Last year, wearing this would’ve been criminal; now Lewis is there, it’s necessary!

OK so I am in Barcelona, kind of. Nearly. Well actually, I’m in between the city and a lovely little town around 10kn north called Montmelo; home to Circuit de Catalunya and venue for the second winter testing session of the 2013 Formula One Grand Prix. Coincidence?…

By the time I arrived earlier, it was a bit late to get the train down into the city, so I decided to stay local and do a recce to locate the station (so I know where I’m going tomorrow). Why are there so many patisseries in Montmelo? Seriously won’t need any dinner this evening then…

So with a route plan for the morning, iPhone photos of the train timetables on the wall, and a sense of de ja vous (convinced I walked round the same block at least twice?) I’m now back at the hotel enjoying a quiet drink at the hotel bar. Well I was, until a bunch of rowdy Red Bulls arrived! It would appear that RBR are also staying here and, in the space of a few minutes, the place is transformed from a quiet hotel where I feel guilty speaking in Spanish, let along English… (the language here is Catalan, which is like a mixture of French and Spanish, for example, ‘please’ is ‘si us plau’ as opposed to ‘por favore’) …now suddenly I’m surrounded by people of all nationalities all speaking English (and unfortunately expecting the poor hotel staff to do the same). I’m sure the staff don’t mind this, but it’s a pet hate of mine!

English – the world’s favourite language / our most lazy option

In my humble opinion, if we’re in their country, we should be speaking (or at least trying to speak) their language. My European colleagues at work often tell me they actually like speaking English as it helps them practice. But it makes me feel ignorant or lazy, so I always at least try to have a go. Needless to say this generally attracts a giggle of the ‘Allo ‘Allo variety, (I’ve regularly been heard mixing Spanish and Italian with amusing results) but hey I like to entertain, even if not intentionally! And I don’t care what my European colleagues say; whilst they may indeed be practicing their English, they also react very positively and supportively when I make the effort to reciprocate.

Right, having said I needed no dinner this evening, I’ve now polished off the entire dish of pistachios which the cheeky Spanish barman casually presented in front of me, and my glass is almost empty… San Miguel? Don’t mind if I do!

Brindis! xx

After Kate supported yesterday’s CPS workshop in the UK, she’s handed the baton back to me, to pick up the French session in Paris. So I’m off again, but this time there are no planes involved. Given that I live in York, Paris could seem a long way to travel without flying? But so far, it’s been one of the easiest journeys to date.

I’m up just after 5am (if I was going to Uxbridge, I’d be on the road by now, so this feels like a lie-in) and as I leave I say a quiet farewell to Bruno…

AN: for those who don’t know, Bruno is my car, my pride and joy; who generally accompanies me on my UK travels and is pretty much now regarded as my ‘other office’.

In my usual fashion, I allow 20 minutes for the 5-minute walk to York Station, and am there with time to spare (‘spare’ being another terms for ‘people-watch’) – hang on, that’s my train pulling in, EARLY! Blimey, that doesn’t happen often does it? But another fashion with which I’m familiar, is allowing plenty of time to get somewhere, arriving early, toddling off to grab a cuppa, then finding myself with no time to spare and sliding into my destination with seconds to spare! Not this time, I have another train to catch in London, which will be an expensive connection to miss, so I get straight on board the East Coast Earlybird and settle into my seat.

Surprisingly, the train is quite empty? I thought commuter trains would be full at 6am but there are seats to spare (that said, they all have RESERVED tickets flapping about their headrests, so I expect it’ll fill up as we get closer to London. But in the meantime, the seat beside me is empty. So I ake myself comfortable, log on, and connect to the Wifi… all 15 minutes of it. I thought WiFi was free on trains? Maybe that’s just Virgin? It would seem that, after your 15-minute freebie, East Coast will start charging you. Right; I’ll work offline, draft my emails in Word, then cut & past them when I log on.

Our next stop will be…

Good morning ladies and gentlemen, and welcome aboard this 6am East Coast service to London King Cross; calling at Naburn, Acaster Malbis, Selby, Doncaster, Newark Northgate… ah ok, so this isn’t the fast train then, hence why everyone else is on the other train which doesn’t stop anywhere. We, on the other hand, are stopping everywhere between York and London.

By Newark Northgate, the seats in our carriage are still pretty empty, I’ll have a peaceful ride down to London at the rate! Ah, no. Christopher Biggins’ long-lost cousin has boarded and, apparently, I’m sitting in his seat (there are still countless empty seats and tables around us, but he wants to sit here. OK.) I actually know I’m in his seat – mine’s the window seat, but I moved to the aisle seat after accidentally playing ‘Footsire’ under the table with the chap in front. However, I don’t argue with Biggins, he’s bigger than I am, so I just wriggle across and let him sit down.

Unfortunately, I didn’t pull the centre armrest back down, which would’ve allowed me to retain my half of the seating plan. Instead, Biggins’ bottom (which takes up at least 60% of the table width) spills out unmanaged, and I suddenly discover a skill for typing with my elbows tucked under my rib cage.

Why not just buy a laptop?

