Category Archives: showbiz

A princess of Hollywood, gone to the stars.

carrie-fisher-6

“You have owned my likeness, lo all these years, so that every time I look in the mirror I have to send you a check for a couple of bucks.” 

I am not remotely embarrassed to I say I’m obsessed with Star Wars. I’m one of millions. But it doesn’t change the fact that seeing that universe expand in front of me from the day I was old enough to watch A New Hope (on VHS, I’m not that old) changed my life. I’ve watched that film over 100 times, and know every word and every character’s movements and expressions like it was my own. The quote above, of course, comes from Carrie Fisher to George Lucas, one of many quips she so beautifully and bitingly made in a career that was so much more than just those films, knowing so astutely that she’d have to rail against that oversimplified outline for the rest of her life. In this context, it’s not an exaggeration to say that when news of her heart-attack came through before Christmas I just thought “oh god, not her too”. There was way too much more to still come than 60 years would allow, even for someone that packed in as much as she did. I dearly hoped she’d pull through, ready with some withering self-deprecation about her not being dead yet, to witness the outpouring of support, and to solider on for another decade or two. But it wasn’t to be.

Really, it feels so desperately sad. I know public grief is a cheap commodity these days, traded in competitive chunks on a daily basis like a modern currency, but at 41 I don’t feel ready to let so many of these childhood touchstones drift into the mists just yet. Not Carrie, someone that stood out so much in those films, like she did in life, and instructed me about women in ways I didn’t even understand at the time. Even though she often resented the ties that bound her to those films (famously describing the role as ‘a lot of it was just running down corridors’) more tightly than she ever may have wanted, the late-blooming return to this fantasy universe and the rush of adolescent joy it brought me and so many others, makes it all the more sad she’s suddenly no longer here. [Spoiler alert] I’m not sure I could stomach that last scene in Rogue One right now. It just feels too sad to see that fresh face against this backlit scene of contemporary sorrow.

She was my first crush, probably before I even knew what one of those was. But she was also, flagrantly so much more than a sex symbol, and everything many women in cinema weren’t usually allowed to be at the time – feisty, witty, sexy, funny, articulate, intelligent and forceful – and not even Han Solo or Luke Skywalker stood a chance against her in those three films. Even as she was planned for execution, she fought back, showing vulnerability even as she cracked jokes at Grand Moff Tarkin’s expense. What a woman, in so many of the right ways, not some silver screen cypher employed as window dressing. I was hooked from then on, by this mystical figure clad in flowing white robes, who was pretty handy with a blaster and didn’t seem to care for gruff, charming space pirates (well, not at first). She transformed, during those six years from nervous ingénue princess to a star in her own right, famous – sadly, above so much else – for that bikini, rather than killing the mighty Jabba, as she should be. Perhaps one of her best put-downs came from this very weary topic, answering an angry father: “‘What am I going to tell my kid about why she’s in that outfit?’ Tell them that a giant slug captured me and forced me to wear that stupid outfit, and then I killed him because I didn’t like it. And then I took it off. Backstage.””

She was fearless. The daughter of celebrity parents (Eddie Fisher and Debbie Reynolds, her mother now tragically joining her barely 24 hours later), born and raised into Hollywood royalty, she spent much of her life and career remorselessly skewering that privilege when others hid behind it, seeing no vanity or assuming no position from it, often making capital out of the litany of ‘you-couldn’t-make-it-up’ drama that befell her. In fact, her truth about the underbelly of the industry, on others, but much of her own often painful and scarred experience, came to inform her post-Endor life. A voracious chronicler, her books were brilliant warts-and-all paens to growing up inside the movie bubble, with Postcards From The Edge very loosely autobiographical, and made into the brilliant film with Shirley Maclaine as the tortuous mother and Meryl Streep in the title role (for if Meryl plays you, you know you’re a true character of note). She even appeared – indirectly, until I only realised very recently – in the lyrics of one of my favourite albums of all time, as Paul Simon (her husband for eleven ill-fated months) talked about the “window in your heart” he found after she’d gone, immortalised in Graceland. Added poignancy when no more were needed.

