After my last visit to Monaco I proudly promised my next visit would be on the back of a Super Yacht.
As a still practising and wholly impractical magician my spells clearly still need some work. On Sunday after an incredibly large drinking session worthy of a close friends wedding I suddenly found out I would be doing some day work pre Grand Prix on a Super Yacht.
I gracefully declined the offer of working the Sunday. I think my exact words were
“I could come now but I would not be operating at peak performance.”
The fist mate obviously a man with some experience in matters of blood chemistry saw this as something character shaping and allowed me to start on Monday instead.
So I have been busily rinsing, soaping, washing, shammying, blading, buffing and scrubbing the bejewbus out of a Super Yacht
The Super Yacht is a generous 56 meters and whilst it is quite a bit smaller than Octopus there have been a few fringe benefits given the nature of our berth and slightly more relaxed conditions.
-They feed all of the day workers
-We are allowed inside
-We have helped out with docking manuevers.
Now bear with me as I lay on some superlatives.
Being in the pre eminent wealthy city right before the quintessential motor racing event is quite cool.
There are manufacturer trucks everywhere. Seas of seats and scaffolding. It is quite a spectacle and it is my office window for the week.
Getting to my work has not been with out it’s challenges. On Tuesday glorious French rail workers timed an 8 hour strike to coincide with my commute. After reaching Nice we found we would have to bus the rest of the way. I commented on the irony of the French rail workers being on strike to some random Australians (why are they everywhere ?) this was met by a remark that everything is done by computer anyway. The tail end of this notable conversation was someone coming up with this motto. “France, where even the computers go on strike”
As far as random Australians go these guys were pretty good. I have noticed that an Australian with a hangover is about as graceful and low key as a kiwi is sober. We were having a good old laugh before a French lady with a curiously English accent admonished us for making to much noise and having too much fun.
One of the chaps had his foot on a chair. This particularly aggrieved her but I am certain of it had been a dog on the chair she would have said nothing.
The bus ride to Monaco was a riot, literally. It was a riot to get on and a riot inside. It is amazing where people will sit when a vehicle is dangerously overloaded. I got to know several passengers quite physically . I was glad I shaved my legs that morning.
Not a bad few days. Now wait till I tell you how I cameoed in a documentary and turned down a film role.
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