Monaco Grand Prix
Unusually, I did a job setting up the UK for an emerging Swedish enterprise software company. Things went very well (eventually) and we floated on the Swedish stock market. Sales really took when we adopted Citrix, which turned our system into an early Cloud application.
Citrix invited me to the Monaco Grand Prix to tell their other important enteprise software clients (such as SAP) how good they were.
We stayed in an outrageously expensive hotel in Cannes and commuted to Monaco each day on a Sunseeker powerboat while being plied with champagne, and caviar. In the photos I look like Cary Grant in the French Riviera. That wasn’t my idea. I went to an expensive men’s outfitters in Henley and said,
“I have to go to Monaco next weekend and I don’t know what to wear”.
Cary Grant is what they came up with. I still have all the gear. I call it my “Coat der Azure” collection. It’s about 25 years old now.
Citrix was a big American software firm whose owner, Ed Iacobucci was going to be there. He was a big propeller head who invented their stuff.
He was minted.
He had 200 classic cars in his collection.
I had four and people thought I was rich.
The other guests were from the biggest most prestigious global software companies out there. In the same income bracket as Ed. Very early in conversation these sorts of people let you know they own vineyards, car racing teams, yachts, racing stables and make it all sound normal.
Our hostess was an Austrian Countess who lived in Monaco. She kept an eye on everything, including me. There were only eight of us, so it was impossible to sneak off to the pub as I like to do at these things.
The other guests didn’t look like Cary Grant and seemed much more comfortable in expensive casual clothes and huge Rolexes. They were way above my economic league. I thought I had been invited to throw in front of the bullets if we were attacked by a Bond villain.
At dinner on the first night I found myself thinking negatively about an arty looking French-Vietnamese banker who wore a very snazzy outfit that made me look ridiculous in my navy-blue blazer with brass buttons with anchors on them, a stripey tie, cream-coloured slacks and a yacht skipper’s peaked cap with a crest on it. Actually, I left the hat in the room.
He smoked pongy ciggies through a cigarette holder which he held in a way that a bigoted working-class English person (like I struggle not to be) would call effeminate and he waved it around theatrically, taking long puffs with his eyes shut. I kept trying to think of the French word for poseur, but settled on something Anglo Saxon that rhymed with it: toseur.
That first night was painful. We drove in limos to the hills behind Cannes and had dinner in a posh restaurant overlooking the bay which was closed to other customers for our exclusive indulgence. The food seemed non-existent. It was that lift the lid thing to see “nothing” arranged artistically on the plate. When we got back to the l’hôtel I went straight to McDonalds. I was the best dressed person there. It’s dead opposite the famous movie theatre if you need to find it.
Don’t sneer. McDonalds has more outlets in France than it does in the UK or any other European country. If you ever eat in a posh French restaurant you’d know why.
Next day I had to sit next to the French guy at breakfast.
“Bolleaux”, I thought in Franglais. My French is non-existent but I managed a “Bonjour”.
“Yow awlright” he replied in a strong Birmingham accent.
I practically fell off my chair.
Eh?
He was totally fluent in the midland English working-class vernacular. It turned out he had been to university in Birmingham and was a completely ok bloke. He was a director of a very big French bank and explained how they had connected their Citrix network in Paris by running cables through the underground sewers to save digging up the roads.
“Did you call it Shitrix” I asked.
It wasn’t a world class joke but I should explain that people of this status do not take the piss out of anything. They are social and economic ultimate winners. They see nothing to poke fun at in this world. The Citrix guys didn’t look happy but everyone laughed so they joined in. It was fine.
After the trip, I stayed in touch with Jacques. He did reference calls for our banking prospects and in return I sent him Ginster’s pasties. He had become addicted as a student and couldn’t get them in France. Can’t think why.
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To thank Citrix for their generosity our CEO asked me to invite one of their bigwigs over to our HQ in Sweden. It was midsummer and the highlight of that trip was to go yachting in the middle of the night at 2am - in broad daylight. The CEO had blown c£250k on an ocean racing yacht as a present to himself after our successful IPO. He had made big bucks. As head of the UK I made medium bucks which was ok. I didn’t want a yacht.
Unfortunately, I nearly crashed his into the Royal Swedish yacht club where we were stopping for supper. He let me drive and at the last moment on the approach he grabbed the wheel and we went around again with him looking very cross.
“Slow down” he had said as I aimed at the jetty.
Looking at the throttle I took a 50/50 guess.
Ooops.
Even though it was 2am the Sun was up and the place was packed. The guests were staring at us.
“Who are you looking at you bunch of turnips?”, I didn’t say.
Good job I didn’t as they were of course Swedes not turnips and they weren’t looking at me. I didn’t know it but my boss was a famous yachtsman and his new boat was also famous. They must have thought,
“Sven might be good at ocean racing but his stupid English friend can’t park”.
After dinner we sailed back to the hotel. It was 4am and the Sun was shining bright. We went to the bar. It was still open.