She published memoirs that laid bare the high and low points of her life, taking them on tour as one-woman shows, and showing the openness and vulnerability that drew us to her from the start. Even forty years later, she managed to raise eyebrows when admitting to an affair with Harrison Ford in The Princess Diarist, which landed only a month or so before her untimely death. To the end, she never dimmed the switch. She also had roles and work that were often – sadly – overlooked. She provided the comic chops and humanity as Marie in When Harry Met Sally, worked in Shampoo, Hannah And Her Sisters, The Blues Brothers, Soapdish, and more as well as television, from 30 Rock, Family Guy, brilliantly as Rob Delaney’s acerbic mother in Catastrophe (for which she’d just finished a new series before the fateful flight home she caught from London), and spiky cameos aplenty in everything from Sex And The City to Big Bang Theory and Entourage. She never stopped working, applying uncredited script work to Hook, Sister Act, The Wedding Singer and more, even if many foolishly thought there was nothing between Jedi and The Force Awakens. Her epitaph is so much more than A Galaxy Far, Far Away.

She was also fearless in her openness about mental illness. Suffering from bipolar disorder from a young age, she never shied away from what it led her to, or the complexities of being a sufferer. Being the daughter of Hollywood royalty would be hard enough to cope with, but fighting bipolar disease, it’s actually incredible to think she had a career at all, given the rates of suicide it induces. But addressed it she did, and head on: “I have a chemical imbalance that, in its most extreme state, will lead me to a mental hospital,” she spoke over two decades ago. In a still-incredible interview, she talked in understandable terms about how her battles manifested themselves. ” I have two moods,” she explains. “One is Roy, rollicking Roy, the wild ride of a mood. And Pam, sediment Pam, who stands on the shore and sobs … Sometimes the tide is in, sometimes it’s out.” It’s for this reason alone, and her honesty, that she should perhaps be lauded more than anything for helping switch around the usual mental health narrative. She showed that that real, famous, great, successful people suffer from these conditions just as much as the rest of us, and the effect it can have on those people that feel alone and side-lined and unable to feel they can talk to anyone about it. Taboos are there to be broken, and Fisher did this with all the vim of Leia or Marie, realising that if it came from her, then another wall could be broken down.

But the part of me that aches the most is still that boy that watched entranced back in the early 80s, as this whirlwind in white, that grew up with that adoration and admiration unchanged, seeing that return in 2015, and feeling privileged to be living through both ages of the life of the person I knew as Princess Leia. From childhood crush to full-on adult infatuation, to middle-aged reverence, that person on and off-screen that never played by the rules, never kept quiet when it was expected, never felt she should fulfil the role of which she was expected. She suffered, wore that as a badge of honour, and never stopped seeing the positive side of her fractured existence. As my 40s trundles on, it feels like too many of those we held dear in our formative years are being taken away too early. Perhaps this is just what getting old is like, and this is the start of a long, uninterrupted march of those faces in front of us for the next few decades. But few will have the impact that the likes of Leia, Han and Luke had, and that emotional squeeze from the icons of your simpler, more brightly coloured childhood often hold onto you much more than those in our cluttered, complicated adult life ever could.

Sixty years old is way too soon, when so much felt still in front of her. The sadness is only compounded by the devastating death of her mother, Debbie, only a dayfew after her daughter. But for  a couple of lucky generations, we all saw that first clip and thought what Luke Skywalker did: “Who is she? She’s beautiful“. She was one of a kind, and the world is a far poorer place without her. May The Force be with you, Leia.

Monaco – When Saturday comes

Morning in Monaco
Morning in Monaco

Sadly, this is my last full day in the principality. I go through my normal morning routine here. Up, shower, down to breakfast where I’m treated to more fresh rolls, pain au chocolat, croissants, all smeared with healthy amounts of beurre and jam, readying me for another day of petrol-headed action. I’m banishing all thoughts of sadness (and an early flight tomorrow – more of that later) with a throwback album inspired by all the talk of Britpop last night. Blur‘s Parklife flows into my ears as I walk down to the station to catch the train into Monaco. It’s another cloudless day and high 20s. This Is A Low isn’t that appropriate, but it’s a beautiful piece of music. I’m being careful on the sun front though, seeing as my only colours are white or pink, I don’t want to add to any of the already burnt parts of my body. Once an Englishman….

