You know you're somewhere fancy when the name of the best nightclub in town ends not with an 'S' but with a 'Z'. All the best bad nightclubs end with a Z, at least they should do. In this case we're in Monte Carlo for the Grand Prix and the place in question which we've been trying to break into for the last half an hour is Jimmy'z. If we were in Sidcup it'd probably be called Spanglez and we'd be a lot colder, but at least we'd understand what the bouncers are on about. The ones in Sidcup would belt you, the ones in Monte Carlo talk really quickly in Italian or French, wear dinner suits and gently wave you out of their way because you are a peasant. It's 1.00am, around 70 degrees and the smell of pot plants, money and leather hangs thick in the air. At first I thought it was from the interiors of the Lotus's, Porsche's and Ferrari's crawling past at a snail's pace; later on I realise it is the smell of rich people's leathery old skin and rich people's shoes made of old skin. Crocodile, snake, pony and cod, it's all here. The Loaded photographer and I, however, are neither wearing enough leather nor looking enough like leather and are told to get to 'ze back of ze queue', so after scrambling around in the bushes searching for open windows or unalarmed doors we reluctantly give up. Queue, you say? To get into a place which plays Roxette and charges the same price as a pair of trainers for a vodka martini? As if. Turning on our cheap heels we leave the leathery old Versace worshippers to it and head to a nice hotel for some almost reasonably priced drinks. Fools!
Saturday morning and the whiff of scrambled eggs and diesel - a heady but strangely arousing combination - floats along the Monte Carlo harbour like a huge butterfly which er, smells of eggs and cars. We're on our way to the Foster's yacht to watch this afternoon's qualifying session and are waiting for our water taxi to pick us up and whizz us round to the other side of the harbour where the proper boats are. It's hot, we're tired and our clothes are stuck to our skin already, so how the drivers cope in this climate I'll never know. Pants, socks, gloves, fireproof all-in-ones, little furry boots, a Balaclava and a helmet? Why not just stick a scarf round your neck and borrow your dad's sheepskin coat while you're at it?
After qualifying, which consists of a load of cars flying past us every few seconds then a gap of a couple of minutes which gives us just enough time to have another sandwich it's back to the hotel to get glammed up Monte Carlo stylee 'cos it's Saturday night and apparently this is when the cars and people are at their shiniest round these parts.
“Is there anything without truffles?” Loaded snapper Dan asks the waiter at dinner. He's not joking. I've eaten at some of the best restaurants in the world - McDonald's, Leicester Forest East services, the lot - but this is unreal. We've got a view overlooking the sea and an over-attentive restaurant owner who keeps trying to get me to go paddling with him. It's all getting a bit surreal, not least when Dan says that according to the Natural History Museum, whales are related to dogs. Course they are. We look at a few nice cars parked around Casino Square but the Turtle Wax and all the primary colours don't mix with red wine and we have to go to bed. Bed with daft pillows at that. It's like resting your head on a skateboard. No wonder the French get so cheesed off that they set fire to sheep - that's insomnia for you.
Three hours later we're up and on our way to a restaurant to watch the race which sounded crap until we found we'd be eating lunch right opposite the pit lane exit, smack in the middle of the five all important traffic lights and pole position. Can't be bad. Stood in sweltering heat with one foot on one chair and the other on someone's foot on another chair, like Twister but without the mat, face pressed up against a wire fence, I can't help wishing I wasn't bothered about Formula One and was sat inside getting drunk instead. Still, we got our money's worth. Not only did we see Naomi Campbell - or was it Sol Campbell in a wig? - and the Duchess of Pork (note: back of ginger hair in v. poor condition) but young Geri Halliwell legging it over the barriers in front of us as well. Whoo! But that was nothing compared with the excitement of discovering that the restaurant's toilets cleaned themselves after you'd had a wee. Really, the seat spins round and a brush comes out with cleaning stuff on and it's all too much what with lager and Champagne and chicken drumsticks and cake and go go go, all the lights are out and they're off. Except they're not. Wurz has stalled so they go round and line up again. All the mechanics who'd just put the kettle on come rushing back from the pits to get the tyre covers on and blast dry ice into the engines. Ninety of us who've paid a few hundred quid to view the Monaco Grand Prix from here are now finding it strenuous to balance in exactly the same spot with arms and knees and sunglasses everywhere except the two topless Essex blokes I'm sandwiched between, so to speak, who are only worried about whether they've got enough time to get another can of Foster's in before the re-start. Turns out they could have had a kip and gone shopping – the second start gets underway then the red flag comes out and Jenson Button clips an Arrows on the snaky bend and all hell breaks lose. There's an eight car pile up, nobody can work out why the flag was out before the incident and by now we all need the loo. The drivers have to get out of the cars and run back along the harbour wall in front of bemused spectators to get back to the pit lane and the cars have to be removed from the track.
“I won't have to come back next year,” pipes up a voice from under a pile of arms and legs, “I've seen two starts now, that's me done.”
