Mangetout, mangetout, Rodney. Yep, you guessed it, it’s that time of year when married men behave like dogs on heat on the Côte D’Azur. Or, should I say, when the advertising world tries to pretend the Cannes International Festival of Creativity is actually a very important gathering of influential business-people tackling world events.
Of course, following last year’s fiasco, little ol’ Busty has about as much chance of revisiting the Promenade de la Croisette as I do of getting a pay rise. But, hey, you don’t have to go that far to get your hands on a married agency chief.
Now, would you believe that our good friend Rogered Rog has never even set foot on the golden sands of Cannes in June? Luckily, though, I do have another tale of yet another hapless fellow in the direct marketing industry, who decided to take a two-day trip to see what all the fuss was about.
For argument’s sake, we’ll call him Calamity Clive.
Now, at the time, our Clive was a Cannes virgin – he even kept his wedding ring on for god’s sake – so he booked himself into a heinously overpriced apartment, “just” 20 miles from all the action. But never one to miss out on the fun, he headed straight to the Carlton Terrace from Nice Airport, depositing his bags at reception for pick-up later in the afternoon.
However, as the Domaines Ott Château Romassan Rosé – or D’Ott to those in the know – flowed and flowed old Calamity suddenly realised he’d missed his check-in time for the accommodation. Ah well, he thought, might as well push on through.
Of course, being a little wet behind the ears, he then ended up at the Gutter Bar, where the Brazilians were out in force in more ways than one. Come 7am, Clive found himself staggering along the Rue Notre Dame when he stumbled across a very well-known agency chief of Scottish descent struggling to get cash out of a cashpoint.
“Hey buddy, what are you doing here?,” he enquired, only to be told that “Jock” was raiding the corporate account to pay for the hand-job he’d just had. Classy.
Hooker paid, Calamity and Jock then walked to the beach for an early morning dip. More D’Ott flowed, then lunch, then dinner, then a raunchy agency party and the next thing Clive knew he was waking up the following day still on the beach.
He then blagged breakfast in the Hôtel Majestic Barrière before meeting up with another contact for lunch. More D’Ott flowed, then dinner, then yet another raunchy agency party and the next thing Calamity knew he was waking up the following day still on the beach – again – still in the same clothes he’d arrived in on Wednesday morning.
However, he suddenly remembered his flight was at 12 noon, so he jumped in a cab to the Carlton, picked up his bags and sped back to Nice Airport.
“Did you have a nice time?,” his wife enquired on his return home to the bosom of his family. “Not really, dear,” our Clive gasped, “it’s tough work being at a very important gathering of influential business-people tackling world events, you know.”
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