Jimmyz Night Club in Monte Carlo

When it came to finding an after party, the Italians led the charge by drunkenly jumping into their minibus and driving dangerously to a night club several miles away called Jimmyz. They took a Dutch girl with them and for this reason both the Dutch and UK teams (or at least the UK boys) were motivated to follow (romance is not yet dead). After walking a very long way we all got to Jimmyz on foot and didn’t appear to be dressed right. The set was like one out of James Bond and I felt that my knee length dress was about a metre too short. Thankfully there was a separate night club downstairs for us plebs. However, we’d overlooked the Italian’s terrible taste in music; the club’s only redeeming feature was the free cloakroom and I felt inclined to leave (along with the other girls - the boys were staying. Their work was not yet done). This part actually worked rather well because we were mistaken for upper class guests attending (as luck would have it) a conference hosted by a car hire company and so our ride back home was free.

There was no sailing the next day due to lack of wind. The Dutch were happy because it meant they won; the Italians not so much because they were cheated out of running finals, which they might have won.

I see this as Karma. And this happy ending concludes the #ClareInMonaco series.

For the full story:

1. We went to the Russian Christmas market for ice go karting...
2. ...then went for a night out in which we found 100 euros on the floor...
3. ...a funny  old man was encountered...
4. ...not everyone made it home...
5. ...Then we had another night out in which we worked hard to further the UK's international relations...
6. ...secret Santa happened after dinner. Dutch style...
7. ...and that brings us on to the after party.

If anyone's interested in hearing what happened with the Dutch girls...well I'm not entirely sure, but I can tell you that there was a kiss at the airport and they stayed in touch. Aww.

They say international athletes bond at sporting events. Now we know why.

The first surprising thing about Monaco is that it is built on an incredibly steep slope. From the marina you can see right to the edge of the city simply because everything is built on top of each other. This was to prove a challenge to the ladies on our second evening there because we were required to get dressed up in black tie and that requires high heels. We tackled this problem in a pragmatic manner and carried spare pairs of shoes instead of handbags.

All eight international teams assembled in the yacht club de Monaco. Our boys had disrupted the seating plan so as to have as many Dutch girls on our team table as possible. The rest of us played a minor role in match making and the more we drank the more ambitious we got. We started with simple actions like suggesting that all the ladies moved 2 seats to their right before pudding (thereby ensuring that the right people were sat next to each other). Then when free wine had been liberally served to everyone present, the pudding arrived and turned out to be a variation on fruit salad, some people weren’t interested in eating it and so the game of passing a 2-inch slice of banana around the table from mouth to mouth was instigated. You might think, as I did, that this would never catch on, but the initiator of the game was sat right next to the wannabe couple and so uptake was alarmingly strong. By the time 3 people had done it no one else had an excuse not to join in. Watching people with a banana poking out of their mouth seemed funny but we did get it round the circle without any compromising incidents. No sooner had I breathed a sigh of relief then, to my horror, our instigator picket up a floppy bit of mango and declared a new round. Would the Dutch girl go for it? Why yes she would. The wannabe couple found it very easy to do this but everyone else had more in the way of personal space issues. By the time the mango got half way round to me, my stomach muscles were exhausted from laughing at them all in their awkward efforts to transfer the mango from one to another. My moment in the spotlight came of course. I found it a moderately sobering one. I was faced with a grinning Dutchman, with a beard and a piece of limp mango dangling from his teeth at significantly closer proximity than you’d ever expect to see such a sight. There’s really nothing to be done but to dart in and get the metaphorical hot potato moving on as fast as possible.

After the meal and a few other formalities, the evening’s entertainment was announced: Karaoke. This was something that no one felt inebriated enough to do, which is funny considering they felt ready to pass a mango around between them. It did eventually get off the ground though in rather a spectacular fashion as the Dutch girls were coaxed onto the floor, seated comfortably on chairs and then made distinctly uncomfortable when the British boys, clutching microphones (and lunging wildly), energetically serenaded with 'you've lost that loving feeling' in an admirable recreation of that famous Top Gun scene. Unfortunately I'm not sure the girls got the reference.

When the party ended, no one wanted to go home (I think it’s because a night never feels complete until there’s been dancing. Singing doesn't count) and for that reason I’ll have to put together one final post to explain how it all ended.

#ClareInMonaco

It's a city on a very steep hill

Hungover like a Monegasque tourist

The morning after the night before, Monaco was cold, full of rain and we were tired. We were made painfully aware of the fact that we were primarily in the town to compete in a sailing competition, when our alarms went off promptly at 8am. The girls were lacklustre, but the boys even more so as they had all woken up in our hotel, without a beautiful international sailor in sight.

