Another film star fabulous weekend

I wonder what will happen when I finally stop getting glamorous invites and have only cleaning the windows, washing the car and walking the dogs at weekends to look forward to encore une fois? Now that film fest is done, my mingling with the A list is over (well for a few weeks anyway, until the Monte-Carlo TV Festival starts in June) and I was expecting to come back down to earth with a bump this week.

Fortunately it has been mitigated by a few extra lovely excursions to postpone the inevitable return to drudgery a little longer. A swim at the beach with Bex and Tom followed by cocktails and dinner at the Marco Polo was a rather lovely start to the week. Then it was a girl’s night with Fiona and her Berkshire buddies at Sparkling in Cannes, a great new-ish bar restaurant in rue des Freres Pradignac, where the lovely owner Jean-Pierre plied us with Limoncello and strawberries in hibiscus after a delicious dinner on the terrace and made us promise to come back for a night at the club downstairs once Cannes gets all summer lively....and we will!

After writing gazillions of pieces about Elle Macpherson for Britain and Ireland’s Next Top Model from my Miami trip (big raspberry to all those doubters, well, Iain and the girls, who think I just enjoyed myself partying and playing in the surf and didn’t do a stitch of work) it was time for a little R&R, which has been little in evidence lately...so to Saint Tropez with Sylvia on Friday morning for a weekend which started out as work but ended up as, well, a little light shopping, a little less light lunching, a little rose and some serious pitches to boutiques there with her fabulous jewellery.

We had good reason to celebrate after getting her designs commissioned by Trinity, Hippychic and the beach boutique at Club 55, where the A list will soon be clamouring to buy her designs. Only the three most happening stores in the town so flush with success, we went to Salama, a very chic Moroccan restaurant on a backstreet (rue des Tisserands as I recall) serving great food in a beautiful riad-like setting that transports you straight to Marrakech. They had the most amazing playlist which the lovely waiter compiled himself and where they played one of my all-time favourite tracks of the summer, La Ritournelle, try the address below for a taste of divine Sebastien Tellier...if this doesn’t put you in the mood for summer, nothing will...

http://vimeo.com/1516056

Saturday lunch at Club 55 was memorable for the amazing atmosphere, addictive people watching, very sweet maitre d and humungous prices for what was very average food. Really not sure about the panier of raw vegetables that arrives on the table at €25 euros. Ditto my poulet fermier aux herbes which was actually chicken and chips but as I say, it’s not about the food, more about the ambience. It’s packed so they must be doing something right...

Then it was off to the Monaco Grand Prix on Sunday with Milly. We are Formula 1 virgins, so this invite was mannah from heaven...come and watch the Grand Prix at a roof terrace party at the port, pictured above, 200 metres from the start line and in full view of the exit from the tunnel and the port stretch of track. Oh yes, and have some vodka cocktails and lush Lebanese fare for lunch and listen to the sounds of the Garden Brothers DJ-ing....We watched Vettel blast his way to victory, and being just above the Red Bull stand, also saw him arrive on a private launch after the race to party with his friends, family and Red Bull team, and spray them with Champagne as they cheered his arrival. Pretty special.

It made the fact that I almost missed the train there almost bearable...having driven inexpicably to Villeneuve-Loubet instead of Cagnes-sur-Mer where I was due to meet Milly on the second last carriage of the 10.35am to Monte-Carlo. I would have been fine if only Iain hadn’t mysteriously removed the sat nav from the car on Saturday for his journey to Barcelona WHICH WAS NOT HAPPENING UNTIL WEDNESDAY ANYWAY.

It should have been like something out of Brief Encounter, it was actually more like Benny Hill as I drove around VL for ages, watching the minutes tick by and driving in and out of private domaines in rising panic looking for the roundabout I recognised until I rang MC veteran Faye to plead for directions. Somehow she navigated me to the station where I abandoned the car, waited for the dork in front of me to try and get his ticket three times from the machine because he was putting his credit card in upside down and then legged it onto the platform just as the train arrived and Milly leant serenely out of the carriage to greet me. My beautiful silk dress was soaked in sweat and I couldn’t speak for the first five minutes. But as reported, all worth it to hear the beautiful drone of those engines in glorious reality rather than through the TV screen.

As I relayed this story to Faye and Fiona this morning just before yoga, they were screeching with laughter and urging me to follow my true calling which is surely as a stand up comedienne. It made me realise that there is a reason why these things always happen to me. It’s to bring joy and laughter to those whose lives operate without the same levels of disaster and drama....

My night with Leonardo DiCaprio

So, the end of the Film Festival and my feet, (crows and otherwise) liver and stamina are all feeling the strain of nine solid days of partying and an average of two to four hours sleep max a night. I know my friends have had enough of me going on about the hardship of yet another glass of Laurent Perrier in yet another VIP area at yet another exclusive party full of A listers, but it really is....okay, stop twisting my arm, a bloody brilliant way to earn a living.

