High life
Downcast
Taki
T always thought that when God created 1 dirt he meant it for earthworms, not peo- ple. As I grow older, however, and attend the kind of freak show I've just returned from, I am not so sure. All I can tell you, dear readers, is that Bob Guccione, Hugh Heffner, and Larry Flynt, the owners of three porno journals, would have felt perfectly at home. Besides those three who were there in spirit only — there were another 250,000 sporty types, which helped the tiny Las-Vegas-sur-Med principality burst at the seams. But let me explain why I allowed myself to be trapped in such a circus.
Car and Driver magazine is an enormous- ly successful and rich American monthly whose editor believes in taking chances and assigning intellectuals to cover car races. The other egghead was Bob Tyrrell, a political writer whose syndicated column goes to more newspapers than Charles Ben- son does to bookmakers. The two of us flew over from America in order to write about the sights and sounds of the 41st Monaco Grand Prix. When we stopped in Paris Tyrrell arranged to dine with some French brains, but I refused, Instead, I rang my friend Lord Brook and had the best of both worlds, English company and French surroundings. Each time I go to Paris I get an acute attack of nostalgia. On Friday 1 chose to go and look at an old flat of mine, on rue de Savoi, where I first seduced the mother of my children. Then I went to Mass at the Abbey of St Germain. After- wards I joined Brookie, John Bowes-Lyon, and Christopher Simon Sykes for dinner. It was to be the last fun evening until I got back to England. Bob Tyrrell had never been to Monte Carlo before, so as we drove to Monaco from the airport I gave him a brief history of the place. But somehow I was not getting through to him. 'Is this the Riviera?' he kept asking me, and it wasn't a rhetorical question. Now Tyrrell is not stupid, it was just that he couldn't believe his eyes. Where were all those fabled places he had read and heard about, he kept asking me. This couldn't be the renowned playground of the rich. Worse, however, was to come. When we checked into the Hotel de Paris and saw the crowds of' sun-tanned slobs that were sprawled all over the once fine sofas and chairs, our hearts sank. ‘I'111 going back to Bloomington' were his firs and last words that weekend. Being more sensitive, I couldn't even say was goirig back to Sparta. So we walked around the 0 streets, not bothering to take notes, too depressed even to take photographs of the race.
As we both had access to the pits and the course itself we somehow looked a bit amateurish lunching on the terrace of the hotel while the race was going on. But there was no use in covering anything or any- body. The drivers are unrecognisable in their balaclavas and fireproof suits that advertise everything including Tampax. The cars are simple extensions of the outdoor advertising industry. One can hardly see the numbers. The noise is horrendous, the pit crews surly and ugly, and the groupies dirty. The only friendly person I ran into was my old friend Arki Busson who no sooner was introduced to Miss Janina Fatsio, the girl who was responsible for Caroline of Monaco's divorce, than he disappeared with her, to the great fury of some ghastly French gigolo. Oh, and I almost forgot, Gunther Sachs and Jean Noel Grinda were there, attending their 25th consecutive Grand Prix.
As my luck would have it, the trip back was no improvement. Air France flight 950 to London had taken off 20 minutes previously when I looked out and saw only water. And water that was awfully close. My only thought was that we were about to ditch. So I told my fellow passenger that we were going down and he, an Englishman, looked out and told his friend that indeed we were. The friend then said the same thing, and so on down the line. Finally came the announcement from the frogs. There was a rear undercarriage problem and we were jettisoning fuel and going back to Nice. So we took out all sharp objects and Prepared for the worst. But nothing hap- pened. It was a simple malfunction of some instrument. After a long three hours we took off again only to hit the worst thunderstorm over London that I have ever experienced while in the air. As we were being buffeted we got hit twice by lightning. Even when I saw the flash and heard the thunder I had no regrets about being on the aeroplane. One more day in Monte would have been sure death. At least With Air France there was a chance.
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