Having said that, our team was in a better state than some, as three competitors had been arrested the night before. It sounds like a cliché but an Englishman, an Irishman and an Italian walked out of the bar (told you it sounded clichéd), they had been distracted by some bikes and [allegedly] decided to steal one. Unfortunately the bikes had been parked outside a police station and while their drunk efforts were not strong enough to prosecute them for bike theft the 3 amigos were extremely surprised to learn that it is a criminal offence to be drunk on the streets of Monaco and so they were promptly locked up until such time as they were fit to go free.

This was considered highly entertaining by those who made it safely had to the Marina the next day (particularly those who still had a full team of sailors). We soon saw the Italian girl safe, well and (more importantly) sober but the Irishman didn't appear until 4pm! He was obscenely grumpy at this stage. This is largely because it transpires that police hospitality does not extend to feeding their short term guests. Even basic provisions like toilet roll and water are only given on request.

Sailing did not go well for us that day. It rained torrentially and I couldn't help thinking (while shivering violently) that I might prefer to be in the UK. With a sedentary hobby (board games might be nice). Indoors.

It might sound like this would be a good place to end this sequence of stories from Monaco – everyone has learnt a valuable lesson and is ready to go home. However, what we really needed was to get a grip!!! This was a 3-day event and we were only half way through.

#ClareInMonaco

The old man of Monaco

The band in the club played covers of other peoples’ songs and did so incredibly well. It all started with Avichi and we were reassured from that point forwards. At one point I realised that the guitarist was playing his instrument behind his head. It amazed me as I’ve never seen this done anywhere more proximal than youtube before but this chap was lose enough to touch. Despite the expensive drinks, Monaco wasn't all bad.
However, the real star of the show (beyond the Dutch guy upstaging the band by standing in front of them and with his truly epic air guitar) was an elderly man who seemed to be by himself. He was probably about 75 years old and was tearing up the dancefloor. When it came to getting low he was just as able as I was! Dressed in a shirt and tie, I couldn't work out if he was a rich tax evader or a cute old granddad. I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt and humoured him but in hindsight I think he probably had a bit of cash to burn as you can’t get hip, joint and knee replacements like that on the NHS!

#ClareInMonaco

Welcome to Monaco

Our big night out in Monaco got off to a bit of a false start, when we wondered into a Russian themed marquee full of line dancing bingoplayers by mistake. Our next choice of party was much better, not least because the Dutch team were there and our boys took an instant liking to the Dutch girls. It’s probably worth explaining at this point that we were primarily in Monaco for a sailing competition, where there were 8 international teams of 8 sailors, each composed of 4 men, 4 women.

Meanwhile, us English girls were entertaining ourselves on an empty dance floor by seeing how high we could kick. This predictably ended up in one of us falling over as the floor was covered in a good deal of highly slippery confetti. As we bent to pick her up, Jenny spotted a 100 euro note on the floor. I've never seen a €100 note before in my life and in Monaco they have them just lying around!

This discovery was presently reinvested in a round of drinks for us all (well, the 6 of us that were present). We only got €24 change for this and so politely explained to the barman that there’d been a mistake, perhaps he hadn't realised we’d given him a hundred euros (after all, we probably don’t look like the sort to be in possession of one).  He gave us an apologetic smile and turned to the till as if to get more change, then with a grin and a flourish, whirled round, produced the receipt, (confirming that 6 drinks had indeed cost €76) and said “Welcome to Monaco!”

#ClareInMonaco

Sinterklaas is coming to town

First of all, let me set the scene. A couple of weekends ago I was in Monaco for a sailing competition (which I’ll admit is not as glamorous as it sounds) and we were all gathered for a black tie dinner on the Saturday night (also not as glamorous as it sounds, I’ll justify this in a future blog post one day). There were eight international teams there (each made up of 8 people: 4 males, 4 females) and it was early December, which as I was soon to learn, is coincidentally when the Dutch celebrate Christmas.

I was alerted to the fact that it was time for the secret Santa, just after dinner, when a handful of gingerbread flew through the air and hit me in the eye. It had been thrown by a very tall elf. I was surprised then to catch sight of ‘Sinterklaas’ and realised he was to be joining us. Visually he looked like a cross between Santa and a cardinal, with a little more emphasis on the latter. He was also very tall, spoke with a Dutch accent and when his hat fell off, which it did regularly (due to the quantity of wine consumed), you could see blond hair underneath.

The Dutch team tried to explain to us who this fellow was. Apparently in Holland they have this chap who visits all the good boys and girls on the first weekend of December. In the past it was said that he removed naughty children in his sack, but now he’s more inclined to use the sack to bring presents to well behave ones. He is an arch rival of Santa Claus and they have a fight the following day after which Sinterklaas goes back to his house in Spain…or something like that*. No one was very sober at the time and so I thought the explanation might make more sense the following day. It didn’t.