All eyes on F1 Quali in the GP2 paddock
All eyes on F1 Quali in the GP2 paddock

The GP2 paddock is busy as ever, with the teams already pushing yesterday’s results into the background with another race to prepare for this afternoon. Unlike F1, there’s two races every weekend in GP2, so it’s double the fun, enjoyment and excitement, and the stress. No rest for the teams sadly, but it means that drivers can make up for mistakes in the first race, and while the Sprint race is 15 minutes shorter, and with less points, the beauty of it is the reverse grid. Cars 1-8 in the Feature Race reverse positions and so P8 is on pole. It’s a good incentive for the midfield to push in race one, even if they’re out of the points early on, and makes for an interesting race every time. This time round, it’s Frenchman Charles Pic – he of the lion’s mane hair – that sneaked into the coveted 8th after Englishman Oliver Turvey failed to take his drive-through on Friday. As with many sports when they get to the top of the tree, it’s the details that often make the difference, and with a season of 9 rounds and 18 races, it’s small changes like this that can decide championships.

"What do you mean you don't have any D'Ambrosio caps?"
"What do you mean you don't have any D'Ambrosio caps?"

There’s a full day’s programme before the GP2 guys hit the lights at 16.10, with the Formula Renault drivers qualifying as a stroll out of the station after 9.30 (no late starts here) and down past Place D’Armes, where the merchandising stands are in full flow. It’s fair to say that here, being so close to Italy, and with scant French representation on the grid, at least not in the cockpits, that Ferrari rule. It’s a sea of red in almost every stand, and while Schumi, Lewis and Jenson get a look-in, as do the Red Bull guys, it’s the Scuderia that have a hold on the public’s affection here. An Alonso win here would register on the Richter scale. And it’s F1 practice and qualy that’s high on the agenda for many of the fans here today as I head through the now familiar tunnels and out to the GP2 paddock. It’s a hive of activity, with the ever-present sound of engines firing up and turning over as the teams feverishly fine-tune (or in some cases reassemble) their cars before this afternoon’s race. Something that’s really come home to me this week is the inordinate amount of work that goes into putting a car on the grid. We all know the massive teams and budgets involved in F1, but in GP2 there’s only a fraction of the manpower, and yet the work put in is monumental, with a restless weekend for the mechanics, media, drivers, team principals and sponsors – it’s a wonderful microcosm of how motorsport works, and for many of the teams, having been in since pretty much the beginning in 2005, they’re a close-knit crew of friends as well as workers that function with the single aim of putting their driver on the top of the podium.

The GP2 teams hard at work
The GP2 teams hard at work

F1 3rd practice, like qualy after it, is dominated by a huge shunt. In practice, it’s Roseberg, and in qualy it’s Perez, both coming out of the tunnel up to the chicane, and echoing some bad memories of Button and Wendlinger’s accidents there in previous decades. It’s moments like this that make you remember that sign that dominates the tracks around the world: ‘Motorsport is dangerous’. The sport is so safe in this era, it’s easy to forget the terrible toll it took on its drivers in the past. Jackie Stewart’s campaigns against the lack of safety and medical provision in the 70s was met with a furious backlash at the time, with many traditionalists questioning his commitment to the sport, but now we can look back and see just how far safety has moved on, and what we have the Scotsman to thank for. It still doesn’t prevent some heart-in-mouth moments, and both of these were such incidents. Coming out of the Tunnel, first Rosberg, in the morning, and Perez, in the afternoon, braked, losing the back end and snapping them into barriers before being propelled, helplessly, towards the barriers that separate the safety road from the run down to Tabac. Rosberg was lucky, while launched over the bumps, he missed it by millimetres. Perez was not so lucky. He came wide out of the tunnel and hit the barrier side-on after glancing the wall, the slo-mos showing him desperately clasping his hands in protection around his helmet just before impact. It was a sickening crash, and for 20 minutes, while the medical teams carefully worked to remove him safely and get him to hospital, a cloud descended over the city.

