Summer Starts in St Tropez
Summer 2010
What better way to celebrate the start of the Mediterranean summer than a trip to St Tropez, the sin centre of the sunny south, where dress is optional and excess is essential?
7.00am: Despite the strike the 9.20 BA flight to Nice has been confirmed, but the difference between the Economy fare and Club is extraordinary - £230 versus £900 return. Is it really worth a £700 premium for a hot sausage, a glass of fizz and the surety of not having Billy Bunter squidge into his seat and half of yours?
8.00am: The security man at Terminal 5 politely but firmly points out that the Camel’s Companion’s see-thru toiletry bag is about 10 times the size of the flimsy things you’re supposed to use. He begins to repack everything into two, which is a bit like trying to squeeze 50 poodles into a handbag. Finally he gives up and slopes off to the safety of the X-Ray machine leaving a blitz of bottles strewn across the counter like the carnage after the first day of Clarin’s summer sale.
9.30am: We finally take off after being ferried to the plane on buses. There are lots of empty seats in both cabins. Seems I wasn’t the only one to balk at £900. Three smiley cabin crew are on board and I do feel someone should take the lead, address the plane and thank them for being there. The moment comes and goes and we all stay silent.
12.15pm: Land at Nice 10 minutes ahead of schedule. A Truche lady is waiting and hands me the keys to a Mercedes, which isn’t what I was expecting but I’m not complaining. Perhaps it’s a loyalty reward?
1.15pm: On the A8 about to turn off for St Tropez when a frantic, panic stricken female calls to say that we have been given the wrong car and demands that we return to Nice immediately to change it for a Renault Clio. Not a chance!
1.17pm: She calls again.
1.18pm: She calls again and says that ‘she’s ‘disappointed’ we have not spent the afternoon bombing up and down the A8 to get her out of a hole.
1.45pm: We glide through Ste Maxine and St Tropez to Villa Marie. In a month’s time this journey will take hours! A puzzled receptionist looks at me, looks at her screen and in her best Franglais announces that ‘computer says no’. I produce the confirmation email just as the manager arrives and assures me that they have rooms and all will be fine.
2.15pm: After a quick change we make the short drive to Le Club 55, the most staggeringly profitable restaurant on the planet. In July and August this place consistently serves 1000 covers a day. The food is expensive and mediocre but it’s not about eating, it’s all about the people watching. Patrice, the proprietor / maître’d, gives us a warm welcome. “Is business good?” I ask. “Yes!” he exclaims, clapping his hands. But Patrice, there is more chance of England beating Brazil in the World Cup Final on penalties than there is of Club 55 having a bad summer.
5.00pm: After an hour or so lazing around ‘55’, basking in the sun we head to town and park in Le Places des Lices then stroll to the port for a few drinks in Senequier, the legendary bar. Two girls arrive on a pink sparkly moped. The entire bar gasps as they remove their helmets to unleash vast flowing locks of perfect hair which tumbles down their sexy silk dresses until it strokes their toned thighs. As they totter on towering heels a tiny dog is yanked from a designer bag on the moped floor and the pair strut off into the crowd. Is this a television commercial for a glamorous hair product? No. It’s just another moment in the ludicrous world of St Tropez.
7.30pm: The manageress of Lily, the town’s top boutique, recommends a visit to Byblos. Apparently the fading, over trendy hotel has sorted out its bar and restaurant, bringing in a tapas style menu, and is worth a visit. Sure enough, a four piece acoustic band is performing from a plinth over the swimming pool, the place is buzzing and an impressive basket of crudités is served with the drinks. As the boys break into Snow Patrol’s ‘Chasing Cars’ a flabby female grabs her camera and rushes to the poolside, standing adoringly as every note is stored on video.
9.00pm: Time to visit the port again and Joseph Le Quai, owned by St Tropez’s answer to Richard Caring. Joseph is a little rotund man who has built an empire of bars and restaurants over the last few years. This evening’s entertainment is by a smarmy male Latino who wiggles his hips to an odd fusion of Turkish dance and Shakira. The trademark black sand has been removed from the floor and replaced by a skanky black carpet. Still, I’m sure the cleaners are happy.
10.45pm: St Tropez is just beginning to come to life and the droves are heading for Cave du Roy, probably the most expensive nightclub in Europe where an entry level bottle of champagne costs €270, or why not splash out on Perrier-Jouet ‘Belle Epoque’ for a meagre €690. As for me – it’s time for bed.