Finally - and I'm still on two chairs - after two Schumacher's and a Hakkinen have spent a penny, the race gets underway. About time two, don't they know there's gambling to be done? We haven't got all day you know. The Prada-clad money brokers and members of the Ferrari Club of Great Britain (all wearing Ferrari T-shirts saying as much - you can't buy subtlety) are by now so pissed they're covered in lager and quiche and two of them have eaten enough cake for a hundred people. It's a mess. Anyway, you know the rest. David Coulthard won it, the first Brit to win in Monte Carlo since Jackie Stewart in 1847. Good work square-faced fella, see you at the roulette table. Mine's a pina colada...
Don't know about you but when I go out on a Sunday night I have to walk past Safeway, a fish and chip shop, Primark and two homeless blokes with one leg between them. Tonight's route to Casino Square, via a couple of hours on the yacht - “More champagne, madam?” Oh if you must” - we walk past Prada, Gucci, Louis Vuitton and row upon row of gleaming cars which have not yet been keyed. Still, it's early days. This place makes Beverly Hills look like Wigan.
We almost go blind just walking into the Sun Casino. Mutant chandeliers the size of an average Premiership defender (that's around 5ft 11in) cover the ceiling, catching the light from hundreds of Rolex's and diamonds which adorn the players. It looks like Grecian 2000 does most of its business in this town and if I see another navy blazer with gold buttons I'm going to scream. My wealthy companion who appeared from nowhere as if by magic orders two glasses of Cristal. He doesn't see any change from £30, but then it's easier to spend if it's foreign money because you can pretend it's not real, and in all the excitement I really need the loo.
It's 2.00am and a scary man in snakeskin - clothes, that is - with a bizarre facial hair arrangement akin to a smacked up tarantula keeps winning this roulette thing. I'm not sure what's going on thanks to the lights, the Champagne and the croupier's hands which are moving too fast and making everything blurred but I hear someone next to me, I think it's the same bloke who's plying me with booze, say “OK sweetheart, put some chips on your lucky number,” and I'm sure he pats me on the rump, or else a bit of chandelier's just fallen off, so I haphazardly chuck a handful of round pink things on a bit of carpet with numbers drawn on it and go back to sleep for a bit. Apparently he lost some of the £350 minimum bet on that so I try and wake up a bit and think about this logically, ie. try another tactic, which is to flick the chips across the table instead. Unfortunately some of them disappear down the hatch, the croupier thinks the rest are tips - as if! - and a couple of others knock all the other fella's chips off their numbers. Roulette, clearly, is not my thing, but rich man doesn't mind and gives me some more to play with. Just an average Sunday night out then.
Eventually, through a bit of luck and a lot more to drink, posh bloke recoups and then doubles his money, tucks a 500franc (that's fifty quid to you and me) chip into my knicker ribbon - cheeky! - and helps me back to the yacht which is definitely not where I'm meant to be sleeping. It's 6.00am and luckily the Foster's PR lady will not have petite chats (kittens) back at the hotel some 20 miles away for another few hours yet. I'm not sure whether I'm wobbling or the yacht is as I pass out on the bunk but I can't say as I care either way.
Waking up with a stinking hangover on a boat is, I have to say, a bit nicer than waking up with a stinking hangover in a gutter down an alley. With your foot in a dead dog. In fact, it doesn't really matter if your head hurts because you go up on deck, the sun is shining, it's 80 degrees and you're still in Monte Carlo. Trouble is, I was just about the only one. Everyone else had left for the airport and in their rush they'd taken all the taxis in Monaco. My phone isn't working, the captain's telling me I have to go as they're sailing to the Caribbean or something in half an hour and unless I want to be their new cook (I sit down and consider this for a good five minutes then remember I've got to feed the cat plus I hate cooking), then I'd best get off.
Right you are. At last I get to put the only French I know apart from stuff about monkeys being up trees into practice and get ready to ask where the station is. Clutching my shoes and my head I set off around the harbour and who should my radar pick out down the hill but Jenson Button, busy being fed up because he didn't finish yesterday's race and because he's got loads of bags to lift and put in the back of a car. A bloke behind me reckons it isn't him – “Nah, it's just some lad carrying bags, innit?” and despite the fact that racing drivers look like everyone else when they're not wearing overalls and a helmet I know it is him and go and get my photo taken with him. “Sorry about this,” I say, “being as you had a bad day and all, but if you will stand around beside yachts being famous, what can you expect?”
“No problem,” shrugs the unlucky ace, gritting his teeth. “Have you had a good time yourself?” he asks, putting a big bag of what could be cash into the boot. “Ooh, not many,” I sigh, all last night's hair and mascara, then go all funny because he's a racing driver, he's only 20 and his neck's massive. I can't stop staring at him. I want him to give me a lift and maybe a cheque for some new shoes, but instead I ask him where the station is. In French, even though he isn't, but I figure at his age he'll probably remember the stuff he learnt in school and be able to tell me the answer. “Excusez moi, monsieur, ou est le gare SNCF, sil vous plait?” I stutter. I've also got the shakes. How attractive. Understandably he looks a bit bemused, if not frightened, and gets in the car. I think the driver might be calling the police so I run away with all the panache of a one-legged pig in no particular direction because I still don't know where the bloody station is. Typical. If I'd run into Nelson Piquet I'd have been home by now.
