I love York. There are probably other beautiful places in the UK which are equally as lovely, but when you‘re lucky enough to live in one, you often forget just how lovely they are, especially if (like me) you actually spend more time away from home than you do enjoying the place. However, as I’m sure those in other such beautiful locations will appreciate, living somewhere so appealing has its downsides. Whilst appealing as somewhere to live, it’s also appealing as somewhere to visit. Yes I’m talking about the species that is, the tourist.

Why is it, that when you ‘visit’ somewhere, you lose the ability to consider those around you, when walking down a busy street? This happens in York a lot. Today, I walked down Coney Street (York’s main drag) and struggled to withhold my laughter at the ‘You’ve been framed’ style event which unfolded before me. I’m following Yorkie, a local-looking chap, who seems to be in a bit of a hurry to get from one end of Coney Street to the other. In front of Yorkie are Rob and Freda. About 60-odd, they’ve been to York a few times now and they just love it. They did the Minster and the Jorvik Viking Museum on their first visit, and have since clocked up various other attractions including the York Dungeon, Railway Museum and that famous pub which always floods. But they love York because every time they come here, they see something new. Unfortunately for Yorkie today, without any warning, Rob and Freda just stop suddenly. This is unfortunate, but Yorkie’s not daft; this is why Coney Street is like playing British Bulldog at times! So Yorkie is alert to the risk and takes evasive action to the left. However, Freda has noticed something (questionably) interesting on the façade of WHSmiths, and as she raises her left arm to point it out to Rob, Yorkie gets a face-full and is taken out like a WWF pro. Yours truly (luckily) diverted right and thus missed the pileup evolving in front of me, and the only evasive action I had to take, was to dive into WHSmiths, pick up a copy of Hello magazine and hide my laughter from Rob and Freda. Classic – not uncommon, but classic.

Then there’s Kai and To. Collectively known as Kato, these guys are on a grand tour of the UK from Japan, and therefore have the single objective of photographing everything they can. By the time they’ve waited for everyone to walk past between photographer & subject, extracted their brand spanking new camera out of a case larger than Ryanair’s in-flight luggage allowance, fiddled with all the settings on their piece of technological wizardry, drunk the coffee it made them in the process and finally prepared their shot, the photogenic pigeon was flown off, and they go running round the corner trying to find it again.

And the Americans. Strangely recognisable (perhaps the long shorts, white socks and bright white trainers give it away?) they’re generally heading for the cathedral. At this point, I will (as I always do) point out – IT’S A MINSTER! OK, so as Charlie pointed out to me last year, a Minster is a type of cathedral, but it’s a name which is earned for ecclesiastical status and therefore deserves to be used. It’s like calling Lord Sugar, Alan; or calling a judge by their first name in court – yes, those are the names with which they were christened, but they’ve earned the right to have a title, so why not use it?! This is clearly a pet hate of mine! It’s right up there with post-it notes and bagpipes for Room 101 submissions!

Then there’s the wannabe Yorkies who, when they visit, try and go native. Rather than seeing the sights, they do the shopping, grab the opportunity to go to the opticians, or buy their lottery tickets. Of course, these are all things they could easily do at home, but they don’t, because they don’t have time, they’re always off visiting places, like York, to do the lottery… confusing?

Ttfn /R xx

So a night out in Monaco, on a Grand Prix weekend – I’d call it crazy cool, sleek but slutty, sophisticated yet stylish, with mutton meeting lamb on every corner, and both kind of working, albeit for different reasons.

A Cannonballer’s paradise

So, the cars. Heading down through the casino gardens (tactically keeping my head down past the Häagen Dazs boutique this time) we arrive in the main casino square. On one side, there’s Café de Paris, with umpteen seats outside, populated by those who aren’t especially car mad, but want to be part of the wealthiest action in town (as it always was, traditionally). Their pleasure? A car park view of Ferraris, Porsches, Rolls Royces, and the odd Audi RS8 thrown into the mix. Amusingly for me, the popularity of the Fezzas makes them seem common – the easy choice for the rich buyer, just pick a number (458, 355, F40 etc) and pick your colour (black or red). I’ve only seen one yellow one (my preference, if I was to buy one) and that was in the showroom at the dealership down the road!

Similarly, there are a lot of Rolls Royces – mostly in white – which seem to be the next step up from the playboy’s Ferrari; seemingly driven (more often than not) by an older chap with his jewellery-clad lady sitting beside him.

