Dodgy Business

Monte Carlo saw the 2008 debut for the motorhome I use in conjunction with fellow hacks Mark Hughes and Simon Arron for a proportion of the European GPs.

It was all a bit 11th hour this year. There'd been a lot going on at home and I must confess to falling out with 'the bus' a little when a relay packed in on the way back from Monza last year. It suddenly refused to tick across from petrol to LPG. Milan to Southport on petrol with a V10 probably cost about the same as renting a Lear jet for a season.

Anyway, it breezed through the MOT and after an LPG service and a boat across the Channel, Mark and I started the long schlepp to the south of France.

En route I lifted the hood to check the oil. No problem there, but the battery was spitting like a cat whose tail you've just trodden on. Being maintenance-free, I couldn't be accused of not having maintained it.

"What chances of that going another 350 miles?" I murmured.

Monte Carlo © LAT

Not good, Mark reckoned, as he came off the blower to a mechanic mate.

"He reckons it's either the battery itself or the alternator overcharging it. They do that when they're on the way out, apparently. He reckons it's 50/50 whether we get there."

To a born optimist 50/50's as good as a done deal, so I carried on unconcerned and, of course, we got there. But I did have to factor in that the wife and kids were due into Nice the day after the race and that we were having a holiday before leaving the motorhome at Port Grimaud due to the inconvenience of the Canadian GP.

After that it's a return to France for me and a drive up to Magny Cours. Which, of course, is hardly just around the corner. Best get the battery sorted ...

In the press room we were relating our mechanical problem to the Irish mafia, aka Setanta's F1 crew - David Kennedy, Gary Anderson and Declan Quigley. 'The paddys' as we call them, are great value, and always come with a story or ten and, obviously, no bullshit.

"The battery will either just pack in and everything will go off or, if you're unlucky, it'll explode," said Gary, "which will make a bit of a mess of the things around it ..."

Of course, David being David, "knew someone." Kennedy has a lovely villa up in the hills above Vence, with a pool, a tennis court and, more importantly, an English-speaking electrician!

Friday is a day off in Monaco. Well at least that's the theory but it never seems to work out that way. Mine was spent going to meet David's man, Dominic, who kindly led the way down some of the narrowest roads in existence until we arrived at a friendly garage, which quickly established that it was the battery itself and not the alternator.

Of course, he didn't have a replacement sat there on the shelf but he would have one by 4:30 the same day and you couldn't say fairer than that. He did too. Proper service!

I therefore spent the afternoon wandering around Vence, looking in various Immobilieres and wondering why I was still living in England. Particularly when some moron is talking about carbon credit cards. Not great when you're driving around with a 6.8-litre Ford, you're flying to the rest of the GPs, and you're skint.

While I sat there with a paper and an espresso, the mobile beeped with a message from the lads. Bruno Senna had just won the GP2 race and the paddys had invited us to a barbie at Kennedy's villa that night.

Due to anticipated alcohol consumption it was thought appropriate that I leave the motorhome in a lay-by near DK's villa so that we could kip in it and head to the track in the hire car on Saturday morning.

Gary Anderson © LAT

Kennedy kindly arrived to lead the way and pointed out said lay-by. But, motorhomes can get broken into, as I know only too well and, better than the lay-by DK reckoned, was a field just above his villa where we could stay the rest of the weekend.

I thought I'd already been down the narrowest roads in existence but I soon found out I hadn't ... There were a couple of downhill hairpins that made Loews Hairpin look like Blanchimont and I finally made it into the Kennedys' field after David had removed a few flowerpots.

There was a round of applause. They hadn't figured much on the chances of getting a motorhome down there. As Mr Hughes said, mix an over-optimistic geordie with an enthusiastic paddy (despite being in his early 50s Kennedy is still very much a livewire - and we're not just talking about his hair!) and you very much wonder what'll happen next ...

I felt quite pleased with myself until Gary, ever the pragmatist, pointed out it was going to be a whole different ball game getting out again because with the rear overhang I was going to ground out while going uphill. He'd give me 50/50 ...

It was just then that the mobile rang and it my wife.

"I've got to get up at 4am on Monday to get the Nice flight," she said, "so the kids are going to get a bit tired and crabby. That site you're on is right next to Marineland, so how about we take them straight there for the day and then get them to bed early?"