While qualifying resumed – and Hamilton lost out worst to make only P9 – it was clear that their comrade’s safety was all that was on drivers minds. They may be paid millions (well, some of them) and feature in a sport that is steeped in money, glamour, and individual achievement, but at times like this it’s refreshing to see everyone in the paddock thinking only of one thing, and that’s a speedy recovery to the stricken driver. It was a tense wait until a delayed Sprint race, but by the time the parade lap was in progress, a collective sigh of relief descended on Monaco as reports of Perez being conscious and talking in hospital fed across the airwaves. He wouldn’t be racing, but the popular Mexican will be back, hopefully for Canada, and news that he was sitting up and watching the GP2 race that afternoon were heartening, and amusing proof of how obsessed drivers are with their sport. The race itself didn’t quite live up to the Friday stormer, with Pic’s sterling drive from pillar to post edging out Josef Kral, with Romain Grosjean coming home in 3rd to keep up his championship title charge. With another stall on the grid from local boy Stefano Coletti – resplendent in his dinner-suit overalls for the race – there was more precision avoidance, but otherwise little incident barring Chilton’s struggle on wearing tyres giving way to first Filippi then Valsecchi. The result left a cigarette paper between the main contenders – astonishingly the top 5 left the principality separated by 5 points, with Grosjean and Sam Bird tied on 23, race-winner Pic on 22, and Valsecchi and Van Der Garde on 21. GP2 has always been tight, and this weekend was another reason to shout it from the rooftops: get into GP2 if you’re a real racing fan, because it’s motorsport at its finest and most elemental.

Where did everybody go?
Where did everybody go?

No sooner had the race finished, and the quotes been given to David, now speed-working on a deadline with the rest of the GP2 team and journalists covering the race, than the paddock was slowly coming down. It’s amazing that so much is packed into a small space, but if it was full at 15.00, at 18.00 it was almost empty, the tables away, TVs off, teams packing up and staff frantically dismantling the space that’s been my home in Monaco since Thursday morning. It was hard not to feel tinged with sadness at this point. In some ways it’s felt like I’ve been here for a week, with so much crammed into an amazing 4 days, but also with the racing done, it all suddenly feels over too quickly. And yet for me, as a glorified punter (albeit a massive fan) it’s merely the end of a holiday. For the majority of people here, it’s a job, and their hard work and dedication will receive only a short break before they move on to Valencia in four weeks to do it all over again. I get to walk away into the Monaco night, while many of the teams here – either racing or GP2‘s own administration – will still be here long after I’ve sat down with my first beer. It’s easy to forget that while fans watch in the comfort of their own home, the work that goes into a race series is almost never-ending. But it’s a love for motorsport that keeps the wheels turning, and GP2 is no different.

Au revoir, Monaco
Au revoir, Monaco

For me, I head off for a last look round the port, climbing up to the amphitheatre that sits on the corner of the headland below Port Hercule and gazing over the iconic skyline, knowing that I’ve heard my last roaring engines for this year. Some of you may wonder why I’m not staying for the F1, but there’s good reason for that. While I love F1, in fact it was/is my first love, there’s an economy of scale that means many fans will never get to witness an F1 race first hand. In Monaco it’s possible to grab a lofty viewing point above the port, or even a balcony close to the circuit if you’re in with the locals, but for many, grandstands are upward of 200e, or even up to 1500 euros for the top packages, which prices all but the privileged out of the market. As GP2 finishes on Saturday, so too will I, and while I’m sad to be missing the marquee event, I’m not hugely disappointed. I’ve seen all the F1 cars on track twice, and that’s an experience I’ll not forget. It’s just a shame that F1 – as, I guess, befits its glamourous image – is a sport that is only affordably viewed from the sofa. My love for it is undiminished though, even so, but it’s one of the many reasons that GP2 is neck and neck with it. The racing, the teams, the drivers, the atmosphere, seem much more connected to the years that I first fell in love with the F1 circus, and its purer, more unreconstructed racing. When I watch the drivers on the grid in Valencia, I’ll be tinged with happiness and sadness: I’ll know the faces better, feel more closely connected than ever to GP2, but of course, I’ll wish I was there to enjoy it all over again.

