The Monaco grand prix

Friday 21^st of May, we went to Monaco for the Grand Prix. Nothing happens in Monaco on the Friday, so it’s free to take a walk around the track, stand around on the stands and ogle at the cars in the pit lanes. That’s pretty much what we did. Disappointingly, J.’s friends would not pay the €300-€400 (a literal grand prix!) it would have cost to see the race on the Sunday.

We also went on the Thursday, but a ticket to see the Formula 3000 would have cost €60. So “the lads” sat around drinking super-priced Grolsch under a parasol. My repeated protests that what was the point of coming to Monaco and sitting outside a bar 400 metres from the railway station drinking Grolsch for two hours and then going home – were ignored. Mocked even.

What is the point of men, and what is the point of men and beer? Shoes, Ferraris, designer handbags and yachts. These are important things! More important than Grolsch. I need female company. I need Sex in the City.

On the Friday, we walked around the track. Gawked at the yachts. Gawked at the super-sized Americans with their super-sized children. Gawked at the occasional giraffe-like supermodel having photos taken in the pit lane (not that attractive, I have to say I have seen more shapely waists on the waitresses in Nice). After the track was opened back up for the regular traffic, there were about a million red Ferraris cruising around it. Presumably they all belonged to the Ferrari team, because there weren’t any at all when we visited in March!

We stopped for lunch at a café next to the big casino. I deliberately freaked out P. by eating a whole pat of butter on a piece of bread the size of a coin. He’d been annoying me all week with nonsense about “it’s calories in calories out you know”, and “carbs are essential for energy” (clearly he does not know how many calories I eat). J. would not let me argue it out with him and interrupted me every time I tried to reply. So he kept getting the last say in everything.