ILJ]EBOOK
JOAN COLLINS The shiny new 'Vodka Palaces' lie scattered across the bay of St Tropez like the discarded toys of a spoiled child. Each year they seem to grow bigger, as do the gorgeous girls who cluster on deck and throng the boutiques and clubs — taller anyway. Many of the boats are owned by Russian billionaires — how did they become so rich so fast? — and it seems that three or four dazzlers hang on the arm of each stocky oligarch. What did the Russian government feed their pregnant women and toddlers two decades ago that made these women sprout into tall and skinny beanstalks? And why is it only the girls who seem to have inherited that giant gene? All the men are pretty ordinary both in looks and height; maybe their massive wealth makes up for their massive bellies. At Cave du Roi, the local dive where a jeroboam of Cristal can set you back €10,000, I stood with two girlfriends, primping in the powder room, our mouths agape at these giraffes. None of them was under six foot, and they sauntered about in tiny mini-dresses and five-inch stilettos, idly tossing waist-length locks. Either the government gave them hair growth supplements in infancy or Russia is making the most realistic extensions since Lady Godiva! Feeling like three of the dwarves from Snow White, my girlfriends and I sat in the club becoming more hysterical as each Amazon tottered past: truly a scene from Attack of the 50ft Woman.
The Riviera weather has been so unpredictable that people are packing up and hot-footing it to calmer climes. There have been ten mistrals in the past ten weeks and it's often been cold and raining. At a smart party in St Tropez recently the wind was so fierce that everyone's hair was standing on end, including a bewigged gentleman whose girlfriend rested her hand casually on top of his head for safety. When Prince Andrew and his entourage entered, a waiter nervously knocked a glass to the marble floor in front of him, so HRH greeted his hosts over crunching glass. The following Thursday at a soirée by the Byblos pool umbrellas were swept across the terrace like missiles and I was nearly decapitated by a flying menu.
FT ravelling from Nice airport to Heathrow, I was again struck by the difference between these two international terminals. Nice is calm, spacious and airconditioned with only two or three chic shops tucked away discreetly; Heathrow is a total nightmare — an airport connected to a tacky shopping mall. It's typical of the British stiff-upper-lip that we put up with such ghastly travel conditions: endless security lines, surly staff (and not enough of them), only one carry-on bag (forcing women to cram their handbags into holdalls), and frightful delays. Why BAA sold themselves to the Spanish for a relatively paltry 30 pieces of silver — £10 billion — is a mystery. What's not a mystery is that the company that owns it couldn't give a toss and are 'unavailable for comment' when contacted about the ghastly conditions. Indeed, the latest research reveals that travelling through Heathrow is more stressful than getting mugged at gunpoint. As for the lost luggage debacle, Percy and I no longer travel with suitcases at all, sending everything by First Luggage, worth its weight in gold considering that compensation for one lost Louis is a paltry £850, which barely pays for the suitcase. In 2006 BA lost an average 3,000 bags a day, more than any European airline, which by any standards is a disgrace. Soon, I hope, this Spanish monopoly stranglehold will be overthrown by the Competition Commission. In the past year we've crisscrossed America on every major and minor US airline. The delays were negligible — even when weather conditions were bad — our bags arrived safely, and we rarely had to wait longer than 15 minutes to retrieve them. So if America can do it, why can't we?
Welunched with the witty and urbane Rupert Everett in Rome during the Valentino festivities last month. (His hilarious memoir Red Ca/pets and Other Banana Skins is a classic, comparable to the great David Niven's The Moon's a Balloon.) Like all actors we discussed the sorry state of work for most of us and particularly for actresses over the age of 50. Having done five theatrical shows in the past six years, I told Rupert I was loathe to do any more theatre for a while. 'But I've got a fantastic idea for you,' he said, 'you must get your agent to put you in Coronation Street or, better yet, EastEnders. Steady work and everyone'll know you.' But they already do, and somehow I don't see myself as a blowsy barmaid."Darling, they can do wonders with prosthetics these days,' he grinned.
Ah fame — 'tis ever so fleeting but I for one do not miss the barrage of adulation and insanity that was heaped upon me during the Dynasty years. Now I am quite able to go shopping and out and about without being accosted by either paparazzi or eager fans. During the late 1980s some fans were so overenthusiastic that it was impossible even to browse the boutiques without getting asked for autographs. One day I discovered what I thought was a crafty solution. In Edgware Road I bought an all-encompassing Muslim-style burka and with only a slit for my eyes I walked slowly down the stairs of my apartment to hit the shops. Unfortunately the first thing I hit was the ground, as billowing folds of black schmutter became caught between my legs. I tumbled unceremoniously, to the puzzlement of my Arab neighbours, who normally cluster outside my Belgravia residence to have a quick fag. Reclaiming my dignity I clumsily pulled my burka around me and tried to cross the road at Belgrave Square where the cars all seemed to be driven by aspiring Jackie Stewarts. I was unable to see either to the right or left as the eye slits cut off visibility, big-time. Drivers cursed as I stumbled across the street, tripping over my voluminous garb, and I was unable to get a taxi to stop for me (they acted as if I was invisible). I managed to stumble to Duke Street, then gave up covered in sweat and totally exhausted. The burka went to a charity shop and I felt pity for the poor women forced to wear this ungainly mediaeval garment: but I have to admit that nobody recognised me.