The GP2 paddock
The GP2 paddock

The night isn’t quite over though, and tonight is Champion’s League final night. And while I’m English, my loyalties tonight are with Barcelona. Odd? Not really. I’m a Spurs man, so no great lover of the Red Devils, and I’ve spent many many weekends in the Catalan city, be it at the amazing Sonar festival, or staying with friends that live in the city. I’ve even been lucky enough to see them at the Nou Camp, trouncing Getafe with only ten men. I can’t seen United winning, so I’m trying to meet up with Will and David to enjoy a Catalan victory. The location is about as anachronistic as I think you could find in Monaco – The Ship and Castle, perched in the Fontevielle port is a good old English boozer, and I’m sat at a table with a pint of Fosters waiting for the cavalry to arrive. Will makes it, but sadly not David, but what he misses in football, he also misses in annoying chanting from the assembled Reds. “We do what we want, we’re United and we do what we want.” So, that extends to losing to City in the FA Cup then? As it happens, it’s a glorious night for Barcelona fans. Apart from some early scares and a great Rooney equaliser, it’s Barca’s night, the 3-1 scoreline barely doing justice to their domination of the English champions, even if it upsets Alfie, a four year-old in United kit that adopted us for the game. Watching them play is a privilege, and the last pints sank, with GP Week’s Adam Hay-Nicholls also in attendance, are a fitting end to another action-packed day that’s left me well in need of bed.

Vamos Barca!
Vamos Barca!

As I take the train from Monaco’s main station back to Beaulieu for the last time, I try to scan through the events of the last 72 hours, and coming across a bewildering succession of highs. From my broad grin as I descended over the sea to Nice, to my wonder at first sight of the Monaco skyline, wandering the track at Casino, Massanet, Tabac or Rascasse, enjoying beers with Will, Matt, James, Dan and David at Rascasse, hearing the roar of engines start up for the first time, seeing the familiar faces of the GP2 team and being looked after by them as if I was royalty, to the wheel-to-wheel racing of the GP2 drivers, my amazing trips to Stand K on Thursday and Friday, and my heart-fluttering half-hour in the pits on Thursday, plus the odd celeb spot, and mixing it with the drivers in the GP2 paddock, it’s been a whirlwind of petrol-tinged wonder. I’ll be taking back memories aplenty, hundreds of photos, my hallowed GP2 pass, my Jenson cap (not sure pinky-orange is my colour but what the hell) as well as some great times spent with Will, who’s responsible for me getting into GP2 all the way back in 2007, and David, who as well as being my regular city pub-parter in day-job London, is also part of all those memories, plus everyone I’d been lucky enough to meet along the way. I may be up at 7am tomorrow to catch the red-eye back, and be watching the F1 action from David’s sofa in London, scarcely getting my head round all the sights and sounds, knowing I was there less than 5 hours earlier, but this weekend will be with me forever. I can’t wait to bore everyone with it for the next few months. They may grow tired of the tales, but I never will.

Merci, et bonne nuit....
Merci, et bonne nuit....

Thank Monaco it’s Friday

Which way to the race?
Which way to the race?

I felt like I’d slept for a week, despite a good bottle of wine down me and only a shade under 7 hours passed out, but then Monaco seems to bring out the best in me. Today is far more sedate, in fact the most relaxed, racing wise, of all this week. With LCD Soundsystem‘s brilliant This Is Happening soundtracking my journey to the track today (I’ll put thoughts of their break-up to the back of my mind, because nothing can break the good mood I’m in), I feel like I’m walking on air, and just as with the previous two days, like I’m the luckiest guy in Monaco. Maybe that’ll switch to Hamilton or Vettel on Sunday, but until then, the title is mine. Today, with only the Porsche Super Cup qualy first thing, GP2 takes centre stage, with its feature race at 11.15 this morning. The stands are all free today, so there should be a substantial crowd, and compared to the deficit-bashing prices of the weekend, this ‘free’ day is a godsend. David is in good spirits after the birthday celebrations. Will, it turns out, is suffering a little, having downed a few more shandies than planned at the Red Bull party last night. I can’t keep up with these A-listers. The thing is though, come 11am, he’ll be grinning behind the mic alongside Karun Chandok – ex-GP2 and current F1 reserve driver and one of the nicest, most good-natured people you’ll ever meet in the sport – and breezing through commentary as if he’d gone to bed at 10pm, the pair bouncing off each others verbals like childhood best friends. If I had even half his enthusiasm on Monday mornings I’ve be far more productive. To this end, it’s a crime that the GP2 Series isn’t available on free-to-air in the UK, but I can hardly complain this weekend!

