Snow on the Rivera?

I said to Debs, the Naked Forker, to organise me some sunshine for the weekend in Cannes and she told me to bring snow shoes instead! I was in my office, trying not to think about food, but the mention of a fork had set me dribbling. A diet day can easily be negotiated with just a spoon and a cocktail stick.

There was seemingly an orange warning issued last night by Meteo France, the French equivalent of the Met Office, for snow. What is going on in the world? Are the rain gods out to get me? Are they telling me that I have been wrong all along and I should have learned to swim ? January is now officially the wettest one since records began 100 years ago in England, and there is still more forecast for the weekend before the start of February. That I can believe, but snow on the Riviera? Preposterous. I have convinced myself that it is scaremongering and have packed some shorts. I will not be downhearted, well not until we are diverted to Geneva or some alpine destination craving some snow.

Not that I will have much time to wear the shorts as the combination of my activities at the helm of the estate of the late Steve Marriott and my missionary work saving people money via Currencies Direct will take up much of my time this weekend in Cannes. This will involve my attending a cocktail party at Vegaluna Beach in Cannes on Saturday evening, preceded by a drinks party at the BPI stand at the Palais Des Festivals, and between which I must find a venue to watch France versus England in the 6 Nations rugby.

First we have to get to Gatwick, which may be fraught with difficulties, then to brave whatever disruption that was threatened yesterday, which often spills into the next day, when the French air traffic controllers were threatening to strike again. I think it would make news if they were not threatening. Imagine the headline; “Air traffic Controllers to come in early, smile and work late for nothing”. No I cannot either.

Terribly Tall Timothy Taylor gives it some gangsta style in the White Hart, Jack Hargreaves anyone?

Setting off this morning, if all goes to plan, I will be sitting at the Caviar House bar before lunch eating smoked salmon and scrambled eggs, perhaps with a (purely medicinal) glass of something cold and sparkling, just to prevent my cold from developing into man flu. And for those of you who don’t understand quite how serious an affliction this is, it is now official. Men suffer from flu much worse than women. It distresses me that we never get any sympathy. Men are usually deferential to a woman in pain from child-birth, but do men get similar sympathy when faced with something even more distressing? No, frankly they do not.

The Carlton in Cannes awaits us for the next three nights. It is one of the greatest and most iconic hotels in the world and I am looking forward to it. Work will commence almost as soon as I arrive as I have a meeting in the bar. No doubt That Nice Lady Decorator will wish to partake of a glass of champagne, but at 28 euros a coupe, she is going to have to make it last all weekend.

At some stage, I will no doubt bump into my sometimes northern Jewish lawyer who hails from Allwoodley near Leeds. You would not know that Al Yiddley is from up north when you first meet him and he is sober. He is much more Golders Green before the application of alcohol. His northern persona develops as the evening goes on and is usually at its most pronounced after midnight. However he is just one of the great characters I expect to encounter at MIDEM, the annual music business junket to which I am drawn like a butterfly to a flame each year. Where are the matches?

Chris France

@Valbonne_News