Part III - The Outro.

[johnny9fingers]

In the empty skeleton of part two (the ontro) I have omitted, in my recounting of the bald facts, how much senseless silly fun was had. Non-threatening, non-rowdy, but loud and large and friendly: carousing was done on a magnificent scale. Girls were kissed in passing, flowers were worn then tossed aside. Frankie strode around Cannes with the largest lily in the buttonhole of his bedraggled tux singing to innocent passers-bye or joining in with the buskers as we meandered about the main drag looking for other places in which to drink.

I was having a holiday from the weed and relative sobriety, so for once, I joined in. But the next morning all was not right with my world. I missed breakfast (surprise that) and at eleven or so, as I made my way to the elevator to go down to the foyer, I met Martin coming up to get me: our kit had been delivered from the party site to our hotel reception. Martin took one look at me and realised I was not as healthy as I should be, and so directed me to put my kit in my room and meet him back downstairs. The others were gathered around the smoking zone just outside the foyer, when Martin announced there was one bag missing. Rather than wait for the MIPEM transport that was laid on for the band's use, we took a cab back into the centre, whereupon, my nausea became more evident to him. We went to the sponsors beach bar, which was set for breakfast and I had two double espressos, half a pint of orange juice, another double espresso, half a pint of grapefruit juice and a glass of chilled champagne, after which I felt almost human and also semi-divine: champagne for breakfast rather does that to a chap. So when the others joined us alongside some chums of Martin's we moved from the sponsor's beach bar to a hotel beach bar serving lunch. And lunch lasted about six hours or so. During this lunch I started talking to a woman of similar hungover appearance to myself, and took it upon me as task to make her laugh if I could. She was from East Dulwich, which is about 6 miles from where I live. Dark of hair and amusing. Cambridge (St Cat's), and a lawyer involved in the building trade: read natural sciences, like an ex of mine who now biologises or geneticises out of Texas. I succeeded, and she gave me her card before she had to go for her plane. Martin was flying out with a party of architects and lawyers, and Jane and her boyf were heading to Antibes: but the rest of us were flying out on Saturday morning. Paying for the six hour lunch became a bit fraught when we came to split the bill and realised that the folk who had given contributions to the bill as they left for the airport, hadn't even covered the food, never mind the booze. All down to the tune of between 80 to 100 euros on that one. But still, we managed to stagger to another bar and then Nicki met up with a Sax playing chum of hers called Heather. 6'1", blonde, willowy, brilliant saxophonist, and in constant demand, so Nicki left us to go and do girly things. We headed for another bar and watched the light ripple on the surface of the gentle waves as the light blue of the day darkened to the navy blue of the night. Then we went to eat. By this time I'm living in a realm of the senses wherein I rarely indulge. Food was good. Halfway through Nicki found the restaurant we were in and joined us for food. She wanted us all to go out dancing when Heather should have finished her gig, but Simon, Mark, and myself, declined due to badness of head and overindulgence and a need to be alert in the morn for purposes of travel. However I did have another double espresso. Frankie, however had managed to source himself some of that Peruvian marching powder, and on top of his customary bottle of his good friend 'Smirny' was fueled and ready to go clubbing until we had to leave for the 'plane. Simon, Mark, and I walked the four kilometres back to the hotel along the coastal path and got home by midnight. I went to bed but couldn't sleep: the coffee had gotten to me. The other two, by all accounts slept soundly.
Frankie, Nicki, and Heather ended up in a gay bar until about five in the morning. They got back to the hotel at six. We had to wake them from their reveries at 10.30, because our transport was due at 10.40 to take us to Nice for check-in. Then the stories came out. Frankie had been propositioned by just about every man in the room and took it all in good spirit, dancing with a couple of transvestites while the girls evidently did other unmentionable things.
You know there are times when you really should just have kept partying, rather than trying to be sensible. I would have paid money to see Frankie balance a gay dwarf on his forehead, whilst dancing outrageously. In fact, I wish I'd got it on video. As for the girls forcing gay chaps to lick drinks from their bodies....I'd probably have paid to see that too. I felt slightly dejected in missing out on the final lunacy: I think Simon and Mark did too. But I was cheered that such madness could have taken place: and next time we shall have spare seats for the guitars (so we can take 'em as hand luggage); and now we know the routine, the next time we get a serious corporate gig in Cannes (we may have hit a good seam here, and we played well) we will have a schedule.
Our transport got us to the airport on time.
Now I do wish my right ear would clear up after all the pressurising/depressurising rubbish.
I've also allocated the whole band lending right status for my library.