There’s no Monaco Grand Prix F1 Racing Slot. But let’s face it, the place is a toilet…

Monaco Far Away From The F1 Façade

It’s time for the Monaco Grand Prix, F1 racing’s most prestigious race, and given the global popularity of this spectacle (500 million television viewers will tune-in on Sunday) Cashdropcasinos and Cashdropbetting did our best to find and review some Formula 1 themed slots to coincide with this annual contest. We failed miserably. Unlike so many other sports, film studios, celebrities and ancient mythical Gods, it appears Formula 1 does not allow its wares to be pimped out for the benefit of us slot players.  So instead, here’s a very different look at this pin-prick of a country which will be the envy of so many television viewers on Sunday.

Size Matters

Monaco is the second smallest country in the world, a close runner-up to Vatican City which has a very different outlook on life. The Monaco Principality does win the bragging rights as the most densely populated country on earth however.  At the last count its 2.02 sq-km contained a population of 38,696. With 515 armed police and burley private security guards prowling the marina protecting its yachts – waterborne porta-cabins designed for immorality – the country also clams the lowest crime-rate on the globe.

Around the front of the house? Seems like a good idea!”

The Truth Behind the Glamour

But, having spent a fair amount of time in this particular pin-prick on the world’s map, I‘m duty bound to point out a few anomalies. Firstly I’d estimated that 38,000 of that 38,696 population use Monaco in the same way unscrupulous businesses use PO Boxes as their contact address. Walk those safe streets any night and you will see first hand that just a handful of the apartments which make up the scores of tower blocks are illuminated. Between the hours of 7pm and 10am the streets can best be described as morgue-like and finding signs of life anywhere might be easier on the planet Mars.

Admittedly the daily occurrence of a cruise liner disembarking her anxious load sees the streets bustling.  But once this throng of tourists have taken their pictures, bought their postcards, enviously peered through boutique windows and inspected restaurant menus which spellbound and then astonish, they eagerly return to their boat and the evening sitting of the ‘eat as much as you like buffet’ like a retreating army. But the Monaco smells remain. Softly decomposing canapés; baking pizzas; ocean-going whores; tan-cream; smeary lipstick; baby oil; slippery condoms; clammy G-strings; frying oil reheated to the consistency of acrid sump sludge. And over it all, the abiding nasal ebb and flow of hot sewage. I do not exaggerate.

The Spotless Image

Of course the public persona of Monaco is of Lamborghinis and Bugatti Veyron’s parked opposite the casino or moored multi-million pound yachts which have harems of stunningly tanned scantly clad vestal virgins.

That reminds me. I once, before poker was kind enough to take me to this shallow, silly and sometimes ugly concrete tundra with no centre or soul, considered paying Eddie Irvine a fortune to watch the GP on TV with the luxury of hearing the live screams of passing cars whilst sat on the back of his yacht. It took a while but I ultimately declined when realising my ego was not that big or my penis that small.

It’s guaranteed, come Sunday afternoon, television producers will be whipping up their viewers into a homogenised frenzy of envy and jealousy with pictures of all that is extravagant to the point of futility and stupidity. 200 mph sports cars which have never had third-gear engaged on the streets of their home town; uncorked bottles of Champaign left to waste. Neither are a sign of wealth, instead medical proof of a very small brain.

Monaco’s pair of beaches, at first glance in pristine condition, epitomize the place. They may appear as perfect as Heidi Klum’s cleavage during the 90s but, in fact, their sand is fake. It is not even sand, it is something that resembles sand from a distance but is actually a substance which is closely related to cat litter.


You see beyond the façade, far away from the madding TV cameras, Monaco hides a fake morally grubby side that’s not wearing any underwear and it wants to show you. That’s because the most overwhelming statistic of them all is Monaco has the highest infestation of working girls per square 2.02km than any place on earth.

We are not talking those who habitually carry around a bottle of KY, a nasty case of the clap, and the scornful attitude which accompanies $50-a-trick working girls found in downtown Las Vegas. Here the hoards of ‘ladies for hire’ are draped in designer clothes, they wear enough top-end jewellery to decorate a Christmas tree and find their clientele at the bars of five-star hotels. 

The profession here is totally legal and top-end. Working girls have names like Genevieve, Francesca and Evelina.  But no, they really do. And, if you look like you have a few disposable million in your Coutts & Co. current account, they may discreetly slip you a business card promoting their free iPhone app offering easy ordering and payment options.  You see sex in Monaco is primarily of the commercial variety. True love is thin on the ground. In neighbouring San Remo and St Tropez the jewels may be fake but the orgasms are real. In Monaco the jewels are real and the orgasms unquestionably fake. It’s a sad parade of events. Elderly filthy rich men, or just rich filthy men, parting with a sum of money for a 30 minute service which would, in the real world, clear the national debt of a small South American country. 

...akin to watching water circle a flushed toilet?

An Assault on the Senses

But the one thing a poor slum has over a rich one is dignity. The Monaco set have loads of cash but they are technically bankrupt in all other aspects of life and living. It goes to prove one man’s tax haven is another’s man’s septic tank. As well as offering an insurmountably superior moral backdrop Vatican City could probably offer a better racetrack than Monaco. 1996 was the last time Monaco delivered anything other than a tragically boring race. The only sense an F1 race at Monaco truly attacks is the eardrums. Be warned, watching 90 minutes of cars circling these narrow roads, which is akin to watching water circle a flushed toilet, can result in your brains squirting out of your ears like toothpaste.

Drivers, teams and punters all know Monaco is not the bedrock-scraping examination of man and machine an F1 race is supposed to be. Instead it is a showground for fast-moving billboards, an exhibition, and normally a mindless procession.  Unsurprisingly the majority of pole-setters have won here because on-track overtaking is more impossible than unlikely.  Boylesports are all too aware of the correlation between pole-setting and the likelihood of winning and naturally they are not offering a get-rich-quick price about the pole-setter making a penalty-kick style conversion.

There’s better things to watch and to bet on, like the Royal Enclosure for example, and maybe bookies should follow their Royal Ascot playbook and offer a market on the thing the average non working-girl female attendee is primarily interested in …the colour of Princess Charlene’s dress.