It just had to be the place where this story would begin.
To those of us who lived and worked there while the madness took hold, getting up , out, and away on our time off was a priority. For many months of the year, Cannes was a relatively quiet village. Actually a conglomeration of small village-type districts with Cannes as its centre. Come festival season and the normal population of about 10,000 regulars would swell to well over 60,000, plus a daily flow and ebb of stars and stargazers. So leaving the Fame, Fantasy & fun far behind us, we headed up to Le Cannet where we could look back down on the glittering glamour of the showbiz stars.
All Paul, a Scottish scriptwriter friend, needed for his inspiration was a few Pastis and his roll-up tobacco. "Writing is easy, you just sit down quietly with glass in hand, slit open a vein, and let it flow ". Juggling a bottle of 'vin d'maison' in one hand, glass and plate of tapas-type tit-bits in the other and a magazine which I had, fatefully, picked up from the counter, tucked under my arm, we settled down out on the shady veranda of a quiet bistro. The view down over the bay of Cannes-Mandelieu was impressive from way up here, but we were a little blase after our years here, so instead got into our pleasant separate tasks, his to write, mine to read, and let the evening hours ebb.
It wasn't too surprising that one of these showbiz mags had found its way up here, the Festival had a way of permeating all local life-style. As I flipped idly through its glossy pages, I came face-to-face with the 2 men that were to start a chain reaction in my life that is still echoing around me now. Curiosity is a wonderful incentive to learn some things new, but this one was to take over for a while, and I'm still adding to it, many years later.
The next big event after the Cannes extravaganza has reached its dazzling conclusion is the Monaco Grand Prix. Even while the Festival is going on, hectic preparations are being made to the streets of the Principality's capital. Temporary stands rise up at all the most advantageous spots on the circuit. Huge expense is lavished on getting all the details just right for the moment when the whole circus moves "en masse" those few kilometres down the coast, to where the various enterprises lie in wait for their turn to milk the yearly bonanza. Even as the final fireworks are fizzling out over the famous festival, the flotilla of skippered super-yachts are upping anchor and cruising down to their pre-designated berths in and around Monaco's famous bay. Grandstand viewing for any incidents and accidents that might happen, and happen they certainly do.
Alberto Ascari, the Most Famous Grand Prix driver of his era, shooting out of the tunnel, drove straight off the track, through the straw bales, missing a steel bollard by inches and out into the magnificent bay while in the lead in 1955. A few heart-stopping moments later his light blue crash helmet came bobbing to the service. Seat belts were unknown in those days and he was probably saved by not wearing one. It wasn't his time yet. It didn't kill him, but a practice round 4 days later at Monza, did. Which finally and enigmatically, brought to a close a strange series of coincidences involving Alberto and his father, Antonio Ascari.
I was so mesmerised by this unfolding story that Paul had to bang the table to remind me it was time to eat. This being France and food having its rightful priority in the grand scheme of things, we moved on in search of yet another gastronomic experience. Even all these years later we were still discovering little family-run places where their priority was that you enjoy their cooking and company, cost being a Gallic shrug of inevitability. Probably one of the best and most reliable pointers is to go in search of the famous Relais Routiers. This group of nationwide restaurants came into being through a network of lorry drivers word-of-mouth. What we in less fortunate countries would call Truck-stops or 'greasy spooners', the French have elevated to pleasant and sometimes superb eating experiences. One of the most memorable I have ever come across was 'by accident' in Brittany. If you ever have the good fortune to find "le Kenyah" near Carnac, tell me all about it. But that is for another day.
This time we found ourselves up on a mezzanine style roof-top restaurant, a slight breeze rustling the leaves of the trees. As we sat out on yet another balmy evening, watching the flaming sun sizzle into the sea, and course after delicious course disappeared down our appreciative gullets, I posed the question that had started to form in my inquisitive brain, "what is a coincidence ? An accidental group of events, or something with a purpose, something above and beyond rhyme and reason ?". We batted it around for a while, with all the clarity that a good claret provides. Of course we didn't find the answer then but Paul was now motivated to find some more detail on the amazing Ascaris. In his line of work he had access to the innovative Internet, or World Wide Web, as it was fully called then. The title has shortened but the content has exploded way beyond anything imagined back then.
Weeks later and my imagination was tussling with the repercussions of Paul's research. Not only had we become engrossed with the Ascari family fortunes, the strands of our own web research were radiating out and catching unsuspecting fall-out from the initial flash of inspiration. I was relying more on conventional methods and was a daily library prowler. More and more layers of apparently unrelated detail began to click into laterally thinking places. What had started out as idle curiosity, would now pop up in most of our conversations and led to carrying a pocket note-book, just in case another example came to mind. Then one note-book became two, then four, and the exponential expansion took on a life of its own. Friends started to get a wee bit irritated as we would interrupt, nod and wink at each other, and duly whip out the jotters to make yet another entry.
But before I go on too far, let's go back to the mezzanine and that damn magazine.
Even Paul, who was well used to odd and unusual storylines, shook his head slowly in disbelief as I outlined the details of the Ascaris. You just could not make this up.
Antonio Ascari, the father, a well known Grand Prix driver in his own right, won 13 G.P. races in his short career. So did Alberto, making a total of 26 between them. They both drove cars numbered 26. Both of them were killed on the 26th of the month. Odd but nothing extraordinary. As we swirled and sipped our 'digestiv', 2 large Cognacs, I read on.
Antonio was 30yrs old when his son was born. Alberto died 30 years after his father.
Both crashed on G.P. circuits going round fast, but safe, left-hand bends.
Both were thrown out of their cars.
The cause of both accidents is unknown.
They each had survived serious accidents 4 days beforehand.