Biggins then proceeds to set up his iPad. Now I was under the impresion that iPads were designed to be small, portable, lightweight devices, designed for use on-the-move? I fear, however, that Biggins has missed these points, in favour of buying a device for the sake of having an iPad. He pulls out of his briefcase, a power cable (ok, so he forgot to charge last night), a stand (ok, so he’s thinking about health & safety, by angling his screen to avoid bad posture), a keyboard (so he doesn’t like touchscreen?) and a mouse (he doesn’t like the touchpad either?) and I’m wondering why didn’t he just buy a laptop? By this point, his ‘portable’ device is taking up most of the space on the table! The chap opposite and I exchange smiles – oh Lord, I hope he’s thinking the same as me? I’ve already played accidental footsie with him, I hope he doesn’t think I’m flirting?! *Rebecca focuses on Vesper and avoids all further eye or foot contact*.

At the following few stations, the seats around us gradually fill up, and I understand why Biggins was determined to sit in his designated seat. I continue working, admiring the misty sunrise over the great British countryside flying past, and we eventually pull into Kings Cross – 3 minutes early. I’m impressed East Coast, thank you.

I leave KX and wander across the road to St Pancras. I’ve never travelled by Eurostar before, so am quite excited – I’m going to Paris by Eurostar! Despite the romantic vision this conjures up in my mind, the reality is different. I’m traveling with a work colleague, we’ll see the inside of a train, tunnel, office, hotel, office, train, tunnel and will be back in London without so much as an accordion or garlic clove. But I’m still excited, mostly by the concept. The fact that I can get on a train at home, arrive in London, cross the road, get on another train, and 2 hours later I’m in Paris… is fabulous.

Hugo & Jenny, darling

So I board the Eurostar and am sitting at another table seat (I prefer these, as there’s generally more room – I just hope Biggins isn’t taking his iPadinium to Paris). My work colleague (Jason) is sitting a few rows in front but as we set off, and realise not all seats are taken, Jason joins me at the table.

Opposite us sit a man and woman – we’ll call them Hugo and Jenny. He is well spoken and keeps relaying the story about his chum being stuck/delayed coming back on Eurostar a few weeks ago, and having to polish off the Frois Grois he purchased for a mere €100 in Paris. Jenny has a more ‘hippy’ look about her – she’s quiet (perhaps due to the rarity of gaps in Hugo’s dialogue) but smiles a lot and seems to be hanging on his every word.

As soon as we’re into the Chunnel, Hugo disappears, returning a few minutes later with a bottle of bubbly – cheers darling. It’s not even 10am? Maybe they’re on a dirty weekend? Maybe Jenny’s Hugo’s Secretary? (Don’t hear so many stories about bosses having affairs with PAs, it always used to be affairs with their Secretaries didn’t it?)

The smell of their champers is delicate and delicious, but at this time of day, also smells somewhat like a hangover and is decidedly off-putting (I must be getting old!) Luckily it’s only a half bottle (Hugo, you cheapskate!) and is gone before we’re out of the chunnel.

Bonjour Madames et Monsieurs… A-ha we’re in France now then, excellent. The sky is bleu (intentional, not a typo) but other than that, the countryside looks largely similar to that in the UK, just with different shaped pylons.

Snuggles

Whilst I’ve been blogging, I miss the entertainment across the way. I suddenly realise Jason (who has been busily typing away on his Blackberry, as his laptop has run out of juice – and there are no power sockets on Eurostar, not unless you go first class – another tick for East Coast…) is exchanging smiles with Hugo and Jenny (if I see keys thrown down in front of me, I’ll run!) until I realise they’re giggling with the group on the table across the aisle, one of whom is snoring. And it’s getting louder. The culprit (let’s call him Snuggles) has some great facial expressions. His eyebrows are raised as if to say Really?  His eyes are closed, obviously, and his mouth is downturned, like a sad face in a cartoon. His head is slowly dropping, as he snores out, until he lets out a little grunt, jerks his head back and briefly wakes himself up in the process. His facial expression returns to normal (?), until his head slowly drops, the eyebrows raise, the corners of the mouth turn down, GRUNT…! He has no idea the chap hiding behind the Guardian opposite him is desperately trying to hold back his laughter, Hugo and Jenny are giggling over their champers, and I suspect Jason is just pretending to type an email on his Blackberry just to avoid looking over. Jason finally gives up and offers to wander to the buffet car for refreshments – ah a cup of tea, lovely!

One to do again

So my first experience of Eurostar has lived up to expectation. It’s a business trip, so there are plenty of ‘suits’ around, and the journey is quick and effortless. Ideal for quick meetings with French colleagues. It’s fun for weekend trips to Paris – bubbles available on board, and the train does still have an air of romanticism (I’ve played footsie, exchanged glances and, compared to Newport Pagnell services, St Pancras still reflects those romantic black & white posters you used to get in Athena).

Well done Eurostar – all I need now is to see a DeuxCV on arrival in Paris, and my dream will be complete! That is, until dinner, where I’m expecting a café with chequered tablecloths, red wine, a monsieur le waiter with a handlebar moustache (it is Movember?) playing an accordion, with onions draped round his neck and garlic hanging from the wall. It was 1993 last time I went to Paris – I’m living the dream!

Au revoire /R xx

So, much as I love Yorkshire Airlines *Rebecca rolls her eyes in sarcasm* this time I’m back at T5. Much as I love the UK, on my day off, I’m leaving the country. And much as last week’s efforts from Delhi bore little excitement, today I am heading for Abu Dhabi!

I’ve never been to Abu Dhabi before, so this is another first for me. I understand they’re pretty strict (even if less so than the other Emirates) about what women can wear, and there’s more wealth per square modicum than in Bernie Ecclestone’s piggy bank.

