Saint Tropez is as bawdy as ever, so we spend most of our time tucked away in the hills. But even our monk-like existence sometimes requires some amusement and when we recently ventured out to one of the most exclusive yet bacchanalian nightclubs, I queued up in the ladies’ room, watching the young amazons fighting for mirror space in their towering heels and tiny skirts. We were all waiting, for what felt like an age, for one of the stall doors to open. Finally, after repeated banging on the painted plywood, two people staggered out, much the worse for wear. One was a man, who sauntered out wiping some white powder from underneath his nose with a sheepish smirk. The girls all shrieked as if they’d never seen a man before — so likely.
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At a popular lunchtime beach restaurant, the über-rich still spray champagne by the Jeroboam over fellow customers, some of whom still become justifiably irate. A billionaire Russian oligarch, who was massaging his lofty lady friend with Krug in between sprays, bounded up to our table and attempted to shower us with a €25,000 Methusaleh. When I stamped my stiletto in objection, he stopped, shrugged and excused himself by saying, ‘You’ve got to let them know you’ve got it.’ How the rich love to throw their money down the drain!
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I didn’t really believe in global warming until this summer, with heatwaves and hurricanes the size of continents on the east coast of the US, torrential rain in North Korea and drought in the Sudan. In the south of France, it was unseasonably cold with dozens of mistrals during the summer, followed by a week in August that was so hot people were fainting in the Place des Lices market. We then had monsoon-like rains and violent winds that hurtled all the poolside furniture into the water. Since I hate wind, I cowered in our bedroom reading thrillers on my Kindle and twittering on my iPad. I’ve become slightly addicted to Twitter. You receive the news before it hits TV, and get to hear from like-minded people, and also from some unhinged-minded people, such as the rioters. But if you don’t like criticism, don’t go on Twitter.
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My three adorable grandchildren are nothing if not outspoken. I’ve had them and their parents staying with me for the past three weeks in the south of France, like some bizarre episode of The Waltons. While discussing with seven-year-old Ava Grace her plans to become a movie director, I suggested that she might cast me in one of her films. She replied, laconically, ‘If you’re still alive then.’ Out of the mouths of babes.
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I was surprised when my agent informed me that Sainsbury’s has now taken over as the No. 1 retailer of books in the UK. Since Borders went out of business, that has left just a few shops — Smiths, Waterstone’s and small independent bookshops — to sell books. My book was serialised in a daily newspaper and I was tickled by their salacious headlines. It will now be exclusive to Sainsbury’s for the next three months. A couple of my famous novelist friends have expressed a certain amount of envy, which makes me quite chuffed! There is nothing like jealousy to boost one’s self-confidence.
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We lunched at a charming little restaurant at Le Lavandou with the children, Jerry Hall and her new beau Warwick Hemsley. Jerry pointed at a blackboard on the bar displaying the cocktail menu. To my surprise, among the mojitos and sea breezes was one called the ‘Joan Collins’: vodka, lime, Perrier, angostura and brown sugar. ‘Did they make that up today because they knew I was coming?’ I asked Jerry. ‘No, it’s here all the time,’ she replied. I had to sample it, but within minutes the sugar infiltrated a sensitive tooth. ‘Oh, my God! Joan Collins has given Joan Collins a toothache!’ one of the kids exclaimed as agony engulfed my mouth. So now I finally understand how destructive sugar can be to the teeth. I’ve cut out the rosé, started drinking straight vodka and, for the first time in my life, I’ll be glad to see my dentist.
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I see David Hockney is attacking our draconian smoking laws. He’s produced an amazing art piece featuring 133 cigarette packets with the slogan ‘Freedom is Choice’, but I was sad to hear about the death of another iconoclastic painter, Lucian Freud. When we dined with him in April at his favourite restaurant, the Wolseley, I asked him how many children he had. ‘I’ve absolutely no idea,’ he replied. Hey, Freedom is Choice, right?
Joan Collins is an actress and writer. Her Twitter handle is @joancollinsobe. The World According to Joan is available in Sainsbury’s from 6 September.
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