From Boksburg to bubbly in Monaco — I’m ready this time
Ifirst heard a car talk on the road from Nice to Monaco. It was a Mercedes, a 500something, I think. It drove like a whisper and spoke in French. I now know it was the GPS doing the talking, but back then I was a country bumpkin from Boksburg who bought MapStudio guides to navigate my way around.
We were rolling into Monaco for the 2001 Laureus World Sports Awards, the second edition of the event. On Tuesday, the awards will return to Monaco for its 18th ceremony — two whirlwind days of celebration, interviews and shameless name-dropping. Which is exactly what this column will consist of.
Oh, I know the awards are just the big show and Laureus do very important work in communities around the world through their Sport for Good foundation, but the ceremony shines a light on the foundation’s hard work. It gives it oxygen — and the publicity and funds to carry on.
The 2001 awards were held the week before the Monte Carlo Grand Prix. The barriers and branding banners were up, the pits had been built and we were cruising along the track in a huge Merc. Our driver was a German. Could he take us on a lap of the Grand Prix circuit?
Oh, certainly! The GPS hushed, the Merc stopped whispering and growled as he gave it a little stick.
Our hotel was on the hairpin bend, just after the Mirabeau Haute and before the Mirabeau Bas and Portier turns that take you into the tunnel, which ran below our hotel.
At the first function on the first night, myself, John Robbie and his wife Jennie arrived together in a mini-van.
We spied Debora Patta standing on the media/pleb side of the ropes, covering the event for e.tv. I smiled at John. We nodded. We got out of the van and held our hands up to Patta: “Sorry. No comment!” Childish, but funny.
I started counting sports stars past and present. Some I knew. I grabbed a glass of bubbly and headed to the roof area where the party was kicking off. Morné du Plessis and his wife were there.
We looked out over the harbour: “This feels a bit ridiculous,” I said.
Du Plessis laughed. Monaco feels surreal from the rooftop of the grandest hotel in town – a heady mix of wealth you can’t understand and extravagance you can’t get used to as you try to pretend you are cool. I was never cool in Monaco.
We crammed in interviews. Sean Fitzpatrick was the pick of them, putting on a close-asdammit South African accent as he imitated how Johann Rupert had got him to buy into the Laureus dream.
Francois Pienaar was in attendance, telling the story of how he had been approached by a foreign fan beside herself with eagerness to have a picture taken with him. She had thought he was Sting.
I had my own little fan moment when I spied English celebrity photographer Richard Young outside my hotel. I had bought his book Paparazzo!, which told the story of a man who earned his keep by recording the madness of the rich and famous.
We South Africans stayed together. John was almost pushed into footballer Dwight Yorke by Formula One team owner Eddie Jordan at one function. He and Jordan had known each other from school, as I recall. Jordan introduced us to Yorke and his girlfriend, the model called Jordan.
I ended up sitting next to Bob Beamon, the long-jump legend, for a spell, but he wasn’t in the mood to talk and had an American PR person fawning over him, so I got up and showed a German actor how to get a drink from the bar without standing in a queue.
One night, I followed the crowd to Jimmy’z, a famous nightclub. I met John Stamstad, the legendary American mountain biker. A beer cost $20 a pop and Stamstad was kind enough to stand me a few.
I fly out to Monaco on Saturday to attend the awards for the third time. I’m ready this time. I know it will feel surreal and that superstars will be thick on the ground. But, most importantly, I now know that cars can talk.