So I’m now on my plane and, as the first flight for a while where I’ve actually had time to write as opposed to work to do, I’m blogging again!

I’m on a big bird; the kind with a bar upstairs, estates at the front and cheap seats at the back. I’m in row 47 and have a window seat – yay! Beside me are two chaps who are also travelling alone, and who will undoubtedly provide some entertainment over the next 6 hours…

Turbulence

That’s something to do with solar energy heating the earth’s crust, causing warm air to rise and have an argument with the cold air going the other way, isn’t it? I’m sure Jack Ryan explained it at the beginning of The Hunt for Red October but his flight probably wasn’t as turbulent as this! During take-off, we’re already shaking from side-to-side, and as we leave the ground and climb up through a storm cloud, I look out of the window to see a flash, hear a short sharp bang, and wonder if well make it to Reading, let along Dubai?! As we continue to climb, the bird continues to move left and right pretty frequently and as the cabin crew leave their seats to start preparing service, the captain comes over the tannoy to ask them to return to their seats, just until we’ve cleared the storm cloud *gulp*. A couple of minutes later, we’re welcomed from the flight deck by the captain, telling us that, in case we had noticed it, we’d been struck by lightning during take-off, but the plane is fine, nothing to worry about, and service can now commence as usual. STRUCK BY LIGHTENING?! Wouldn’t that make the plane explode or something? I’m sure it did in a Bruce Willis movie once? Or maybe twice? Or maybe in the return of the sequel, strikes again? It matters not; in my usual fashion (and thanks to a heavy session with my cousins on the South Bank last night) I’m asleep in minutes and by the time I wake up, the turbulence has settled and my attention turns to the chaps in the row beside me.

Paddy & Minty

In the aisle seat is Paddy. If the Made in Chelsea crew upstairs weren’t sure if Paddy was on board, they’ll know by now. Not one to keep quiet, Paddy hasn’t flown for about ten years, you know. And this is quite a big jumbo jet isn’t it? (Let’s hope Minty didn’t want any sleep…) Minty is beside me, in the middle seat. I was going to call him Sunshine (as he hasn’t managed to break a smile for the first half of the flight, despite Paddy’s efforts to make conversation). Minty wears Polo spectacles, tan coloured slacks and a blue stripy YSL shirt. I’m not sure he’s able to move his neck, as his head has been facing forward all the way so far. Woe betide he actually makes eye contact with either Paddy or myself, he’d potentially have to talk to us!

Paddy, meanwhile, is now friends with the group across the aisle (think he’s given up on Minty) and is already attracting quite an audience with his accent. At least two people have asked whereabouts he’s from (although one was an American, who thought his accent was Polish – bless – so that doesn’t really count).

Wot no playstation?

Given that I fell asleep almost immediately on take-off, I’ve only just clocked the entertainment panel in front of me. Joy – I can follow our route again, like I did on the way to Honkers! But hang on; by the time I figure out how to work the Playstation device, we were somewhere over the South China sea I think? This time there’s no Playstation, meaning I have to learn all over again. Oh rats. I’m not good with these sorts of devices – I can’t even use my digital TV at home (this is true – what little TV I watch, I navigate through Sky because I don’t know how to use my hyper-clever Sony guide thing.) One could argue this is down to laziness, but I figure that I watch it so infrequently, why bother learning how to work it directly, when the Sky guide does the job perfectly well?!

Anyway, I digress – no really – back to the entertainment thing. There’s a menu button, that should be a good start… ah, hang on, there’s an on/off button first (doh), then press Menu …eeek, I’ve got something to do with the brightness, contrast… I’ll end up steering the plane from here if I’m not careful… right, get rid of that lot (press Menu again? Yep, cool. He-hey I’m driving this thing already!) OK, so we have Movies, TV, Audio, Skyflyers Kids (shouldn’t that have an apostrophe somewhere?) Your Journey and High Life Preview. Naturally, I want to see where we are… oh great, Your Journey shows a map in Arabic. But the numbers are in English (does the Arabic written language not have its own numbers?) either way, it means I can make a guess on the details…

It’s 10:00, where are we?

We’re flying at 35,000ft, at 586pmh (with a 20mph tailwind), we’re somewhere over northern Iraq (hope they don’t have surface-to-air missiles down there), it’s -53 degrees outside and we’re about 1,246 miles from Dubai, scheduled to land in about 2 hours’ time. It’s currently 17:21 in London and 21:21 in Dubai, although my watch still says 10:00…

I wore my watch yesterday for an interview, with the intention of getting a new battery at lunchtime. Although it wasn’t working, I set it to 10:00 – the time of the interview – so the guys I was with wouldn’t notice that my watch had actually stopped. Needless to say, work was busy, and I didn’t get to the shop at lunchtime. So it still says 10:00. This caused much amusement last night, as Tom, Charlie and Wendy kept asking me the time, knowing I’d actually look at my watch before remembering it had stopped…) Do they have Mister Mint in Abu Dhabi? Or a decent cobbler who also does watch repairs? They wear sandals don’t they? Maybe it’ll be 10:00 all weekend? I digress again…

Minty is now asleep – like my Grandfather at Christmas after a few too many whiskeys, he has his arms folded and his headphones on, only he isn’t listening to anything? Whilst they’re BA’s best, they’re not Bose noise cancelling headphones, I’m afraid. Maybe he just doesn’t like Paddy and I, and this is subtle (blatant?) body language to tell us he doesn’t want to make small talk? Shame. He looks like he could’ve had a lot to moan about?