But the excitement, for me, always comes in the beauty (and unmistakeable sound) of the Lamborghini – ideally a Gallardo, but I’d settle for a Murcialago if push came to shove. So far, I’ve seen just one of each, so clearly the more discerning driver’s choice – one who goes for something beyond the obvious choice of a prancing horse, and opts for a flamenco of Spanish extravagance instead. This is, I kid myself, is demonstrated by their rarity in an environment such as this, I mean even the Bugatti Veron is more common (we’ve seen two of those!) Call me crazy, deranged or whatever you like, but I like Lambos, that’s all! (I blame the opening sequence of Cannonball Run…)

Betty’s or Oscar’s?

So next, to food; and we opt for a steak at the TipTop bar. I’d never heard of it before, but I’m told it’s the place to be – right on the pavement beside the circuit, opposite the Rolex boutique, on the exit of the casino square (which is remarkably round for a square?) It’s a great place – small and typically French, with a huge wooden bar dominating the interior, dark brown wooden round tables and chairs, red and white paper serviettes, a simple menu, lots of dusty bottles of wine knocking about, and it’s heaving, serving those in the know with good food, wine and beer (whilst the tourists queue for Café de Paris). For those in (or familiar with) York; TipTop is the like old Oscars (before it moved) whilst Café de Paris is Betty’s.

The steak is simple but amazing; a chunk of perfectly-cooked meat, with a peppercorn sauce, and a plate (not bowl) or frites (not chips) on the side. The drinks are simple but spot on – gin & tonic, where the gin is served over ice in the glass and, because there are two of us, the tonic comes in a glass jug, for us to add at our leisure. Simply obvious when you think about it, saves a fortune in glass recycling and avoids having to go with a particular branded tonic (saving the vendor his margin) whilst appealing to the tourists as being typically French. I like.

So after a great feed and some nods to other members of the paddock who pass by*, we leave casino square and wander down towards the harbour. And as we turn every corner, and another nautical metre of water (and boat) appears, the “oh my god” comments start to get so boring and repetitive, that I zip it and just make a mental note instead: “Close your mouth please Michael, we are not a goldfish…”

(*I’m completely oblivious to this by the way; rather than getting star struck, I just become ‘numptified’ by the razzmatazz of being here, I completely miss the fact that my host knows half the city’s occupants this week and is intermittently nodding and saying Hi to random strangers…!)

As we approach the harbour, the ambience changes completely. The population gets younger. The music gets louder and faster. The bars get brighter and more neon-lit. The girls wear less (intentionally and otherwise). The men get more drunk. This is the modern side of Monaco then, I guess? I always thought the money was ploughed into rooms at Hotel de Paris (where I saw Sir Jackie Stewart a moment ago, wandering through reception with his holdall! Brilliant!), where the staff wear uniform suits with hats marked “Voiturier” and entertainment comes in the form of the world famous casino. But as much (if not more) wealth now appears to be floated in boats bigger than the QE2, owned by race team bosses who just happen to also own one of the world’s largest breweries. The yachts really are huuuuuge. And the parties they host are loud and in demand… although, I’ve since heard from one of the race engineers, that once you’re on board, you forget you’re on a boat in Monaco and it’s just like a club (I bet he’s never been to Toffs though, right?!) Nevertheless, everyone wants to be here. Average age? I’d say 35. Average income? Onshore I’d say around £40k, offshore I’d say about £400k. This is the stretch of the circuit running down to the swimming pool towards Rascasse and, at night it’s like a clubber’s paradise.

In contrast to the traditional tourist up at the casino, the clientele down at the harbour is very different. It’s a mixture of younger F1 fans, just excited to be in Monaco; Made in Chelsea rejects, who are just here for the glitz; and the pit lane boys who are letting their hair down and, out of hours, are no different to your average mechanic working in the local garage.

It’s a giggle drinking with these boys… they’re all half cut, curious who I am (random bird drinking pints with a pit crew?!) and are a real mixed bunch – there’s the truck driver from Stobart’s, the lubes man from Petronas, the fuel man (who’s equivalent was the chap injured in the Williams garage in Barcelona), the gas man, the bolties (mechanics) and Nico’s car manager – this guy just has the little job of being responsible for everything which goes on, off, in, or out of Nico’s F1 car. So not much responsibility there then, only he looks about 24! I’m told he’s a bit older than that, has a wealth of experience, and is damn good at his job, but I can’t get over how young he looks! Career, nailed, good work! We then bump into Sam Bird, the Mercedes reserve driver, who smells like he’s wearing a duty free shop (luckily it wasn’t the Old Spice counter). In fairness though, he smiles as we walk past and says Hi, seems just a normal chap. (At this point, I’ll point out that I’m typing this whilst watching the Formula Renault race and Sam is currently in P1… this is his day job I guess? The likelihood of either Nico or Schumi being poorly sick and unable to race in F1, is so slim, that his role as reserve driver is perhaps more an indication of his potential and skill, rather than a realistic necessity for the team)). We see Sam again as we get home and he has a brief chat. Nice chap.