Oops.

"Well, pet, we're not actually there anymore. We're in David Kennedy's field halfway up a mountain. And, er, it might not be the work of a moment getting out again."

"You're where? Why?" Etcetera ...

But that was Monday's problem. It was now Friday night and the stories were flowing.

Gary was busy explaining that Monte Carlo weekend is way less riotous than it used to be. Back in the late 70s, in the days when everyone still used to congregate at Rosie's bar and spill out on the pavement in the small hours, things used to get a bit out of control.

Anyone in a Fiat 500, for instance, was in big trouble. Mechanics used to block the road, pick up each corner and put the car back down on four chairs.

In his McLaren mechanic days, pre-Ron Dennis, Gary had set off late with a car full of mates, for the hotel. Finding the road blocked with traffic at Mirabeau, he'd done a handbrake turn and come back up the hill. Which didn't impress a Monagasque policeman, on his shiny motorbike.

Police in Monte Carlo © LAT

While Anderson was being admonished, the guys in the back were leaning out of the window pulling off plug leads and sundry wiring. When Gary and the boys drove off, Mr Plod didn't ...

The very next night, the boys, in two cars now, were having a bit of a dice along the harbour front and through the swimming pool section. Unfortunately, coming in the opposite direction was Mr Plod, who had to take avoiding action. His bike stayed trackside but Mr Plod ended up in the water ...

Serious plod then arrived with a riot van and took a rather dim view. There ensued an uncomfortable journey chez Plod, whose HQ was only 300m away, up a road off the front straight. "It felt a lot further ..." Gary smiled.

Unfortunately for Anderson, Plod who got wet was the same Plod who had the leads pulled off his bike. By now he was a tad fed up and he recognised Gary from the previous evening. The rest of the McLaren boys were released but Anderson spent the night in the slammer and started to get a bit concerned when he heard the engines warming up as 9am Saturday fast approached.

Down in the pits, Teddy Mayer was looking for his senior mechanic and the lads were covering up.

"Er, he's down at Goodyear."

"No, he's in the loo, feels a bit queasy ..." Etcetera. Meanwhile, Marlboro sponsorship guru John Hogan was sent to the station with some team kit. He managed to get Gary sprung and Anderson quickly ran down the street, across the track, hopped the pit wall and was back on duty. With just a couple of shiners to show for the night ...

"It was quite funny," he says, "Wattie, an Irishman, was all very serious and po-faced about it and thought it very unprofessional, but Patrick Tambay, a Frenchman, thought it was hilarious. Teddy was okay with it, which is just as well considering I couldn't have done much about either incident ..."

In hindsight it was a brave effort by the police. I wouldn't attack Gary Anderson with a Kalashnikov never mind a truncheon ...

Thirty years on, with technical directorships of Jordan, Stewart GP and Jaguar behind him, Anderson now enjoys his Irish TV work and is a much appreciated member of the Autosport team for his technical insight.

As well as that, he's the kind of bloke you want on your side whether you're in a dodgy bar, trying to fix a race car or building a house. The kind of bloke who can do most things. Which is why, for the first time, I worried about those 50/50 odds. Gary's not the kind of guy who says that things can't be done.

Monday started badly. Mark's passport was still hostage at the site we should have been on. The office didn't open until 8:30am. He was flying at 11am. My wife was arriving at 10:20am on the same plane he was leaving on. The roads from Antibes to Nice threatened to be busy. It was Monday morning after the GP and the Cannes film festival. We finished work at 2am and were back up four hours later.

Mark Hughes © LAT

"In case of emergency, contact the house," it said on the site office door.

We decided it was an emergency. Madame did not agree. She went potty. Mark had told her he was flying at 10am and she saw no good reason why he needed his passport at 7:45am. She grabbed his arm and started pointing at his watch.

Mark, a calm soul, carried on wearing his unperturbed look. Even Simon, who speaks great French and generally likes to wobble his shoulders, speak in staccato bursts and imitate French people a lot, didn't fancy taking on this one.

"Je suis desole!" she kept repeating.

"Good job you didn't tell her your flight's at 11am ..." I whispered.

The day got better. The kids thought the Kennedy's hospitality and swimming pool was fantastic and Marineland is on the agenda once I've pressed the 'send' button. Never a dull moment!