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
"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
posted by Gitau at 7:52 pm
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