I am not sure whether to continue with this narrative, it is all too surreal.
So we did go to the F1 Legends presentation. David picked us up in his monstrous Merc, and took us through Monaco's swirling and swooping streets including a a decent portion on the track itself, until he dropped us off at the Hermitage Hotel. We were greeted by a chap with a clipboard who checked our names and sent us in a lift into the dungeons of the hotel there to sit in a dark and intensely gloomy conference room facing an empty dais, wondering what offense we had committed to be treated so. Mrs E's spirits were lifted somewhat when a liveried waiter approached with a tray and murmured "champagne, Madame?". Her eyes lit up and gratefully she murmured to him "and is the Pope a catholic?" And then our new Finnish friends Heiki and Ingrid showed up and in no time we were chattering like sparrows in the gloom, when in stomped - in single file - our hosts. In line astern, Coulthard, Di Resta and Brundle. And two young lads looking very spare. In fact it was Harry Newey. son of Adrian, and another whose name I am ashamed to say I have forgotten, but he drives in GP3 if I recall rightly. Later in the evening, Mrs E, by now thoroughly mellowed by the product of Reims, cornered him, and upon learning that he was only 19, exclaimed "what is your mother thinking of, allowing to get into those dangerous machines?"
Oh while we are on the topic of Mrs E and her first experience of F1, she was totally enjoying the opening laps of FP2, shivering with delight at the energy from the passing cars that assailed her senses, when suddenly she sat bolt upright and exclaimed wtf?? "That car was pink! PINK! That is not a colour for a racing car, it's a colour for pussies!"
So henceforth dear friends Force India has been renamed The Pink Pussies.....
Anyhow. I mean no disrespect, but the older trio sat there with expressions on their faces as if someone had welded butt plugs to the seats of their chairs, and held forth about F1. To be fair, DC did crack a few jokes, though there was a slight time lag between his delivery and his audience's reaction. Bit kind of internetty really: living in Egypt I am very used to it. Anyhow he came out with an opening remark about what great lovers we must all be, infused with the passion for motor racing. Later on when they were taking questions I shot my hand up and informed DC that he was absolutely right, that my wife and I were Formula 1 virgins, and that when Mrs E first heard the roar of a racing car engine and smelled the whiff of rubber and benzine, a certain expression came over her face - and I felt that if all went well I might get lucky a bit later in the evening. Mrs E was not amused and spilled her champagne bashing me over the head with her programme.
But I did take the time to compliment the young guys. I had been so pleased to spend the first two days exploring the stands, sitting next to real fans, and watching the "junior" series. I thought they were bloody great, terrific racing and wishing them well in their careers.We then had a Q&A that I am afraid was a little pedestrian, and at the end Brundle announced that the three of them would be available for autographs and photos. Not many people took them up on it, Coulthard ****ed off immediately anyhow, but I did catch a glimpse of Brundle standing in front of a camera, barely nudging shoulders with a lady of indeterminate age from Louisiana, with a look on his face as if the weld on the dildo had failed when he stood up from his chair. The two youngsters on the other hand remained and chatted very graciously to all and sundry.
And then off we went on foot to the Baron Trenck. In no time at all we were partying. Great band on the foredeck, waiters everywhere with canapés and bubbly, new friends being made, and wall to wall bimbos: Mrs E kept very close to me. The sun went down on the harbour of Monte Carlo as every boat there was partying. I swear the surface of the sea was simmering and shimmering from the sound waves of rock music, the laughter of ladies and others members of the female sex, and the burbling roar of supercars cruising the quays moving on from party to party.
Absolutely wonderful, the years fell away from me, and I was in no time at all I was showing the young ladies how to dance the twist....
And then, when we finally got tired, I called up faithful David on the cell phone, and in a trice he glided up to the stern of the boat, and ushered us back to the Meridien. And you might have thought that was that. But.
When we reached the Meridien, we found the place absolutely heaving. The fashion parade had just ended, but the Amber Lounge was just getting started, and the disco on the beach - Sunset - was going full blast with heavy bass trance music echoing off the mountains. Mrs E perked up like a gundog and with eager gait headed straight for the Amber Lounge. However when the heavy outside the door informed her - exceedingly politely it must be said - that the tickets started at €1,000 each, she scowled and muttered sod that for a game of soldiers, grabbed my hand and we headed to the lifts.
And......before you ask the question: a gentleman never tells.
A small footnote. The next morning, well this morning, I was drinking a nespresso on the balcony shortly after the sun rose, and my eyes were drawn to a Bentley parked outside. It was painted in bedroom scarlet, with some kind of special lacquer that made it sparkle in the morning sunlight. The day was starting its normal routine, the Monegasque rubbish collectors came by, clattering and banging their way down the street, and my eyes were rivetted to this automotive wonder. It was SO vulgar, and yet SO seductive. What can I say?
Then this young and pretty young woman came down the street, ash blonde hair down to her pert little bottom barely covered by a miniskirt not much wider than a belt, and swinging her little evening bag in carefree manner. This is 7 am you understand, and she was still in her party gear. Anyhow she walks past the Bentley, and before my disbelieving eyes, she walks around it, round to the driver's door, beep beep opens it, climbs in, fires her up and ****s off home for breakfast, leaving two black lines on Monaco's favourite asphalt.....