While the sun is taking a while to duck out from behind the clouds – no great loss with my pink flesh, conveying all the stereotypical skill of an Englishman abroad, still a little tender from yesterday – the Porsches have already torn through qualifying, and it’s time to go our respective ways: me back to Stand K and David to the pits in time for the start. However mad qualy was yesterday, and I’ve seen less exciting months in F1, there’s no doubt that the one way to get the pulse racing is to get the red lights up for racing. Add the iconic location and I actually have butterflies as I weave through the streets to my perfect viewing spot, sandwiched between St Devote and Tabac. I may be sat amongst nationalities from across Europe and beyond, but we’re all here for one thing: watching state-of-the-art cars throw themselves around one of the most famous circuits in the world. But while I’m glad for the overcast conditions, when drops of rain start peppering the air I suddenly wonder if my friend Andi is about to appear, after his incredible rain-making abilities at Valencia back in 2007, when he was almost responsible for costing Timo Glock the GP2 championship. Thankfully, it’s just a passing shower, and the Andi Hawes voodoo fails to strike again.

GP2 racing at its best
GP2 racing at its best

And in a few minutes, the sun is back out, the drops of rain a mere memory, and the cars are screaming round the track on their parade lap. While qualy and F1 practise was sensational yesterday, seeing the cars ready to do battle proper is another level. I’ve always kept an eye on GP2 over years – as I’ve said before, its lack of free-to-air availability limits me to youtube clips and their well-stocked website – but this year with Monaco in mind I’ve been swotting up, and when you add to any prep work spending 48 hours in and around the race series itself, all of a sudden the names on the grid and the teams and personnel take on added significance. Motorsport in general is, considering its money and exclusivity, an amazingly open sport. Think of F1 grid walks, and even for those in pit and paddocks over racing weekends having access to drivers and teams, and there’s no comparison. You wouldn’t see cameras in the dressing room before a Premiership game in England, nor would you have the camera stuck into the middle of the England Rugby team’s huddle before the game kicks off, and yet motorsport seems to have a great tradition of access to the people that matter the most. For me, being in and around the whole system over the weekend only serves to make the events on the track even more special.

And it’s a great race. While Monaco may not be littered with overtaking, the sheer spectacle of the cars heading round the iconic twists and turns is enough to get the pulse racing. But Monaco is no walk in the park either. The claustrophobic barriers and barely two-car-width straights offer little respite for even the smallest of errors, and this would be in evidence today. The unluckiest man in the field is Englishman Sam Bird. A huge talent, leading the standings coming into Monte Carlo, but his car bogged down as the lights went out, and while he avoided being tagged (watch replays of similar incidents again and see just how lighting-quick drivers reactions are to avoid stationary cars on the grid), while the rest of the field was speeding up to Casino Square, he was limping out of the pits in P26. His race would be far from over though. Davide Valsecchi, of the newly formed Air Asia team of Team Lotus boss Tony Fernandes, streaked away from the field and ended up giving a masterclass of how to handle the idiosyncratic character of the principality. He looked at ease all race, and got to say what many would give a limb to say: “I won in Monaco”, something he has dreamed of all his career.

Race leader Davide Valsecchi
Race leader Davide Valsecchi

I witnessed most of this from the now familiar Stand K, peerage over the back as the cars flew through St Devote at the start, and being surprised to see no one approaching it in mid-air. As the race settled down, I decided to race back to the GP2 paddock. Purists may gasp, but with only a big screen 100m away up Massanet, and no commentary, I struggled for much of the race to see what the order was, and who was making moves. In an era where there’s HD tv, online coverage, blogs, twitter and multiple commentary, sitting in a stand gets the adrenaline pumping, but leaves you bereft of where the cars shake down, and much as I feel like a philistine for doing it, I race away through the blistering sunshine back round the corner to the paddock. I arrive with 15 laps of 42 to go, astonished to see that 7 cars have retired in the 15 minutes since I ducked under the track. Perhaps I’m cursed, as while I’ve been on foot, Romain Grosjean’s cut a swathe through the field to be P4, and Sam Bird, from flat last, is now dicing with his team mate for 9th. And, as predicted, calling the events is a refreshed Will and Karun, sounding for all things like they’re chatting over a crisp beer, jousting with each other like best mates. I could listen to them commentate on tiddlywinks. Once again, while I love F1, there’s something gloriously laid-back and inclusive about its little brother. Will even appears for a post-race lunch, looking jaded, but still with more energy than I can muster at work in the week. I don’t know how he does it.

