he asked to be transferred to a different team and never uttered a word to me again. Charming fellow, was Rupert.

I have often lamented the squeaky-clean, family-friendly image Formula One has sought to portray lately - almost as if it is embarrassed by its old reputation as the sport of rakes, like James Hunt (whose name my winning horse carried). It is this sanitisation that has seamlessly led the sport to Singapore, a place so sanitised that chewing gum is against the law.

It is probably no coincidence that the entire board of UBS is meeting in Singapore this week to discuss the fall-out of finding itself victim to a rogue trader, Kweku Adoboli, who was arrested last week after managing to rack up a bill of $2.3 billion. There can hardly be a better place to discuss how to make sure rules are enforced.

Singapore has its pluses, though. I never thought it could be done before but Singapore has demonstrated that it is possible to stage a night-time Grand Prix. This will be the fourth outing to Singapore but if the previous three are anything to go by, the race seems to have event-provoking characteristics. The bet to make, I think, would be how many safety car episodes there will be on Saturday because that is what has stuck in the memory from the last three Singapore Grands Prix.

As far as the world championship goes, the question is when, not if, Sebastian Vettel will be crowned world champion. If he wins, Fernando Alonso comes no better than fourth and neither Jenson Button nor Mark Webber are in the top two, he will be champion. I don't see this set of circumstances applying on Sunday, but you never know.

Lewis Hamilton's erratic driving this season has ruled him out of consideration completely but he won in Singapore quite impressively in 2009 and may just want another trophy for his cabinet.

Whatever happens, let's hope it is a fair (I use the word advisedly in the case of Singapore) race. A bit of rain would be fun, I think…

Enjoy Singapore

Gitau
21 September 2011

Memories of Monza

Walking gloomily homeward along the Thames on a wet and windy day last week, I nearly fell over a slightly elderly lady bent over a pot of paint before an open doorway. As I apologised profusely for my recklessness, a bolt of lightning struck the lamppost behind us followed by the crashing sound of a huge clap of thunder.

The lady and I instinctively leapt through the open door into the safety of the room within and then, now that we were both out of harm's way, fell about laughing as if we had known each for years. Our laughter was interrupted by the anxious cry of "Elisa, va tutto bene?" and the sudden appearance of a little old man.

"Forgive me," I said, "I didn't mean to intrude upon you like that, it's just this awful weather."
"Bene," the man said. "Is-a okay," .

It was clearly a restaurant virtually ready for a beautiful opening. A quick look round revealed a charming little place with a rustic feel to it: large, cured hams hung from the ceiling; there were floor to ceiling wine racks on the right and rear walls filled with appealing-looking bottles of red wine; and the mirror behind the small bar to the left reflected glistening bottles of Amaro. The couple were Elisa and Luigi Cavalieri from Bologna. They were actively engaged in the process of applying the finishing touches to "Luigiano's" in time for a grand opening at the weekend and leaving nothing to chance. I promised to visit Luigiano's for a meal as soon as it was open and made as if to leave but Luigi would have none of it.

"No, no, no. Is-a raining," said Luigi, "maybe you sit-a down-a and we 'ave a little Sangiovese.""Why, Luigi, that is one of my favourites. I don't mind if I do," I said, unashamedly leaping at an offer of something exquisite for nothing.

Elisa grabbed one of the dangling hams and sliced up some prosciutto crudo while Luigi opened a bottle and poured out some glasses. It didn't take long before we were friends. The Cavalieris had seen the writing on the wall for the Euro project ("Big-a da mess!") and sought the relative safety of a country where people still walked about with purses and wallets stuffed with notes depicting Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II.

They were a lovely couple, filled to the brim with the milk of human kindness - which flows generously throughout Emilia Romagna - and as yet unspoiled by London's harshness. Luigi, like all red-blooded Italian males, was a Ferrari fan and had been to every Italian Grand Prix since his father took him to Monza at the age of seven in 1952 and he held particularly treasured memories of Alberto Ascari winning that race in a Ferrari.

Luigi had many memories of Monza with which to regale me but the best were of the 1971 Grand Prix. Monza is still the fastest circuit there is on the calendar but in those days it was even faster. There were no chicanes: it was an almost oval, free-flowing circuit with cars slip-streaming each other repeatedly down the long straights. It was magnificent.

In '71, the fastest ever race on record, four cars took the chequered flag almost exactly at the same time - the only ever real photo finish in F1 history. Peter Gethin beat François Cevert, Ronnie Peterson and Mike Hailwood by the slimmest of margins - impossible for the naked eye to pick up. I have seen footage from the race dozens of times and yet I am still amazed by that finish. Cevert and Peterson were more accomplished drivers than Gethin and went on to have more success in succeeding years while Gethin faded into insignificance after winning a championship race without ever having led a Grand Prix.

Cevert was killed tragically in a nasty crash at Watkins Glen, New York (a circuit that makes one wistful) in 1973 - just at the point in his career when he showed sufficient promise to have everyone expect him to be world champion in 1974 (his team-mate, Sir Jackie Stewart, was so moved by the awfulness of it that he never raced in F1 again). Ronnie Peterson also had a promising career cut short by tragedy. After a colossal pile-up soon after the start of the race in Monza in 1978 Peterson was rescued from a burning car but did not survive the incident.

These reminiscences made Luigi rather emotional - perhaps it was the Sangiovese, perhaps it was because he was Italian - in a bittersweet way. Now he would say "those were real-a men-a!", now, tearfully, "these were just-a da young-a boys." Nevertheless, I enjoyed his stories immensely.

Luigi got a bit animated on the subject of Lewis Hamilton. He is frustrated by what he sees as brilliance being misapplied. "Hamilton should be three times champion by now," he said. I found it difficult to disagree. As we saw at the brilliant race at Spa a couple of weeks ago, Hamilton gets frustrated by things, loses his head and does silly things. He deftly performed an overtaking manoeuvre against Kobayashi but then turned in too sharply in the braking zone at the top of the hill at Les Combes, tagged Kobayashi's nose and was hurtling into the tyre wall before he could say "oh bugger!" I agreed with Luigi's assessment that Hamilton needs to calm down - "a 'ot-a 'ead-a is no good for driving!"

It is too late for any advice to make a difference to Hamilton's title chances in 2011. After his superlative performance at Spa, it would be difficult for anyone to say legitimately that Sebastian Vettel has not got this championship pretty much sewn up.

The curious thing about this season is that now the championship is all but out of the way, the racing is becoming a lot more interesting. The race at Spa was the best Belgian Grand Prix I have seen in quite a few years.

But if Spa was anything to go by, I can hardly wait for Monza. Other than Silverstone and Spa, this is the last traditional circuit we are allowed to enjoy in Europe these days - thanks to Bernie Ecclestone and his mates - so make the most of it. I certainly will,

Enjoy Monza!

Gitau
7 September 2011