Apparently in Holland they don’t really go in for present giving, they focus more on the writing and giving of poems and so this is what we all had to do. A secret Santa of poem giving. Some of the poems were great, some were terrible and some teams technically had the distinct advantage that they had a member locked in jail for part of the day who were therefore able to apply themselves fully to the task of poetry writing. Nevertheless, the most awful poet was Eddie who introduced his masterpiece with the melodramatic explanation that he’d written it during his “incarceration” and then he proceeded to read out the shortest and least sensical poem of the lot while the opportunistically formed Free Eddie Party heckled throughout with drunken shouts of “Free Eddie!” (It was apparently much more satisfying shouting this now there was the man himself to shout it at). Once the poem was finished, it was loudly remarked that, after a day behind bars, he should have come up with something better.

Over on the UK team, we had drawn Rome in the secret Santa and had also struggled to write our poem. When it was our turn to send a representative to go and sit on Sinterklaas’ knee (good old Benjie) we explained that it would be an ‘interactive poem’ and was to require audience participation. It was also the type of poem that had a repetitive theme. I was impressed at the way Benjie sold it. The Rome team would be required to come to the front and the name of the poem was ‘I have never’…you may be familiar with it. It went down a storm.





* For anyone interested in finding out about Sinterklaas through a less confused lens. Here's a link to a well explained page. It does not however explain the fight between him and Santa Claus. I have yet to get to the bottom of that!

Also if you're interested in seeing the full story of that Monaco trip, it's accumulating here #ClareInMonaco

This is how Russians celebrate Christmas in Monaco. Apparently

First off I'd better explain the reason for the sudden drop in the quality of picture - my phone smashed today when I dropped it on the ground and the protective cover flew off. I feel a bit nervous about using it in case I get shards of glass in my fingers (it's not a clean break at all) but did risk it in order to photograph this doodle. As you can see, even the camera is not happy!

This is to be my first Chirstmassy post, inspired a couple of weekends ago when I was in Monaco with a team of 7 other Brits for a sailing competition (it isn't half as glamorous as it sounds but you’ll have to take my word for it). One of the highlights of the event was being able to explore the city in the evening. In particular, at the centre of town there is currently a fantastic Russian Christmas market, which we liked.

So many Russian dolls

All in all I'd say that Russian markets don’t feel that different to German ones only there are Russian dolls everywhere and very few tourists. It’s hard to be sure if the dolls are there due to the Russian influence or because that is what the Monegasques think defines Russia. What is for sure though is that the wicked tartiflette (basically potato, bacon and cheese cooked together and then grilled with yet more slabs of thick cheese melted generously on top) which we all had for dinner was almost certainly very French, although I expect it will soon be adapted as the national dish of Scotland. At least the for the cosmopolitan folk. It was gorgeous in a slightly guilt ridden way.

The star of the fair was the ice go carting. After walking the same streets as the F1 drivers during the day we were keen to get behind the wheel ourselves. It was an experience that did not disappoint. Just like when you drive on icy roads, the go karts have no grip on the track. The really fun thing about it is the way in which you spin out at corners. If you’re particularly unlucky you’ll find you’re than in everyone else’s way, maybe facing the direction of ongoing traffic (which is slightly more alarming because then you can see how much of a nuisance you’re being!). There is nothing to be done at a time like this but laugh. I think my helmet may have muffled me as I spent about 50% of my time laughing. I eventually worked out that the trick to a faster lap time is to drive slower and spin off at fewer corners. This is a bit of a boring lesson, so once it was established I returned to practice my my 'tail spin'. I’m happy to say I never did learn to get this under control and so it remained fun.

Ice Go Karting

After a few mulled wines on the trackside (because that’s probably a classic Russian tradition) we were ready to find a party and so followed some music we could hear playing to a marquee (I was by now clutching a chocolate coated banana, (another great Russian Christmas classic, probably) not because I was hungry but because I wanted to find out what it tasted like. It was delicious but I found it very difficult to eat because my teammates were so amused by its phallic appearance that I was only prepared to put it in my mouth when no one was looking, which wasn't very often since there were 8 of us in the team.) Anyway, as I was tantalised by this wretched banana that I couldn't eat, the rest of the team were intent on experiencing the Monacan night life. As mentioned, we had followed the sound of music to a big marquee. We trouped inside (me still clutching my banana) and were somewhat aghast to find a bingo hall with 4 middle aged people line dancing on stage wearing cowboy hats. It’s a very foolish looking person that can’t find a party in Monaco! With this top of mind we very quickly set out to leave the Russian market and all those Russian bingo-playing line dancers, to find a proper night club in the good old town (with very little banana left - what a good distraction!). 

A party such as that which followed deserves a blog post in it's own right. In fact, the whole trip probably deserves a series of posts in it's own right. I will therefore endeavour to bring you the stories of this trip to Monaco in it's entirety before the new year (potentially even upgrading the picture quality at some point) using #ClareInMonaco to tie it all together.