Paddy, meanwhile, has clearly tired his audience, the majority of whom are, strangely, also wearing their headphones? So he’s got his laptop out and is playing. I say playing, rather than working, because it appears he’s just moving the mouse around clicking on random icons, opening windows and folders, but not actually doing anything? Hang on, he’s wearing his headphones too? Perhaps it’s me they’re avoiding? I must stop being so chatty, and do something far less sociable, like write a blog…

Right, poor Vesper is about to run out of juice, so I’m going to try and find a movie on the Playstation.

ttfn /Rxx

I’m back. Feels like I haven’t written anything for my blog in ages. Perhaps because I’ve been a bit busy? My neighbours think I’m a hologram, my friend has popped in to check on my flat more often than I’ve been there myself, and I’ve fastened my British Airways seatbelt more times than my Audi one. If I thought my year to date has been busy, the past few weeks have been chocker!

Let’s go back to early October and a colleague at work asks me a rhetorical question… you like travelling, don’t you? Of course I do (the world’s a big place and, whilst I love York, I’m sure there are other amazing places to see and exciting things to do!) When I took this job three years ago, I expected there’d be a bit of travel involved, as it’s a European role. So when a work project needs someone to visit five countries in three weeks, to deliver workshops to the European Sales, Implementation and Delivery teams, I’m all packed and ready to go quicker than a McLaren 5-wheel pitstop.

Week one: Italy and Spain.
After work on Monday night, I fly out of T5 to Linate airport in Milan, deliver a workshop on Tuesday, run into half the Xerox Europe team in the hotel bar Tuesday night (logical justification for ordering a bottle rather than a glass), before flying out of Malpensa to Madrid on Wednesday, delivering the workshop to the Spanish team on Thursday, before flying back into Heathrow late on Thursday night. Unbelievably tiring, but crazy, exciting, fast-paced, rewarding and great fun!

Week two: Germany.
Having arrived home around lunchtime on Friday, I have just Saturday as my weekend, to unpack, do my washing, pack again, clean the bathroom (not quite sure why, given that I’ve hardly used it for the past two weeks, but it feels like it needed doing), and watch Skyfall (this is a necessity: I suspect M will revoke my 00 status if I leave the country again without first seeing the new Bond movie). So all of the above ticked-off, I head back to the airport, this time Leeds Bradford – ah my beloved Yorkshire Airlines – and head off to Dusseldorf.

On my return on Tuesday night, I pretty much collapse into bed. Wednesday morning, I make a rare visit to the Leeds office (where I actually have a desk). I’m welcomed by the usual Yorkshire sarcasm …who are you again?… pay my share into the tea kitty (I’m hardly out of the lift and Helen’s there with her spreadsheet, no surprise to guess she works in Finance), sign a birthday card (there’s always at least one doing the rounds) and receive a text / photo from Fleur to say she’s finally given birth (I’m sure she was only a few months gone when I was last here?) I manage to clear my email backlog and get myself home for about 8pm, just in time to unpack, do my washing, reassure my neighbours it’s really me, clean the bathroom, pack again and get to bed about 11pm, alarm set for 4:15 *ouch*.

And I wake up bang on time – at 2.30. You know when you’re so wide awake, that you just know if you go back to sleep, you’ll be rubbish when the alarm eventually goes off… So I decide to get up, I rattle off another quick hour of email and hop in the car down to London. Come 3pm, I’m exhausted, of course, so Karen sends me out on an errand to get some fresh air. I come back bearing M&S finest biscuits and a new lease of energy, due in the greater part, I’m sure, to the realisation that tomorrow I have a day off! Hurrah! So what am I doing on said day’s leave? Yes, I’m getting on a plane…

ttfn #Rxx

I wrote this post ages ago, and have only just found it on Vesper – so a little late but here it is…

F1 is like marmite; most people either love it or hate it. And those who love it probably always have / will; whereas those who hate it often do so, because they were unable to escape it when younger, just don’t get it, or find it boring. It’s not unusual to hear people say “you just see cars fly past in a split second…” or “it’s just a parade of round and round and round…” but I couldn’t disagree more.

Sure, you do see cars fly past, and they are very fast, and there’s the obvious impression where you scream “neeeeeeeeeeoowwwwwwww” really loudly (yes, I still do that, I’m not proud!) but it’s so much more than that. It’s the buzz – the atmosphere of so many people being at a single event for a mutual purpose / passion, the stash and paraphernalia of food stands, merchandise stands and touts. But the part of F1 not even Sky Sports covers, is General Admission.

The Estonian F1 supporters’ club – no really, I kid you not!

Welcome to the cheap seats

Those who think F1 is too expensive to attend, think again. In Monaco (thought to be the most expensive race in the calendar), you don’t have to pay a penny for basic admission. You can simply wander around the streets, soak up the atmosphere, buy a programme if you want to, and sit outside a bar watching the action on screen, whilst hearing the cars less than twenty feet away. For a mere €40, you can get access to the grassy bank behind Rascasse for the day on Saturday and enjoy the GP2 and GP3 races, F1 practice 3 and qualifying – all exciting action, with all the atmosphere of race day. Or for €70 you can do this on Sunday, to watch the drivers’ parade lap, more racing from the Renault series or Porsche and the actual Grand Prix itself. This is what I tend to do, partly to keep the cost down, but more so because I just love the buzz of General Admission. Anyone who has been to a festival – Glasto, Reading, Leeds, IoW – you’ll know what I mean. Even if it’s pouring down, it’s the experience, the people and the anecdotal stories that make it what it is.

