I don’t belong in Cannes, but then neither does Kelly Brook. Neither of us is here to promote a film. Still we’ve come, joining the throng — millionaires, make-up artists, PRs and wannabes — swarming the Croisette, hoping they will be invited to party on Leonardo DiCaprio’s yacht.
Unlike other places where rich people congregate — Monaco, for example — Cannes is actually beautiful, as though Karl Lagerfeld had redesigned Brighton for Chanel, replacing the off-licences with shops no one can afford or pronounce: Chopard, YSL, Hermès.
It could be Zsa Zsa Gabor’s own private Butlin’s, heaving with obnoxiously rich people showing off obnoxious wealth. There are plebs waving selfie sticks, and countless celebs. Meanwhile, somewhere in the background a little festival unfolds.
I’ve never actually seen a film at Cannes. Hardly anyone has. People come to celebrity-spot. It is a town full of people looking over one another’s shoulders, taking pictures even though they don’t know who they are taking pictures of. They shout “Oh. My. God! I saw Angelina Jolie. No, hold on, it’s Eva Longoria. No, wait, it’s Victoria Beckham.” Everywhere you hear them wondering: “Was that Carey Mulligan in that limo? Is that Leonardo? Was that Brigitte Bardot? Isn’t she dead?”
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