THIS is what you call close to the action
THIS is what you call close to the action

In the end, the race is more than eventful, with safety cars aplenty in midfield, while the top three of Valsecchi, Parente and Fillipi cruise to a comfortable podium, iSport’s Bird and Ericsson seem to get into a tit-for-tat ding-dong that starts with Bird budging his team-mate into the wall at Noghes, and ends with both retiring as Ericsson’s rear wing gives way at speed coming to the chicane, and Bird’s tyre punctures. Either way, the team meeting will be interesting this afternoon, and two drivers will see the dreaded DNF against their name. The series may lack the glamour of F1 but no one can accuse it of coming second in terms of competitiveness. These guys know that  good win and a strong championship and they could be in the big show next year, and it’s a golden carrot dangled tantalisingly in front of the grid every year. And, breathlessly, in 24 hours, we’ll be doing this all over again. It’s a relentless weekend, and I’m caught up in it helplessly. And the more time I spend here, in Monaco, but more pointedly, with the GP2 circus, the more I wish I was around it every race. You get to feel part of the action, and that’s addictive in the extreme.

Who let this lot in?
Who let this lot in?

In Monaco, you’re never short of a bit of glitter, even if you are parked round the corner from Port Hercule. During the GP2 race as I rush back to the paddock, I pass a couple of familiar looking middle-aged men in fairly uncool denim and shirts talking at the entrance to the car park. On second glance, when I get up top, it’s Jeremy Clarkson and James May (I recognise that bald patch and Wurzel Gummidge hair anywhere) from Top Gear. Lord knows what they’re doing, but it’s no surprise they’re here, no doubt about to squeeze their expanding waistlines into some shiny sports car and drive around Casino Square insulting the locals. Ho hum. I know I’m in a minority but I grew out of Top Gear years ago. It’s like the Daily Mail on wheels, so count me out. Strangely, there’s no sign of Richard Hammond though. Maybe he was behind one of the bollards. Or a hub cap. We’re also buzzed by a helicopter, that hovers around the building for a good half hour over the sea. There’s a jet-ski, and boats aplenty in the sea, so maybe it’s a rescue, but it’s not clear until we zoom in that none other than Prince Albert at the centre of the flotilla. We never quite work out what’s going on, though scuba diving appears to be involved. But when you rule the Principality, if want to head out for a spot of sea air in the afternoon then who are we to argue? In Monaco after a while, nothing seems strange. That’s the beauty, and the wonder, of the place.

The Crown Prince
The Crown Prince

Being a half day, it’s late afternoon when the dust settles, driver interviews complete, and the hubbub dies down (until the stewards do their work) – refreshing, as last night we left the paddock at gone 9 – but as ever behind the scenes no rest is really taken if you’re one of the army of support staff here, be it caterers, production, administration, not to mention all the teams, mechanics and everyone else. At 5pm it may be quiet in the paddock but the GP2 team are still hard at work, and I’m anticipating another top-notch blog from David. Beers will be richly deserved tonight. But sitting here, looking over the sea outside the marina in Monaco as the sun gets lower in the sky, part of me is more than happy to watch it all go by. I’m sure many motor racing fans in Monaco are heading home to get their gladrags on, or sitting in one of the hundreds of cafes thinking about F1’s big boys tomorrow. For me, THIS is where it’s at.

Nando v Racing Engineering
Nando v Racing Engineering

Walking back to Rascasse with David for a cold one, we pass two joggers, and I almost miss the fact that the smaller one is Fernando Alonso, taking the chance to get some laps in under the golden skies before the big weekend. As we’re in Avenue de la Quarantine, he must’ve run straight past the massive banners with his face on. I wonder what he’d have made of the huge one next to him for Racing Engineering, cheering on Dani Clos and Alvaro Parente. It was almost as big as his. Maybe next year it’ll be bigger. Rascasse is its usual packed with the full spectrum of fans, teams, hangers-on and randoms. It’s something to just stop, look, chuckle, and wonder at the whole cross-section of motor-racing faithful mixing in one place. So many people are sporting over-glamorous garb; understatement doesn’t seem to be a term that’s well abided by here, but that makes it all the more entertaining. A band starts up as David and I wait for Will to arrive, and it’s fair to say they’re not going to be memorable for musical reasons. Murdering a series of ‘big hits’ – starting with Coldplay’s The Scientist, and further maiming the likes of With Of Without You, and even Radiohead – it actually becomes a fantastic game of spot the intro, often proving wrong as the song that’s played sounds only vaguely similar to the original. The singer’s interesting inflection – I love a good song when English isn’t the singer’s first language, it’s why Eurovision is so classic – is intriguing, so when Will turns up with motor racing photo whizz Matt, we spend a fantastic half hour extolling our music tastes, good, and bad, and getting misty-eyed about the golden days of Britpop. What I’d do for a bit of Bluetones now.