General Admission @ Monaco – Rascasse

Remember the old orange canvas ridge tent?

Have you ever read the Camping & Caravanning Club magazine? Unfortunately for me – despite my better judgement, years of brainwashing, multiple series’ of Top Gear, the emergence of Dave and further repeats of Top Gear, and hysterical mockery worthy of ‘Ball Trap on the Cote Savage’ – my parents have succumb to the activity (note I don’t use the word ‘fun’) that is caravanning. I’ll blog on this another time as, for once, I’m trying to avoid the obvious tangent opportunity. But needless to say that, now being members of the ‘Camping & Caravanning Club’, they have copies of the club magazine lying around their house, which often make for very entertaining reading. And not for the reasons the Editor intends, I’m sure.

Readers are encouraged to send in stories about their C&C experiences. Club members seem very keen to do this, and such articles frequently tell tales of the resourcefulness of club members. Did you ever think of recycling your 1970s ridge tent? And if you did, just what did you manage to concoct? I’d never have dreamt of re-sewing the tatty sun-bleached orange canvas around an old metal coat hanger, to make a useful peg bag for the washing line at home, for instance. Yet I’m sure I’ve read this one at least twice.

Mock this I may, but at the Grand Prix over the past few years, this kind of mentality has amused and entertained me no end, to the degree that I now look out for the most W. Heath Robinson –esque contraptions brought along by the crowds.

Rear Downforce Deflector System

An umbrella on a motorbike?

On reflection, my own Father did this at the first GP I ever went to. We rode down to Dover on his motorbike, in high winds and driving rain, on an August bank holiday weekend. We caught the ferry to Dunkirk, then rode along the coast of Northern France and into Belgium, before dropping down and round the Brussels ring road, onward to Leuven, Liege, through Spa to Francorchamps. The weather in Spa is predictable in its variance (ie when it’s raining in the pit lane, the other end of the circuit can be basking in sunshine – this makes tyre selection / management great fun for the teams!). So dad was adamant we should take an umbrella, but whilst we were able to pack two sets of clothing, two lilos, two sleeping bags, a tent and all other essential camping gear (kettle and bottle opener) all onto a Triumph Trophy 900, how were we going to get a brolly on board, when it’s longer than the bike is wide? Obvious – we introduce a cleverly engineered rear downforce deflector system (ie dad simply sawed off the ends, shortening the brolly just enough to sit across the back of the bike without decapitating any passing pedestrians.) Genius.

The best seats in the house

At a number of the races, the track winds through forests and / or is surrounded by trees. With hoards and hoards of people all looking to claim their spot, in some cases they climb the trees and watch from there. Others bring cool boxes strapped to barrel trolleys, deckchairs, sun shades, tents… you name it, they’ll have thought of it!

Le Army Barmy

At Valencia, I splashed out on qualifying and bought a grandstand ticket. Now this wasn’t a pit straight grandstand or turn one, this was at M7 – Malvarossa. This is the last turn, by the beach, before the cars fly round to the right and head out around the harbour. Whilst the outside of this turn hosts a huge stand with Santander hospitality, the inside has a totally different view. The beach sure looks good, but the track view is limited. I therefore get why this is the cheapest grandstand available! But in the same way as the Yorkshire crowd at Headingley, the entertainment comes as much from the stand itself, as the track in front. And in this case, it’s Lola.

Lola is a 6-foot blonde, in red stilettos, a short, tight red dress and a red sun hat. Not quite what Chris de Burgh had in mind, I’m sure, as this Lola is a chap. The muscular physique, flat chest and stubble give it away a bit, and his/her (in)ability to walk in the stilettos is matched only by my own. Lola has no handbag, instead her hand luggage comprises just a pink parasol and a white sign showing her name. And every 20-30 minutes, she struts (I use the term loosely) down the steps to the bottom of the stand, waving her sign at people and ‘conducting’ the crowd into a Mexican wave to the roar of “Loooooooola, Loooooooola, Loooooooola…” Marvel or mental, Lola is entertaining and strangers in the crowd are suddenly engaged in banter with each other, far more so than before – great ice breaker!

Grass roots fans

But perhaps the most impressive I’ve seen to date, was from Jacques. Jacques’ name has been assumed, based purely on the fact he was French. The assumption that he was French comes purely from the use of French language on his marketing material. The fact this was in Monaco made this a plausible scenario and one I’ll therefore go with for the purposes of this article. Anyway.

Jacques was sitting beside me for the Monaco Grand Prix in May. He looked about 10 and was accompanied by his Father (?) and they had each come prepared with rucksacks and stools to sit on. Whilst Jacques disappeared for a few minutes, I noticed that on his chair was a home-made sign, depicting a union jack with Lewis Hamilton’s face on it, with the words “Allez Hamilton!” above and below. The sign appeared to have been printed out of an inkjet printer (running a little low on ink, I must add… *anorak*) and was protected in a plastic wallet, the kind with holes down one side for storage in a ring binder.