So, a night out with the bolties, a chat with a real driver, and an audience with Sir Jackie Stewart’s holdall – quite a good night then, really!

ttfn /R xx

Ok so the race has finished and you’ve probably seen more coverage than I have (if you like to watch what’s actually going on, watch the bbc as you see very little here! You come for the atmosphere, not the view!) So I won’t blog about the race.

Instead, I’ll be typically British and start with the weather. The forecast has consistently said it’ll be wet and thundery this weekend. Yet until Mark Webber saw the checkered flag, it’s stayed dry. But like Brits with a BBQ, as soon as people come out to play, the heavens open.

Luckily, being brought up with typical British holidays (ie camping in the rain on the Sussex coast) I’m used to coming prepared with a pacamac. However, as an experienced F1er, I’ve also discovered FanVision; a remote tv the size of an iPhone, which you hire and return either at the track or when back in the uk. It streams the F1 tv coverage (as you see it on bbc) and you can chose your audio stream (language, media, etc). You can also personalise it to your favourite driver, so when his position changes, radio is live, pit crew prepare etc, it tells you. You can also view from any car rather than the general view… Anyway. I had FanVision today, which meant once they’d gone past me on the last lap, I could beat the crowds back to the bar and get a dry seat… Just as the heavens opened.

Now the good thing about this, is that I still look relatively chic in tailored black shorts, Prada shades and a black (dry) waterproof. Whereas, the ladies I now see flooding (no pun intended) towards the bar look more like Alice Cooper in drowned drag. Not a good look and, I’m sure, not what they’d been aiming for. Naturally, I had to smirk, just a little!
So here I am, sitting like lady muck, all dry in the best seat in the bar. The tables around me gradually fill up with couples, friends, and Germans. Nothing wrong with that – again, I had to chuckle as they hadn’t the foresight to put towels on chairs – but then I was invaded. A girl bearing slight resemblance to Sabine Schmitz sat at the next table and started to ‘budge up’. I noticed she was part of a SMALL group, larger than the 2-person table at which she’d sat, so I did the polite thing and offered to move down a table. Whilst this meant I now had to put my wet bag on my lap, this wasn’t a big deal. Until I realised the stealth of Sabine’s approach – she was clearly on a reccy and there were actually 11 of them. Suddenly felt like Jersey in the 1930s; there’s only 1 of me but I’m standing my ground – it’d be easy to offer to move to another table but, on principle, I won’t do that. I will stay here until I finish my beer, and smirk at their absolute obliviousness to the fact I’m slating them in the public domain!

Mit freundlichen Grußen /R 🙂

PS – worth noting here that I’m in no way racist! It’s like Basil Fawlty, just a great subject to be funny, that’s all!

The joy of being lucky enough to go to the Grand Prix, apart from the obvious, is that you get to have mini breaks in some of the most spectacular places, when they’re on show to the world and thus looking their best.

Monaco would probably not need the GP to look amazing. But the casino and harbour areas are just alive.

There’s a live band who’ve been playing in town every day, and they’re just awesome. A covers band playing all sorts from Elbow to U2, the Killers to the Stones, Pink Floyd to Blur. And they’re sharp, with tidy stops & starts (dad!) and have the surrounding streets bouncing.

After qually, I decide to venture up the hill towards the palace and see what was occurin. It’s a steep climb, but worth the views.

This part of town is far less affected by the glitz of the GP, instead retaining a quiet sophistication of quaint streets and little coffee shops.

I wander round the Oceanic museum too – now this is strange. In the basement is an aquarium. Whilst the fish on show are beautiful, it feels like they’re all stuck in tanks to be on show. It feels very captive. I don’t like it.

On the next floor are some very peculiar artefacts, like skeletons fornicating with fire around them? Weird. I don’t really get it, sorry Monsieur l’Artiste. But the building which houses all of this is stunning. So I just sit and stare around it for ages (probably not what the entry fee is meant to cover, but hey!)

The monarchy

Beside the museum, there’s a beautiful botanical garden and, like most gardens in town, it has a sign depicting a significant moment in the royals’ family – Princess Grace, on this occasion. This, along with the photos of Prince Albert in almost every shop window, illustrates the sense of pride and respect the locals seem to have for their monarchy. Where I’m sitting, about half way up the hill behind Rascasse, we frequently hear whistles as the police ride past on their motorbikes, escorting people up and down to the palace. They seem visible and part of their city. It’s nice.