Rascasse reunion time
Rascasse reunion time

We leave the fun after a quick couple before things get too shifty, as next stop is back to Beaulieu for dinner with the GP2 team. Unfortunately we keep them waiting longer than planned when we narrowly miss our train but all seems to be forgiven as we settle down at Le Max in the marina in Beaulieu. It’s one of a small boulevard of restaurants that cluster along the waterfront, and just down from where David and I enjoyed a birthday drink the night before, and it’s a nice arena of calm after Monaco’s daily bluster. I’m very lucky to have been invited along for dinner, treated as I have been throughout this trip as a grateful guest of the GP2 crew, and once again, just as I was in Bahrain and Valencia in 2007, I’m overwhelmed by their hospitality. I could just as easily be heading off for a bite, but I’m ushered along and made to feel part of the family. The food is good, as is the conversation with Alexa, Tony, David and Didier and his wife, with my attempts to speak faltering French to her taken with patience and good grace! I may have spoken it fluently as a child and teenager, but I still struggle to find the correct words, even after a few glasses of vin rouge to lubricate the vocal chords. It’s frustrating, but it’s better to try I always feel, even if the end results are a bit of a mess! As we head back for the night, I reflect on another brilliant day and look forward to rest before the GP2 Sprint race, F1 Qualy and the business end of the weekend tomorrow. I’m tired, but, as I have been all week so far, elated.

The King of Pap…

Skeletor.... I mean Michael Jackson

It’s with a bit of a heavy heart that much of the music world greeted the news of Michael Jackson’s series of concerts at the o2 this July (and, after ‘massive demand’ more in August). While it’s undeniable that, in his 70s and 80s pomp, there may not have been a better performer on the planet, since Bad, his career, and his life, have been one slow, painful descent into the abyss. Albums retreating further and further into schmaltz and saccharine pop, a shadow of his former self, and that was the good news. Sexual abuse allegations, failing health, baby dangling. It was a car crash that you couldn’t even bear to look at.

So, you have to ask the question: are we flocking to see him instigate a career renaissance, or to laugh at the freakshow? It’s no secret that, while this is billed as a gift to his many UK fans, The King of Pop is broke, so this is as much to probably pay his tax bill as much as give his die-hard (and probably blinkered) fans one last chance to see him. Compare it to Prince and it’s not hard to see where the pathos is heading.

Mind you, it could be worse. You could have to sit through U2’s latest album.

Cheryl Cole, every woman’s style idol

Cheryl Cole Kate Moss

Or so she should be, if the Observer Woman monthly is anything to go by. In its awards leader this weekend, it selected the Girls Aloud star as its Icon of the Year. For those that are, like myself, aware of her standing in showbiz, her mentor/judge role on X-Factor (something I admit I don’t really give a lot of my weekend to), as well as her marriage to that shining advert for the modern football player Ashely Cole, this may seem a little confusing. Now, yes, this is a style award, and it’s arguable that she has come on leaps since her early chavved-up casual wear days, but seriously….? There’s hundreds of far more stylish, and more elegant women around, or is this really a transformation award? Maybe I’m just missing the point, (and let’s be fair, the supplement is hardly aimed at me) but exclaiming that “No one pulls off a pocketed fuchsia minidress on primetime TV better than Cheryl” leaves me mystified (they gave the overhyped and bland American Apparel its label of the year – one that’s worshipped by such luminaries as Johnny ‘you’re not Jim Morrison’ Borrell and run by that friend of females everywhere, Dov Charney, so god knows…) Maybe old-fashioned grace, understated style and classic design just don’t cut it any more. Maybe I’m just a dinosaur… but I’ll take the effortless Moss of over Cheryl in the style stakes every time. Isn’t that boring and predictable eh?