Anyway, after smiling affectionately at his little sign – I should call it a banner, the effort in its production far outweighing the impact it’d most likely have – I realised where Jacques had disappeared to. He was now hanging over the wall in front of us, attaching a bungee rope to a tree? WTF? But he knew what he was doing, and in the following 30 minutes, he strung up a climbing rope infrastructure worthy of I’m a Celebrity Get Me out Of Here in the trees before us. Not quite sure what he planned to do with this, I was intrigued! I’d previously seen people watching from the trees, building ingenious contraptions and doing all sorts to equip themselves for the afternoon, so I was gripped to see what this little boy would do next!

Anyway I thought his banner was cute enough, bless him. That was until I realised the full extent of Jacques’ efforts. Oh yes, he had not only prepared his banner, but his rucksack was more impressive than Mary Poppins’ carpet bag. He proceeded to extract from it, a ball of string, a roll of masking tape, cable ties, a Swiss army knife and further bungees. And all this was so he could attach his A4 banner to his rope infrastructure! Was this on the off-chance Lewis would see it? Or was he marking his territory? Was he showing his allegiance? Or was he just being a young boy having fun? I’ll never know (I didn’t strike up conversation with his Father, as he bore a scary resemblance to Eric Cantona choking on a wasp having missed a sitter in the cup final), but regardless of the reason, for me, Jacques summed up what General Admission at the Grand Prix is all about – it’s fans supporting their teams / drivers and having a great day out in the process.

Clearly, there’s far more to it (pit stop strategies, tyre management, fuel calculations, car reliability, overtaking manoeuvres, pushing the car and drivers to the edge of their abilities – and the track – and the circus show that follows all this around the world. And I love all this for completely different reasons. But in General Admission, it’s about the experience, the day out, the fans and the banter. And that’s why I love going to the races, rather than just watching Jake, the real DC and Eddie’s shirts on the BBC.

So after the Olympian summer break, it’s T minus 1 week until lights out at Spa Francorchamps… #letsgoracing!

ttfn /Rx

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Today is a rarity for my life these days. Until 15:49, I have nothing to do. I’m in one of my favourite places, but I’m not working, traveling, meeting someone or shopping (or taking things back – I do that a lot, too!)

So I asked Faceache what I should do today and between them, my friends came up with some good options. So I unlocked one of Boris’s bikes (cheers Fran) at Waterloo, crossed the river, cycled along the embankment, round Westminster, up to Leicester Square, Regent St, up through Marylebone (loving that area) and Regents Park (thanks Benders) to the Grand Union Canal (good call Sean). I know London has plenty of parks and open spaces, but I’ve never been here before and it’s lovely.

People watching

So I’m lying in Regents Park, listening to my favourite chillaxing time out album (Maverick Sabre’s LATB), on my trusty blue scarf (which has doubled up as a beach towel / rug / sarong / turban in 6 countries this year), wearing the tattiest but comfiest flip flops (again, trusty International companions) with my ruffly tanbag (these days, looking as tatty as the flip flops, but I just love it).

The couple in front of me are apparently in transit. Either that or they have a strange taste in handbags? With black wheelie luggage, I’m assuming they’ve been booted out of their hotel and are chillaxing until their homeward plane / train / automobile.

There are two groups of ‘kids’ (how old do I sound?!) who are interestingly different; to the right, I’d say they’re about 20ish, the girls are dressed unusually for a day in the park and keep playing with their hair, whilst the guys are wearing tight t-shirts and laughing a lot. To the left, another group who I guess to be five-ten years older, dressed much more casually – capris & cardis for the girls, shirts with sleeves rolled up for the guys, and they’re picnicking.
Meanwhile, add another ten years and you get the couple off to the far right; bickering over how much he’s eating (even though she packed their lunch?!) whilst their little one it planning the great escape from the safety / boredom of the pushchair.

I could lie here for hours! But no, it’s now 15:35 – I’ve no idea how long it’ll take me to cycle to Kings Cross but I’d better find out!

ttfn /Rxx

At around 10am, I get a text from the track, “I’m not feeling so good this morning”. That’s no surprise after last night but the text wakes me up, and probably saves me from missing the race. I delicately sit up and the room is a little blurry, but the bright sunshine streaming through the window puts a smile on my face, will we have a dry race?!

My phone bleeps again, it’s Sarah at home, “so I hear the rain has finally arrived with you?” Erm, it’s glorious here? But apparently the track is wet. Better pack my poncho then, this could be an exciting race!

Breakfast – damn, what’s the time? I need food. So with five minutes to spare I slide into the restaurant sideways and manage to get my order in. Then back upstairs to slap on the sunscreen, F1 stash, shades etc and off we go.

Strangely enough, the metro and bus seem no busier than yesterday (race day is usually far busier)? The bus drops us off at Mogyorod, about a mile from the track, so it’s another long hot walk ahead. En route, I get chatting to an Aussie called Daniel. He’s on a tour over her (his fifth time!) but he’s interestingly doing a kind of Eastern European / Baltic tour: he’s been to St Petersburg, Vilnius, Oslo… and flew here from the Ukraine on Thursday, to catch the GP before heading back to Sydney.