I thought I had peaked already with the Jon Hamm close encounter at the Eden Roc, Will.i.am’s brilliant DJ stint at de Grisogono and Calvin Klein’s stylish party at the Martinez beach but the best was still to come.

My last party night kicked off with champagne at Roberto Cavalli’s new boutique on the Croisette. It was a short skip to the Carlton for the Cinema for Peace dinner hosted by Sean Penn, who was on great form, surrounded by his film stars pals Robert de Niro, Uma Thurman, Harvey Weinstein, Ryan Gosling, Naomi Campbell , Jane Fonda and Faye Dunaway. Then, slipping in after the rest, the welcome addition of Leonardo DiCaprio, the newly single man du jour who has been spotted wooing Blake Lively on Steven Spielberg’s yacht.

He was on fine form, interrupting the auction to make a huge pledge of his own for Haiti and press-ganging three of his mates at the dinner to match him. As the dinner ended, I was ready to head home, feet screaming as they were wedged into yet another pair of heels for the umpteenth time. But lovely Juliet from Hello magazine had other ideas. ‘We’re off to Roberto’s yacht for a party, you have to come,’ she told me...so I did, as you can see from the pic of Juliet and me above, taken just before we went on board.

The joy of kicking off those masochistic Stuart Weitzman snakeskin babies that I so love to walk barefoot on Cavalli's teak decks (and I'm not talking about the great designer's chest) was almost as good as being served Champagne on his amazing yacht which is decorated in animal print galore plus his own range of homes furnishings.

The DJ was rocking the guests, which had included Janet Jackson earlier that evening, and everyone was en forme. Then Juliet had another suggestion....what about the Jamiroquai private gig at the Replay party? This was the hottest ticket of the night, everyone wanted to go, but the list was tight. I was erring towards home at this point but J was insistent, telling me the PR had been badgering her to come along and it would all be fine.

We arrived to see thongs of people fighting to get past security, who were having none of it. But one quick call from Juliet and the PR was whisking us past the hoi polloi, ushering us into the VIP area with a glass of champagne each and suddenly we were a few feet from Jay Kay blasting out some of my favourite songs of the last 15 years.

There’s no way to top this, I thought, until we scored an invite to Leonardo’s private party at his villa above the Croisette, which we walked straight into with no silly red velvet ropes, security goons or other annoyances. Leo looked pleased to see us (!) and stood right next to me chatting with his entourage, fighting off female attention from a gaggle of gorgeous models and looking very relaxed. I did wonder if he had Blake hidden in a cupboard upstairs but he was happy to mingle and chose a large cigar as we all admired the view of the bay of Cannes, which was truly spectacular.

We left at 4.30am, with the party still going strong, the DJ playing a great disco mix and the chef cooking sausages on the barbecue for the 100 odd guests.

A truly fantastic finish to a really brilliant two weeks. It was a bit like being up for an Oscar – I was ‘gifted’ as they say in the good old USA, a pair of Armani rimless sunglasses and a bottle of Mont Blanc perfume to make my festival even more enjoyable. This one is going to take a lot of beating.

Was planning a nice quiet week of writing and working diligently at my PC, with no more namedropping now that I am back on school run/Carrefour/dog walking duties once again, but alas, it is not to be. St Tropez on Friday and Saturday, where Sylvia and I will no doubt be tripping over celebrities as they clamour to get near us and checking out the fab looking Hotel Sezz. Then it’s the Formula 1 terrace party at the Monaco Grand Prix on Sunday with Milly, where we will be watching our first ever GP in true style. Normal life will just have to be resumed next week instead.

Night Fever

Who knew I could be this hardcore? Eight days into the Cannes Film Festival and I have been out every night partying...or should I say watching celebrities partying. Ok, partying a little alongside them. Everyone knows I love a party but this is ridiculous....on Monday night I went to four and Sunday’s party started at midnight and ended at 6am!

I've watched Duran Duran and Jessie J in concert, mingled with SJP, Uma Thurman, Lara Stone, Naomi Campbell, Jude Law, Bradley Cooper, Jamie Foxx, watched Owen Wilson and Adrien Brody try and out party each other, drank champagne on a yacht, eaten sushi and drank lavender vodka cocktails at the Nobu pop up on the roof of 3.14 and still have cocktails with Roberto Cavalli and dinner at the Carlton with Robert de Niro, Leo diCaprio, Sean Penn and Ryan Gosling to come. As you can see, namedropping doesn't come easily to me.

So far, the best party has to be Art of Elysium purely because I was in the presence of long time crush and Mad Men star Jon Hamm. We had a little chat, he touched my arm and it was just magical although I'm sure his girlfriend didn't see it that way.

For atmosphere, it had to be the Calvin Klein party which was on the Martinez Z plage and full to bursting with A list celebs dancing their socks off and drinking the bar dry. Watching the Duran Duran boys jump around like teenagers at VIP room was a laugh too.