Right, formation lap… #letsgoracing

ttfn /R xx

This week, whilst everyone has been telling me how jealous they are, I’m not really feeling it as much as I thought I would. This reminds me of Australia. I’m sure I should have been squeeling, and hopping around like a mad thing for weeks before I went, but I wasn’t. I was pretty chilled really. It wasn’t until I hit Honkers that I actually though, OMG, this is real.

Monaco is much the same. Everyone (me included) who knows anything about F1, knows that Monaco is the special one. It’s the Jose Murhinio of Premiership Managers. It’s the Kris Akabusi of public speakers. It’s the Bombay Sapphire of gin and the iPad of tablets. It’s in an elite calendar but for some reason, it’s just extra special. So why am I not just saying “eeeeeek” to everyone? Probably because I’m tired. Who knows. But I’ve got to get there first!

So, having driven down in good time (not trusting the M1 for timing!) and worked from Alex’s in North London, I head up to Finchley Central tube. Here’s the first snagette – in Monaco, the forecast is thundery and it’s 20 degrees. However, for the first time in months, London is sporting a whopping 28 degrees with wall-to-wall sunshine. Glorious as this is, it makes me want to wear very little to travel (and pack layers to put on as it gets gradually colder) but I’ve no spare room in my luggage. So I have to trek, uphill, to the tube in jeans, top and jacket, with my luggage, in 28 degrees. By the time I hit the underground, I need a shower! But I won’t be put off – it’s all part of the adventure right?

So having got caught out last time (allowing 90 minutes to get to LHR on the Northern / Piccadilly lines and being at the gate 3 hours later with seconds to spare), this time I opted for the Heathrow express from Paddington. This was good (expensive, but quick), but getting to Paddington was just rubbish! Tube mayhem, lines closed, tourists out in force (due to the sunshine), I ended up thinking “sod it, hail a fast black”. Again, expensive, but it got me there in enough time to let me relax in the departure lounge with a G&T, and contemplate the trip ahead of me.

I think I like traveling. Sitting in departures just feels exciting. I could be flying to Bagby International, yet it feels exciting to be there. As it happens, I’m flying to Nice. I’ve no idea what time I arrive, or how I’ll get from Nice to Monaco, but I’ll worry about that when I get there. For now, I’m winding down from work and just starting to switch off.

***

OK, so I remember take-off, but at some point I missed the food and drink? Never mind. When do we land? 25 minutes. OK. I’ll look out of the window at the scenery. Hang on, there’s no cloud – what happened to all the rain forecast? Oh lord, I knew I should have packed my shorts…!

***

That was the smoothest landing I’ve ever had – I didn’t even know when we touched down. Good work Mr Pilot. Unfortunately, I can’t say the same for the French train network – yes, they’re on strike! So instead of the train to Monaco, I look for a bus. I’m actually glad I did this, as it meant I got to see the lights of the city and its harbour on the way in – wow. How beautiful is this? I’ve seen it by day, but not at night before, and it’s just stunning. As we get further into Monte Carlo, I’m breathless at the architecture too – quintessentially French but with a majestic glamour worthy of Caesarian Italy, cleanliness of a brand new car showroom, and non- uniformity of a city built into and around it’s mountainous location, rather than a grid pattern etched into it.

Regardless of the F1 excitement, Monaco is truly a beautiful city. Little streets, snickets and stepped alleyways, cafe culture and a language which just sounds peaceful. Every shop seems to have a framed photo of Prince Albert in the window, and… Oh, my, god,……… There’s a Haagen Dazs boutique in the park! Sorry guys, will write more later…

#nomnomnom /Rxx

So far, this has been a long week. I started on Sunday, packing to work south for a few days facilitating a 3-day training course in Welwyn. So I packed the usual (work wear for 3 days and enough smart/casuals to last 3 nights. Now when I worked at O’Connors, this used to take me forever, primarily because I didn’t have the luggage or wardrobe to make it easy (surf t-shirts, cargo pants and trainers weren’t really the right match). However, when I took my current role, with a European remit, one of the first things I bought was a new suitcase, that was small enough to pass for hand luggage but which included a shuttle bag (so I didn’t also have to take a laptop case). To date this has served me well, although with various travel restrictions in the job, I’ve had minimal call for it at work! Outside work, however it’s my trusty companion and pretty much serves as my ‘other wardrobe’. So Sunday night, I pack the aforementioned items and head off to Welwyn.