It’s a fair old trek up to gate 2, and by the time we get there I must’ve worked off breakfast. It’s the hottest part of the day and I’m sweating buckets. So glad I brought my face wipes… is that a bit sensible? Or am I just getting old?! But with an hour to go before lights out, and knowing my seat is in direct sunshine (ie I’ll bake out there), I grab some shade whilst I can, in the only place covered – the beer tent – oh go on then, mine’s a pint…

The perfect start

… just not for Schumi! According to Will Buxton on Twitter, he switched his engine off!! Classic!! Erm Michael, how long have you been driving in F1? It made perfect entertainment for us though, seeing Lewis lead the pack round the circuit, followed by Jenson, Ferraris, Red Bulls, Lotuses (Loti?), a lonely German Mercedes, Force Indians, Saubers, Caterhams, Torro Rossos, HRTs, Maurissians… and bringing up the rear, a good 5 seconds after all other cars, Schumi toddles round to a standing ovation, clapping and cheering (laughing) from the stands at turn 6 (and right round the track apparently!)

The perfect finish

So Lewis leading from qually to podium, enabling the national anthem to ring out, for a Brit on the top step, on the London Olympic opening weekend was awesome. Michael just added the cherry to the bakewell! Can’t wait to hear what excuse he gives Lee McKenzie et al afterwards… 

Schumi’s subsequent retirement also meant he got the F1 equivalent of an early bath – fast track to Parc Ferme – meaning the team finish pack-up earlier than the usual 11pm.

That said, the crew are somewhat jaded tonight: Orsi rain checks, so Anna comes out on her own. Papa Pirelli seems quiet, no sign of Junior. Tom & Kevin seem ok, although they didn’t get up until 2pm. Mr Petronas was late to work (waking up 5 minutes before his lift to the track was setting off) and no idea what Mr Mobil’s day was like?! Ah well, it’s a 4am start for me tomorrow heading back to Stansted, so a quiet pint and pizza suits me fine!

Great day Lewis, Rule Britannia!
ttfn /Rxx

So tonight’s plan is dinner in Rezkakas, then A38. But this is me, it’s never going to be normal is it?

To start with, there’s Paul. As in, Di Resta. Yes, he’s staying at the same hotel! So whilst I wondered why the paps and fans were suddenly everywhere, no I hadn’t been recognised, Paul had. Unfortunately, not by me though (had to be pointed out to me). So I’m not used to seeing him without his race suit am I?! He scrubs up ok though and is taller than you’d think.

Anyway, the girls go swarming off behind Paul, who is clearly just out to see a bit of Pest. But he obliges and signs a few autographs, good lad.

Reskakas

Next is dinner. A lovely authentic Hungarian restaurant complete with live music – a tightly rehearsed three piece – double bass, violin and a something else. No idea what it’s called, but imagine a very baby grand piano, with no keys, no lid and chappie’s using padded hammers to play the strings. It sounds like a quiet piano and together with the strings, makes a lovely ensemble.

The food is delicious and the wine, Hungarian of course, suitably quaffable. All very civilised but A38 is calling…

Legal drunk driving – F1 style

This has to be the funniest thing I’ve seen in ages! 10 guys sitting round a bar. Ok, but the bar is on wheels. And each of their attached barstools is equipped with bicycle pedals. Yes, it’s a certain F1 pit crew on a night out! They’re in cracking spirits and clearly having a riot, doing a good 2 mph, with their 10 break man power, and free flowing fuel of the alcoholic variety! God help their drivers in the race tomorrow…

The best nightclub in the world

A38 is a club on a boat, a Ukrainian military boat, and according to Lonely Planet, it’s the best club in the world. Personally, I’m worried. Not because I’ve almost been run down by a pit crew drunk in charge of a decacycle (?), or been to the loo beneath a glass bottomed pond (yes really, Aquarium), but last time I was in a club on a boat was Tuxedo Royale in Newcastle (and I fell of the revolving dancefloor too many times to remember).

Onboard are Anna & Orsi (resident Hungarian friends), Mr Petronas @ Mr Mobil (our fuel & lubes boys), Papa Pirelli and Junior (the rubber guys), Tom & Kevin (ex paddock boys who have come for race weekend) and yours truly. A concoctive mix which will undoubtedly end with a hangover.

From here, we head further down the river to another of Budapest’s infamous ‘ruin clubs’. I’m still not convinced the term refers to the surroundings in which these open air clubs are built, as opposed to the state in which most people leave? But it’s great; outdoors, so fresh air, no sticky floors etc, exciting acoustics reverberating off the stone floors and walls, and a lighting rig just waiting to give Pink Floyd a run for their money. There’s also a big stage but tonight is a DJ rather than a band, so the stage just accommodates dancers.

At some point, someone decides Southern Comfort is the drink of choice (why, or whom, who knows) but having had G&T to kick off, wine at dinner, beer on the boat and now onto spirits, the fun and games are free flowing!

Being out with the boys is usually entertaining, but when Junior Pirelli disappears, we wonder… until he’s spotted having a dance-off with a ballerina – I kid you not. Our rubber boy can bust a groove, but is clearly outclassed and eventually admits defeat, much to the entertainment of the now huge crowd of us clapping and cheering.

As they applaud each other it’s like the end of the water painting scene in Mary Poppins; the heavens suddenly open and everyone runs for cover… by the bar… Who’s round is it?

We finally hail cabs, about 4am I think? As some of them have something important to do tomorrow, although none of us can quite remember what?