Both were 36 years of age.
That was the first story in that magasine. Over another page was one about Marilyn Monroe. Then one about Cassius Clay.
Then Federico Fellini.
And that years Film Festival chairman, Steven Spielberg.
And so it began, The Titular Theory.
All Paul, a Scottish scriptwriter friend, needed for his inspiration was a few Pastis and his roll-up tobacco. "Writing is easy, you just sit down quietly with glass in hand, slit open a vein, and let it flow ". Juggling a bottle of 'vin d'maison' in one hand, glass and plate of tapas-type tit-bits in the other and a magazine which I had, fatefully, picked up from the counter, tucked under my arm, we settled down out on the shady veranda of a quiet bistro. The view down over the bay of Cannes-Mandelieu was impressive from way up here, but we were a little blase after our years here, so instead got into our pleasant separate tasks, his to write, mine to read, and let the evening hours ebb.
It wasn't too surprising that one of these showbiz mags had found its way up here, the Festival had a way of permeating all local life-style. As I flipped idly through its glossy pages, I came face-to-face with the 2 men that were to start a chain reaction in my life that is still echoing around me now. Curiosity is a wonderful incentive to learn some things new, but this one was to take over for a while, and I'm still adding to it, many years later.
The next big event after the Cannes extravaganza has reached its dazzling conclusion is the Monaco Grand Prix. Even while the Festival is going on, hectic preparations are being made to the streets of the Principality's capital. Temporary stands rise up at all the most advantageous spots on the circuit. Huge expense is lavished on getting all the details just right for the moment when the whole circus moves "en masse" those few kilometres down the coast, to where the various enterprises lie in wait for their turn to milk the yearly bonanza. Even as the final fireworks are fizzling out over the famous festival, the flotilla of skippered super-yachts are upping anchor and cruising down to their pre-designated berths in and around Monaco's famous bay. Grandstand viewing for any incidents and accidents that might happen, and happen they certainly do.
Alberto Ascari, the Most Famous Grand Prix driver of his era, shooting out of the tunnel, drove straight off the track, through the straw bales, missing a steel bollard by inches and out into the magnificent bay while in the lead in 1955. A few heart-stopping moments later his light blue crash helmet came bobbing to the service. Seat belts were unknown in those days and he was probably saved by not wearing one. It wasn't his time yet. It didn't kill him, but a practice round 4 days later at Monza, did. Which finally and enigmatically, brought to a close a strange series of coincidences involving Alberto and his father, Antonio Ascari.
I was so mesmerised by this unfolding story that Paul had to bang the table to remind me it was time to eat. This being France and food having its rightful priority in the grand scheme of things, we moved on in search of yet another gastronomic experience. Even all these years later we were still discovering little family-run places where their priority was that you enjoy their cooking and company, cost being a Gallic shrug of inevitability. Probably one of the best and most reliable pointers is to go in search of the famous Relais Routiers. This group of nationwide restaurants came into being through a network of lorry drivers word-of-mouth. What we in less fortunate countries would call Truck-stops or 'greasy spooners', the French have elevated to pleasant and sometimes superb eating experiences. One of the most memorable I have ever come across was 'by accident' in Brittany. If you ever have the good fortune to find "le Kenyah" near Carnac, tell me all about it. But that is for another day.
This time we found ourselves up on a mezzanine style roof-top restaurant, a slight breeze rustling the leaves of the trees. As we sat out on yet another balmy evening, watching the flaming sun sizzle into the sea, and course after delicious course disappeared down our appreciative gullets, I posed the question that had started to form in my inquisitive brain, "what is a coincidence ? An accidental group of events, or something with a purpose, something above and beyond rhyme and reason ?". We batted it around for a while, with all the clarity that a good claret provides. Of course we didn't find the answer then but Paul was now motivated to find some more detail on the amazing Ascaris. In his line of work he had access to the innovative Internet, or World Wide Web, as it was fully called then. The title has shortened but the content has exploded way beyond anything imagined back then.
Weeks later and my imagination was tussling with the repercussions of Paul's research. Not only had we become engrossed with the Ascari family fortunes, the strands of our own web research were radiating out and catching unsuspecting fall-out from the initial flash of inspiration. I was relying more on conventional methods and was a daily library prowler. More and more layers of apparently unrelated detail began to click into laterally thinking places. What had started out as idle curiosity, would now pop up in most of our conversations and led to carrying a pocket note-book, just in case another example came to mind. Then one note-book became two, then four, and the exponential expansion took on a life of its own. Friends started to get a wee bit irritated as we would interrupt, nod and wink at each other, and duly whip out the jotters to make yet another entry.
But before I go on too far, let's go back to the mezzanine and that damn magazine.
Even Paul, who was well used to odd and unusual storylines, shook his head slowly in disbelief as I outlined the details of the Ascaris. You just could not make this up.
Antonio Ascari, the father, a well known Grand Prix driver in his own right, won 13 G.P. races in his short career. So did Alberto, making a total of 26 between them. They both drove cars numbered 26. Both of them were killed on the 26th of the month. Odd but nothing extraordinary. As we swirled and sipped our 'digestiv', 2 large Cognacs, I read on.
Antonio was 30yrs old when his son was born. Alberto died 30 years after his father.
Both crashed on G.P. circuits going round fast, but safe, left-hand bends.
Both were thrown out of their cars.
The cause of both accidents is unknown.
They each had survived serious accidents 4 days beforehand.
Both were 36 years of age.
That was the first story in that magasine. Over another page was one about Marilyn Monroe. Then one about Cassius Clay.
Then Federico Fellini.
And that years Film Festival chairman, Steven Spielberg.
And so it began, The Titular Theory.
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