An 8am start Monday, with a 9pm finish officially, Monday was a long day. However, when hosting a course of this nature, where the delegates are staying over, it’ rude not to socialise in the evenings too, hence it was perhaps closer to midnight by the time we finished the last beer.

A 7.30am start followed on Tuesday, but luckily we had a normal finish time, so back to the hotel for a few beers in the garden – our first glimpse of Summer – lovely! The sight of the Global Account team going off for a run, clad in shorts, vests and trainers, was perhaps less pleasing (sorry guys – far too hot to be running in 25 degrees!)

Wednesday was a normal start and a 4pm finish, but by the time we’d cleared-up, pulled the evaluation report, analysed and discussed it (ie publicised the good bits and made the necessary excused for the bad) and driven back to York, it was about 10pm before I got home.

At this point, most normal people would have thought ‘long week, early night’ – but as I’m far from normal, quelle surprise I opted to make a fish finger sandwich (triple decker, of course) and make a list of things I needed to do before I left in the morning… eat, unpack, put washing on, hang washing out, clear down email from past 3 days, prep work for next 2 days, repack and THEN hit the sack. So I got to bed around 2.30 – joy!

OK, in true fashion, I’m down to paragraph 6 before I get to the point – don’t worry, I don’t write press releases in this way! So the point is, packing.

Last week, I did 3 countries, in 6 days, including work wear across 2 climates, beachwear, race stash and enough casuals to cover 5 days and nights away. This I achieved without having to check in any bags on the flight – hand luggage only, happy days. But tonight I’m packing for 4 days, 2 countries (3 technically), one work day, race stash and the necessary casuals. Yet I’m struggling to get everything to fit in? The only reason I can think of for this, starts with the word Monte and ends in Carlo, with a spot of rain thrown in for excitement.

Yes, the Monaco Grand Prix beckons. I’d love to say this was in the plan for 2012. But no, it’s a last minute decision, a flying visit, but one I just have to do. 2012 is my year and, if something makes me happy I want to do it. So when I got the chance to do the Monaco Grand Prix, there was a momentary lapse of reason before I thought “oh sod it, why not?!” But most races are generally attended by a combination of avid petrolheads, those who just love the atmosphere, or a combination of the above. Contrary to what you see on TV, they generally care little about what they wear, make-up doesn’t get a look in, and the humour and creativity comes more from the extravagance of people’s picnic infrastructure that their style or fashion (but that’s another story!) So when you pack, you include functional clothes, not fashion and accessories. You take sunscreen or a pacamac, not Channel and Prada (although they’re often an accidental pick-up on the way home).

But Monaco is different. It’s my first complete street circuit. It’s the most stylish destination on the planet. It’s in the south of France, it’s May but forecast thunder and rain. Something tells me my baseball cap, shorts, t-shirt, flip flops and rucksack won’t quite cut the mustard down there. This is complete unknown to me – so what do I pack? Oh lord, help! At times like this, there’s only one person who can sort me out. My friend Laura has a wardrobe bigger than my bedroom. Her clothes are stored by colour, and she has accessories for all occasions. But more importantly at this point, she knows what I should take and how to mix things. So I call Laura and beg. I turn up at 10pm with a bottle of bubbles and we pick out a wardrobe. I’m tempted to take her dog too (Bailey) – a gorgeous white Maltese who would not only keep me company, and love Monaco, but would fit perfectly in the Prada handbag I spotted in T5. However, Laura’s not so sure so we leave him to help his dad (Rob) to get over the jealousy of my adventure.

So, I need to pack things for it to be hot and muggy, yet wet, allowing for the fact that the forecast could be totally wrong. We need stash for me to watch the race, but allow for the fact that, if it’s pouring down, whilst the race will be über exciting, the grass bank on which I’ll be sitting could end up a mud slide (hardly Monaco darling, that’s the white skinnies out then). I also need to prepare for the possible invite to another F1 party after the race (perhaps on board a yacht?) as well as the possibility of venturing into the casino (oh… my… god…). Whilst much of the above may not happen, you can guarantee that it I don’t pack for it, it’ll happen in abundance, hence I’m going prepared.

All this means my SLR camera has to be ditched, in favour of my point / press. My Vodafone McLaren Mercedes umbrella (perfect for the grassy bank) has to stay at home, in favour of buying a little one out there. (Don’t tell Laura, but I snuck in the Regatta waterproof last minute!)

So, I’ve no idea if I’ve packed the right things, but who cares, right now it’s 2.30am and I’m getting up in 3 hours – I need to sleep!

ttfn /R xx