Tales from the Med...

Next week, in Cannes, the annual MIPIM will be taking place.

MIPIM stands for some unpronouncable French description of several thousand property related persons, gathering together in a huge concrete bunker to drain the whole of the Champagne area's annual quota totally dry, in just a few days.

I used to go for my old firm, and indeed, still have the scars on parts of my liver to show for it, because there really is an overhead industrial bucket of alcohol waiting to be poured down you at every turn.

A few years ago, the five day session used to start at Gatwick, at around 10.30am, with a few pints for breakfast. One time, I found myself carrying a leather suitcase worth about £5,000, and it turned out that the lady who I was chatting to, and to whom the voluminous extravagance belonged, was a Bond Girl (once), but because the mists of time, possibly a large G and T, and the several years since I saw 'Dr No', I can't remember for the life of me who she actually was...

But anyway, once one has landed in Nice, the fun begins, and the opening bash (at The Majestic in those days), sets the scene for several days of hypertension, sleep deprivation, and of course, blurred vision...

I'm only saying all this, because my good friend and BP said yesterday evening that he was feeling a bit fed up with having to turn down all the invitations, and I have to admit, I'm already wishing that just somehow, I could say 'Yes' and arrive at a lawyer's bash, possibly to trip up on entering the vast room, and apologise to the hatstand!

Most of the action happens away from the Bunker, where all the stands are, and although I actually used to work the aisles to start with, it was always nicer outside, in places like this, where one year, I stayed all day from 11.00am until late at night. This place, the Caffe Roma, just heaves, and I probably miss the craic there more than any...

You'll see many big faces (often red), and names from the courts, the bloated councils, the prisons (oh yes), and the occasional contact with whom there's some actual business to discuss, but that is a bit of a rarity, because there's no time to talk except for making generalities, and then doing the nitty-gritty the following week - if you survive that is.

One year, we were all on one of the superyachts in the Old Harbour, (owned by a wealthy family, who unfortunately happen to be in the news as we speak), and it was all going well, until there was a little overloading problem, i.e., there were too many people on one side of the huge boat, and a certain slope seemed to occur which meant that the champagne began to tip over the edge of the glass. It got progressivly worse, and the inclination increased, so we adjourned to the quayside, and watched what would happen.

Apparently, it was nearly a total disaster, because it is an incredibly dangerous situation when an overloaded boat sets up a rocking motion, and the Harbour Master was called to get everyone off pronto. (I hope BP will expand on this, as he knows these things). It took half an hour for the boat to stop rocking, and a stern discussion ensued with much arm waving, 'Merdes' and 'Mon Dieus', but by then we were far away in a cheeky little Italian eatery, enjoying another bottle of Chianti, and some choice pasta, with, among others a lovely lady client and my good chum Andy, who somehow both discovered over a second bottle, that they had lost their respective virginities on exactly the same beach in Devon...

(For once, I won't mention my traditional moan about naive councils attending, because there are plenty of newspapers which do that for me, and take these delegates to task for spending all that taxpayer's dosh)!

So, all you lucky people, getting packed for the flight down on Tuesday, or perhaps taking the Eurostar and the TGV, which is a fabulous way to travel down, I wish you a successful, riotous and happy week, and while you're away, BP and I plan to land the biggest deal we've ever done, and we won't tell you until long after you get back, by which time it will be far too late...