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Riviera notebook

Joan Collins

Wednesday, 15th August 2007

The shiny new ‘Vodka Palaces’ lie scattered across the bay of St Tropez like the discarded toys of a spoiled child.

The shiny new ‘Vodka Palaces’ lie scattered across the bay of St Tropez like the discarded toys of a spoiled child. Each year they seem to grow bigger, as do the gorgeous girls who cluster on deck and throng the boutiques and clubs — taller anyway. Many of the boats are owned by Russian billionaires — how did they become so rich so fast? — and it seems that three or four dazzlers hang on the arm of each stocky oligarch. What did the Russian government feed their pregnant women and toddlers two decades ago that made these women sprout into tall and skinny beanstalks? And why is it only the girls who seem to have inherited that giant gene? All the men are pretty ordinary both in looks and height; maybe their massive wealth makes up for their massive bellies. At Cave du Roi, the local dive where a jeroboam of Cristal can set you back E10,000, I stood with two girlfriends, primping in the powder room, our mouths agape at these giraffes. None of them was under six foot, and they sauntered about in tiny mini-dresses and five-inch stilettos, idly tossing waist-length locks. Either the government gave them hair growth supplements in infancy or Russia is making the most realistic extensions since Lady Godiva! Feeling like three of the dwarves from Snow White, my girlfriends and I sat in the club becoming more hysterical as each Amazon tottered past: truly a scene from Attack of the 50ft Woman.

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