Dark forces at play in Monaco

History is tattered with examples of blokes who have come unstuck by making the wrong choice when choosing a partner. An artist for whom I have always felt a great deal of pity is Stanley Spencer, the person who, you might say, did more than anyone to put Cookham on the map.

In simple terms, Spencer produced amazing work but right royally buggered his life up. Poor bloody sod. Bizarre beyond anything. He left his wife to marry a scheming woman called Patricia Preece. The woman had zero interest in him. None whatsoever. The trouble was, you see, she played for the other team, but Spencer had no idea. She married Spencer for the little cash he had and the fame he had achieved. Spencer had by then been knighted for producing elegant religious art and was a famous chap. Patricia insisted on being Lady Spencer, which Stanley was only too happy to allow if she would let him enjoy the conjugal pleasures to which he felt himself entitled. Patricia allowed Spencer to treat her as a muse but no more. Result: a very frustrated Spencer, but beautiful, evocative work which showed exactly how he felt.

Poor old Spencer.

Hard bloody life! 



Not once but many times in the recent past, I have asked myself whether Lewis Hamilton, as gifted a driver as Spencer was an artist, had done a Spencer and found himself in the clutches of the wrong woman but, lo, I was mistaken. Hamilton threw off the woman and is now firing on all cylinders.

One evening last week, I was about to sink into a comfortable chair, glass of soothing plonk resting within elbow’s reach, prepared to immerse myself in the murky world of Stanley Featherstonehaugh Ukridge (as told by the inimitable P.G. Wodehouse) when I was interrupted by the ringing of my telephone. Now, I as a rule, maintain appallingly selfish telephone etiquette along the lines of the following: I use the device when it suits me, not when the device chooses to interrupt what I am doing, so I never answer it. This time, though, I was distracted and found myself clasping the wretched thing to my ear and saying “Hello”.

“You have some cheek, you bastard,” said a female voice in an American accent.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me the first time. No fucking respect, you low grade reptile.”

“To whom am I speaking and what is this about?

“Listen, meet me at the Dorchester lobby at 4.30 tomorrow. Be there.”

She rang off.

I was intrigued. I put the book down and had a gulp or two of plonk as I began to try and demystify the situation. I was not aware of any American female I had upset in my past, so it was difficult for me to make sense of what appeared to be gratuitous abuse. This was clearly somebody who bore a grievance against me, but who? I wondered whether the rum phone call warranted any action. Should I trouble myself with further enquiries, I wondered. Wasn’t it simpler to put it down to lunacy or a wrong number dialled and forget the whole matter forever and a day? The latter argument made a lot of sense to me and I chose to forget about the American and stick my nose into Ukridge.

Still, the thing troubled me. I found myself lying thinking about it when insomnia kicked in at its usual hour. This person obviously expected me to jump to it. Her instructions were as clear as daylight: there was no question about me being allowed some time to haver. They were as clear as clarity itself. Fascination began to get the better of me. After a couple of hours tossing and turning, my thoughts began to move towards the nothing ventured, nothing gained pattern. You might say it was inevitable, I can’t fairly comment. Anyway, the upshot was that I decided to go.

If your wallet is anything like mine, places like the Dorchester can make you feel uncomfortable. The minute you step off Park Lane and get to the elaborate hotel entrance where a liveried chap in a top hat stands ready to welcome you in, you realise quickly that experience has taught him where to place you on the social scale. He shoots you a glance and instantly knows all. “This fellow is here at someone’s invitation,” he tells himself. “He can’t even afford a cup of tea in here.” You then notice a slackness in his arm, a slight indication of lassitude, as he slowly unclenches his gloved hand and waves you through. If you are foolhardy enough to look back and see how the liveried chap treats other visitors, you will notice key differences: the hand snappily raised to the top hat; the delicate lift of said headgear in greeting; the unctuous smile; the gentle bow. These things point out a great deal - not least to the bloke feeling out of place. If you weren’t already uncomfortable when you got there, you certainly will be then.





Longing to be in my local, The Prince Regent, a down-at-heel but jolly establishment, I tried not to make my social standing too obvious by gawping at the shiny marble floor or running my hands along the beautiful orange marble pillars. Instead I affected an air of importance. My deportment suggested to the world that I was in familiar surroundings, that I belonged. I found myself a seat and began to wonder what next. Would the mystery woman turn up? Should I order a drink while I waited for her? What if she failed to turn up? Worse, what if I was setting hares running by initiating the spending and being forced to carry on as I had started? The risk I ran in requesting, say, a glass of wine at – I don’t know - £30 a pop was that she might turn up, expect one or more of the same and expect it to be placed on the tab of yours truly.

I was still wrestling with these thoughts when a waiter turned up and very politely asked me if I wanted a drink. I engaged the brain fast.