I’m loving Budapest by night!
ttfn hic /Rxx

First up, my phone. In the past three months my bill has exceeded £150pm, mainly due to the expense of data abroad. Whilst o2 assure me their new charging structure will significantly reduce this, I opt to unlock my phone and buy a Hungarian sim. Although I’m still waiting for o2 to unlock my phone, I head to Vodafone to see what the options are. 500 forints for the sim, minimum topup is 2000 forints oh and 500 for the paper clip sim extractor thingy, so 3000 all in. About £8. Really? That’s all? Beat that o2!

Pest

Now, I’m told that the only way to stand a chance of seeing a big place in minimal time, is a hop-on-hop-off bus, right? So that’s what I do.

Up the local equivalent of the champs élysées, past the old but stunning villas and I get off at Heroes Square. Wow. It’s like a mini St Peters from the Vatican, but in twice the space. I walk round the back and find a huge park, boating lake and more bridges. I purposely headed up here first as the hotel is on the Danube, so this bit’s harder to get to. But it feels like a different city. It’s wide streets, open spaces, few noticeable tourists, except this lot…

Heading the wrong way under the wrong arch beneath the bridge, they soon emerge again, backwards, with two other boats heading straight for them. Mum’s screaming at the kids, dad’s rowing perilously and they’re creating more splash than Kim Basinger in a dodgy 80’s Mermaid outfit.

But for everyone else, it’s a slow pleasant pace. Reminds me a bit of Melbourne but with older and far more stunning architecture.

The architecture

Now that is blowing me away. Think Roman effort and variety with Parisienne chic, and lots of piazzas and parks. I love it! And I’ve only done 3 stops on my bus! Right back down to the river, a spot of lunch and over to Buda.

Buda

Totally different. This is similar to the royal bit of Monaco – built in/on a limestone hill, with steep, windy streets and a castle on top.

It’s very pretty but less bustly than Pest. Until 1873 they were two different cities. On unification, Buda became the historic military side and Pest housed parliament, with more residential areas and a more bustling feel. I prefer Pest, but both have plenty to show – round every turn there’s a beautiful building, statue, feature… You could stay here and wander round for months and you’d still not see it all.

I hop back on the bus up to the Citadel (serious hillage otherwise) but end my hopping there. I sit and take in the view before walking back down to the river and over the bridge to the Grand Market Hall. From here it’s back down Vaci Utca, running the gauntlet between restaurant touts, Mango and Zara… I do well, but as the heaven open on my arrival outside Hard Rock Cafe, it’d be rude not to. And at £2.33 a pint – yes that’s £2.33 – why not?!

So tonight’s plan, subject to what time the guys finish at the track, is to meet up around 9 and head for Romkert (an open air club, let’s hope the rain stops!)

ttfn /Rxx

Brilliant! Yorkshire Airlines has a distant cousin! Tonight, I’m
Flying Ryanair from Stansted to Budapest, but the entertainment begins long before I board…

Bobby

First-up, I meet Bobby, the bendy bus driver. As always, I’ve no idea of his real name, but by the end of our 10-minute shuttle from Long Stay to Terminal, I do know thathe lives in Harlow, his two children live in Preston and Germany, his son says they’ve had less rain up north than down south, and he’s off to see his grandchildren in Germany next weekend. Oh and he retires next year, is counting the days and then his life will begin. Great, thanks Bobby!

Boris & Doris

Next are the German couple in WHSmiths. When I come in, the shop is empty, so I select my Nanny’s birthday card and grandparents’ anniversary card and head for the till. By the time I get there, a queue is building behind Boris & Doris, who are about my grandparents’ age and trying to buy stamps. Unfortunately, they don’t understand Stacey on the till, who’s asking which country they’re posting to. The situation is stalemate; Stacey has the view that, if she simply speaks slower and louder, she’ll be understood. Whilst Boris is getting infuriated with her – why can’t she help him? Doris, on the other hand, seems uninvolved – I suspect she actually understands perfectly, but is just watching for fun… Eventually, they’re sorted and I get to the front of the queue, buy my cards and walk out… dammit, pen. Back to WHSmiths.

I know things are more expensive in London, inflated at the airports, and even more so during the Olympics, but since when did a biro cost £2.99? Last time I bought one it was about 15p! Ah well, I shall look after it. I write my cards, google Nanny & Hampa’s postcode, and post the cards.

You want me to strip?!

So I’ve removed my liquids and gadgets in the tray but still manage to set off the alarm going through security. I’m therefore whisked aside for the usual pat down from Kez at Security, whose fingernails could pose a security risk in themselves (thank god my anatomy is genuine!) When she finds nothing on my person, she grabs her gadget and makes all kinds of ‘clanger-style’ noises as she waves it in my general direction. I’m then sent to walk back through the scanner. When the alarm starts again, I remove my flip flops, watch, rings and bracelet and go back again. By the time the alarm is sounding verse three, Kez’s colleague Des comes over and looks me up and down, I immediately suggest there not a lot else I can take off, honestly! He nods to Kez to have another pat – oh Lordy! Eventually, she decides the underwriting in my bra is what’s causing the alarm to play Charge of the Light Brigade. They get bored and I’m waved through.

By this point I’m ready for a pint, so I head to the bar. It’s only when I open my wallet to pay, that I find the stamps… Bugger. Sorry Nanny & Hampa, your cards may arrive but you’ll be asked to pay the postage (good job I didn’t go for the massive A4 card really, wasn’t it?!)

Right. Off to the gate.
ttfn /Rxx