7.00am: Despite the strike the 9.20 BA flight to Nice has been confirmed, but the difference between the Economy fare and Club is extraordinary - £230 versus £900 return. Is it really worth a £700 premium for a hot sausage, a glass of fizz and the surety of not having Billy Bunter squidge into his seat and half of yours?
8.00am: The security man at Terminal 5 politely but firmly points out that the Camel’s Companion’s see-thru toiletry bag is about 10 times the size of the flimsy things you’re supposed to use. He begins to repack everything into two, which is a bit like trying to squeeze 50 poodles into a handbag. Finally he gives up and slopes off to the safety of the X-Ray machine leaving a blitz of bottles strewn across the counter like the carnage after the first day of Clarin’s summer sale.
9.30am: We finally take off after being ferried to the plane on buses. There are lots of empty seats in both cabins. Seems I wasn’t the only one to balk at £900. Three smiley cabin crew are on board and I do feel someone should take the lead, address the plane and thank them for being there. The moment comes and goes and we all stay silent.
12.15pm: Land at Nice 10 minutes ahead of schedule. A Truche lady is waiting and hands me the keys to a Mercedes, which isn’t what I was expecting but I’m not complaining. Perhaps it’s a loyalty reward?
1.15pm: On the A8 about to turn off for St Tropez when a frantic, panic stricken female calls to say that we have been given the wrong car and demands that we return to Nice immediately to change it for a Renault Clio. Not a chance!
1.17pm: She calls again.
1.18pm: She calls again and says that ‘she’s ‘disappointed’ we have not spent the afternoon bombing up and down the A8 to get her out of a hole.
1.45pm: We glide through Ste Maxine and St Tropez to Villa Marie. In a month’s time this journey will take hours! A puzzled receptionist looks at me, looks at her screen and in her best Franglais announces that ‘computer says no’. I produce the confirmation email just as the manager arrives and assures me that they have rooms and all will be fine.
2.15pm: After a quick change we make the short drive to Le Club 55, the most staggeringly profitable restaurant on the planet. In July and August this place consistently serves 1000 covers a day. The food is expensive and mediocre but it’s not about eating, it’s all about the people watching. Patrice, the proprietor / maître’d, gives us a warm welcome. “Is business good?” I ask. “Yes!” he exclaims, clapping his hands. But Patrice, there is more chance of England beating Brazil in the World Cup Final on penalties than there is of Club 55 having a bad summer.
5.00pm: After an hour or so lazing around ‘55’, basking in the sun we head to town and park in Le Places des Lices then stroll to the port for a few drinks in Senequier, the legendary bar. Two girls arrive on a pink sparkly moped. The entire bar gasps as they remove their helmets to unleash vast flowing locks of perfect hair which tumbles down their sexy silk dresses until it strokes their toned thighs. As they totter on towering heels a tiny dog is yanked from a designer bag on the moped floor and the pair strut off into the crowd. Is this a television commercial for a glamorous hair product? No. It’s just another moment in the ludicrous world of St Tropez.
7.30pm: The manageress of Lily, the town’s top boutique, recommends a visit to Byblos. Apparently the fading, over trendy hotel has sorted out its bar and restaurant, bringing in a tapas style menu, and is worth a visit. Sure enough, a four piece acoustic band is performing from a plinth over the swimming pool, the place is buzzing and an impressive basket of crudités is served with the drinks. As the boys break into Snow Patrol’s ‘Chasing Cars’ a flabby female grabs her camera and rushes to the poolside, standing adoringly as every note is stored on video.
9.00pm: Time to visit the port again and Joseph Le Quai, owned by St Tropez’s answer to Richard Caring. Joseph is a little rotund man who has built an empire of bars and restaurants over the last few years. This evening’s entertainment is by a smarmy male Latino who wiggles his hips to an odd fusion of Turkish dance and Shakira. The trademark black sand has been removed from the floor and replaced by a skanky black carpet. Still, I’m sure the cleaners are happy.
10.45pm: St Tropez is just beginning to come to life and the droves are heading for Cave du Roy, probably the most expensive nightclub in Europe where an entry level bottle of champagne costs €270, or why not splash out on Perrier-Jouet ‘Belle Epoque’ for a meagre €690. As for me – it’s time for bed.
Be Frank: agree or disagree? What do you think?