“Why?”

“Well, sir, I it is my duty to ensure that you are happy.”

“So you have decided that I am unhappy, have you?”

"Sir, the Dorchester is interested in your comfort, that is my job."

My pride was sorely injured. Everyone was conspiring against me because of my obvious impecuniosity and I was not at all pleased. I drew in a deep breath and was about to give the man the length of my tongue when I heard a shrill American accented voice behind me yell “Are you Gitau?” She pronounced it more like “guitar” but I did not have the presence of mind or the time to quibble.

Before I knew it, the waiter had scuttled off and I had before me a beautiful woman whose face I had much exploited over the years.







“I expected more of you. You’re just a fucking bald-headed runt!”

“Charmed, I am sure,” I said extending my right hand in greeting. The woman was uninterested in my hand. She seemed to fail to notice that it was pointing at hers. She had something on her chest which had to be said quickly and volubly.

“I only have five minutes, so listen well. You’ve been putting pictures of mine on your vile blog without my permission. I have people around the world who check these things, so you are in a whole load of fucking trouble, buddy!”

As I said, the brain was highly engaged that afternoon, so I was equal to pretty much anything she was going to throw at me.

“You must have a very unfortunate existence, madam, if you think it necessary to invite a man like me to a hotel like this and swear at me.”

The woman seemed to like this. She smiled and sat down opposite me.

“I was in Cats you know? I was the best ever person who has sung Midnight in the entire history of the show. Ask Andrew Lloyd Webber!”

“I did not see it, madam, and I am not on familiar terms with Lord Lloyd Webber but it is kind of you to inform me.”

“This fucking schmaltzy stuff doesn’t work with me, okay. I’m from California!”

It suddenly struck me that I could well have done without any of that nonsense. I gritted the teeth and stared at the American. She needed reminding where she was. There is a limit.

“You obviously are a busy woman, so if you do not need me for anything, I will push off and…”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake. Listen, asshole, I’ve got lawyers ready to fry your ass, so stop with this shit and listen to me.”

I didn’t like the tone of this shrieking woman but curiosity had long had the better of me.

“I am listening,” I said.

“F1 world champion is a big deal, right?”

“Yes.”

“F1 world champion’s wife is a big deal too, right?”

“Is Hamilton getting married? 



“You really are the most stupid person I have ever met.  Here it is, asshole. My lawyers will be crawling all over your ass unless you build me up big time. LEWIS IS MINE! Got it, mine! Now, go and build me up. Make him look bad. Make it seem like he fucked up big time by leaving me. Make him look like a real shit. Make me look like the only solution. Got it?”

“But as, you said, I am only an insignificant blogger and…”

She fixed me with an icy stare.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, asshole, I’m talking to lots of people. Just do it.”

"I am sorry," I said, "but I honestly do not understand how little old me can make any difference whatever to your life."

She sighed deeply.

"God! You are tiresome. I am fighting a war on many fronts here. I have lots of things I am doing. I've got moles within Mercedes. I've got reporters around the world and lots more. But shits like you are useful too because you have a few people around the world who are you interested in the rubbish you write. People speak to people. None of it does me any harm if I can make sure that it is doing the right things for me."

"I see. Shall we talk money then."

The next I heard was a loud snort followed by a cackle of bitter laughter. 

"My God you are stupid. Listen, I'll tell you this for free. I have the Monaco result in my hands and you know what? Lewis ain't winning that fucking race!"

With that she flounced off.

I was left to my thoughts until the waiter turned up again bearing a pot of tea. I don’t think he has been closer to having a scalded head than that.

I left in dudgeon. What was I meant to do?

I chose to do nothing.

The result was far from what I expected. I was sitting in my flat trying to make sense of a Monaco Grand Prix ruined for Lewis Hamilton. The Mercedes team called him in for a change of tyres at the worst possible time and put paid to his race. I have seen this happen before but this was raw and painful. Ouch, dear chap, I thought, You’ve been done over.



It takes things like that to bring out the writing instinct in a fellow. I knew I had no choice but to say something about it. I was getting my thoughts organised when, wonder of wonders, my telephone rang again. Looking at the gadget told me nothing. It said “Unknown Number”. Again, I chose to chance it.

“Hello,” I said with hesitation.”

“Guitar, hi. Did you watch Monaco?”

“Oh, you again. Would you please leave me alone. I cannot make any sense of what you want and I am not going to trouble myself to find out, so please leave me alone!”

“You’ve got balls now, yeah? You’re a brave fucker! Well I’ve got news for you, I will have your vitals in a fucking vice if you do.”

I don’t know what it is about these excitable people - they never give up! I have to think long and hard how I am to deal with this one.

Gitau
25th May 2015