My Monaco Grand Prix - sheer desperation

Excerpt from my autobiography ‘Flat Out Flat Broke’ Chapter 12, page 185 - 188

... At last I got my wish. I did eight laps but then I pulled in with a differential fault. Roberto and I again failed to prequalify, but at least this time I had attempted to put the car through its paces. However, if I thought the fast and flowing corners of Imola had been an experience, then the next venue, to a newcomer in a tricky car, was nothing short of frightening.

The Monaco Grand Prix is the jewel in the World Championship crown, but maybe it should be called the eye of the needle because although the circuit is beautiful, it’s difficult and hard to get around; just like Karen. Now, I don’t want to become a bore on this subject, but leading up to the race, our money dramas were as bad as ever. While the other drivers were busy skiing or testing, or doing all the things F1 drivers should be doing, I had to find a way of financing my trip to Monte Carlo and to make matters worse, I had promised to take Karen with me. It was, in fact, the promise I’d made to her after Fred had called to tell me Andrea Moda had accepted me. To be precise, it was the promise I’d made after I’d drunk two bottles of wine following Fred’s call. KJ’s power of recall in such situations is dazzling and so is her ability to remember and randomly mention just about anything I’d ever done wrong. So the deal was done and she was coming.

The deal however proved easier than expected when I called a friend of mine, Gary Howell, who was involved with the motor racing tour operator Chequers Travel. He suggested that if I acted as a courier on their behalf at Gatwick Airport and gave a speech to their group during the race weekend, then he’d provide our flights and accommodation. I’d already done a similar thing to pay for Imola (with an American company called Grand Prix Tours), so I agreed. A week later, I was standing around the check-in area at Gatwick, wearing my Chequers Travel badge and handing out tickets. I was busy greeting about 50 different people who needed a little direction and my patter went something like this: ‘Mr and Mrs Brown? Yes! Good morning. Here are your tickets. Please check in here and then go through to the departure lounge and make your way to Gate 15 where the flight will be leaving in one hour.’ Not one of them had the faintest clue why I was really there. However, during my little performance, one middle-aged lady politely asked if I was going with them. ‘Oh yes, madam. I have to be there,’ I smiled. ‘Why’s that, then?’ she enquired. ‘Well, I’m one of the grand prix drivers.’ Her eyes lit up: ‘Oooh! Do you all do this?’ ‘Absolutely, madam. Nigel Mansell’s just over there with Page & Moy!’ Karen and I looked at each other and grinned. Sure, this whole situation wasn’t ideal and, yes, our home problems were a nightmare, but we had to remember what it was all about. We’d held on and come through, and even though Andrea Moda was turning out to be a nightmare, we still had a chance. But more to the point, our journey so far had been an adventure and it was important to try to live it, to enjoy the moment and grab a laugh whenever or wherever it presented itself. No matter what my Italians had in store for me, I was determined that Karen would have a great weekend and forget about home, debt and reality for at least the next few days.

We landed in Nice and joined our group of enthusiasts on a coach for the 40-minute journey to Monaco. I love a captive audience and, en route, told our party a string of jokes and motor racing stories. By the time we arrived, nobody was left in any doubt that I did more than hand out tickets. In fact, just about one hour later in the hotel, I talked one of them into sponsoring me for a few pounds in exchange for a small sticker on my crash helmet, and this provided our spending money. Karen joined me as I walked around the circuit, mingled among the super-rich, breezed past the yachts in the harbour and then... tried to work out just what the hell we were doing there. Unfortunately, I had the same feeling after qualifying. My efforts lasted a total of three laps, during which I had scared the hell out of myself. The team still hadn’t made a proper seat for me, so I had taken a beating inside the cockpit but I kept my foot down and desperately tried to remember where the next corner was. I knew the tunnel was taken flat because I’d seen it on TV, so I did just that. I took it flat out on my first lap but as I came back into daylight at 170mph, I was being bounced around so badly, I had double vision and I vividly remember speeding downhill toward the tyre barrier wondering if I should turn left or right. Anyway, I was called back to the pits and that was my run for the day. Three bloody laps! I was beginning to feel like I was on some new kind of Chequers Travel deal, a kind of Gold Class option for clients: ‘Fly with us to Monaco. Stay with us in a top hotel. Eat with us in nice restaurants. Then, following breakfast, drive three laps of the circuit in an out- of-date Formula One car and then watch the race from your room ... yours for ￡900.’ However, a miracle was about to happen because Roberto had an uninterrupted session and he brilliantly qualified for the race. I was delighted. I hoped this would mean that in future the team would run two cars correctly and give me a proper opportunity. Well, I could hope... I shrugged off my latest non-qualification and joined Ayrton Senna, Nigel Mansell, Michael Schumacher and the rest of the drivers for a group photo shoot. It felt good standing as part of this elite gang and it was like a school photograph: ‘The class of ’92’. Okay, maybe I was the class mascot. Then I took Karen over to a local café where I gave a speech to the Chequers Travel crowd. They were a great bunch of people and afterwards, we joined a couple of guys who looked like fun. They were. Graeme Sutton and Mark Callahan turned out to be terrific characters and we became instant friends. In fact, we got on so well that Graeme offered to sponsor me to the tune of ￡10,000. So another chance deal was done.

......... The trip had definitely shown signs of progress and, in the small principality of Monaco, Karen and I continued to have a good time. During the day, Eric Silberman and his colleagues at Honda made a fuss of KJ with their superb paddock hospitality, which we both greatly appreciated, and in the evenings we met with friends who included my fellow non-qualifier Damon Hill and his wife Georgie. For race day, however, we were invited to Ted Ball’s suite in the Hotel de Paris. From a balcony overlooking the famous Casino Square, we watched Ayrton Senna lead. We drank champagne and then travelled back home, where we successfully delayed the repossession of our house until September.

Available on Amazon Kindle

https://www.perrymccarthy.co.uk/autobiography-book