But for good old fashioned fun, and not a celeb in sight, it was the Bollywood party on the beach opposite the Carlton, complete with Sikh DJ, fantastic Indian buffet, champagne and a lot of people who knew how to enjoy themselves and dance the night away. Had a lovely chat with Greg Dyke, head of the British Film Institute, former tv-am boss and the man who famously invented Roland Rat.

Last night it was de Grisogono, always a glittering bash, at the Eden Roc, as you can see from the picture above it was black rather than red carpet but nonetheless filled with stars galore and Will.i.am on the DJ decks by the pool. There were fireworks and balls of flames shooting into the night sky in time to the music…just utterly, utterly fabulous.

So I've been on the red carpet, interviewing the stars, partying and writing fab reports for Life and Style in the US and Look in the UK. But I haven't been invited to have supper with Johnny Depp. That is Issy’s invitation from her friend whose dad is a film director and fair to say that mama and big sis are green with envy and planning to turn up and deliver her `”forgotten” overnight bag just after he arrives! I've been topped by my 11yo, which is actually quite cool.

Cannes Film Fest Day One

So the 64th Cannes Film Festival has started, and first things first, they were a little behind yesterday morning, or relaxed, in what some would say is true French fashion, still unrolling the red carpet ready for the press screening and photo call of Woody Allen’s Midnight in Paris, a romantic farce starring Owen Wilson, Rachel McAdams, Adrien Brody, Kathy Bates and Marion Cotillard.

Woody loves France, he was here last year with You Will Meet a Tall Dark Stranger, and his new film is a real love letter to Paris, with long loving shots of the city by day, by night, in the sunshine and the rain. It’s a quirky rom com and fans of the art and literary worlds of yesteryear will relish it.

One scene where Owen’s character meets Ernest Hemingway in the 1920s looked familiar but I couldn’t figure out why until I realised that it was filmed at Les Caves du Polidor, the fab little Parisien bistro just off Boulevard St Germain that we ate in last summer on the night we arrived in Paris. And where the clumsy waitress clumped iain over the head with a bread basket!

After the film, Woody talked all about how inspired he was by French directors as a young film-maker and he waxed so lyrical about France that he will probably be back chairing the jury next year. Lucky French dwellers can read my piece very soon in next month's edition of The French Paper.

The red carpet premiere last night was a blaze of cameras and thousands of people cheering as Robert de Niro, Uma Thurman and Jude Law arrived first as members of the official jury.

Then it was Melanie Griffiths and Antonio Banderas, she sporting a tattoo of his name in a heart on her right arm, and another at the back of her neck. They cuddled like loved up teenagers on the red carpet, followed by Salma Hayek in a shimmering silver sequin strapless gown and the show’s stars Owen, Rachel, Michael Sheen and Adrien flanking Woody.

Owen looked astonished at the hordes of fans gathered below the Palais and snapped a sneaky shot of the crowd with his mobile phone before heading into the theatre. But as my LA film pal Lissa, who is down here every year, said:'Hollywood loves Cannes, it's old school glamour. Not even the Oscars does the red carpet this well.'

The day was enlivened by lunch at Vegaluna with Sylvia, where I had a birds’ eye view of the Puss in Boots photo call with the still gorgeous Antonio Banderas and Salma Hayek.

It is moving rapidly upscale tonight as I am soon heading off to a very glam party hosted by Calvin Klein's designer Francisco Costa for Hollywood's most chic A listers.....the only problem being what to wear, which is why this blog is going to be sort and sweet as a wardrobe raid is imminent.

Party party party party....

If you are extremely sensitive in disposition, or extremely jealous of my life here in the sunny South of France or both, I can only tell you for the good of your future mental health to stop reading now. If however, you are a masochistic soul who enjoys being made to suffer, feel free to carry on...

After three weeks of wedding celebrations both Royal and otherwise, Elvis themed 50ths and much revelling by the pool, the fun continues on Wednesday with the opening of the Cannes Film Festival.

It's the busiest two weeks of the year for a certain showbiz journalist, pictured very hard at work above, and it means allowing the pool loungers to gather some dust, letting the housework go to rack and ruin and leaving the Kershaw household to fend for itself while I hotfoot into Cannes each morning for screenings, interviews with the A listers and then, oh joy, the parties.

Having revelled rather hard of late, I'm torn between feeling excitement at the thought of some seriously souped up bashes and trepidation at the lack of sleep and general full on-ness of the next two weeks. Invitations to Cannes Film Festival parties are a bit like buses...you wait for ages then three turn up at the same time so it's a case of arriving, checking out the action and making a calculated guess on whether to stay or quit for the next one, and of course, not missing one single bit of action or saleable gossip in the process. All the while sipping a glass of fizz on a yacht/Nikki Beach/the Martinez. And people think my job is easy.

There are some seriously good names arriving as we speak, Johnny Depp, Jodie Foster,Sean Penn, SJP, to name just a few, and some great films that I will struggle to make the horrifically anti-social 8.30am screenings for (I'm sure it's a deliberate attempt by the killjoys to punish freeloading hacks who have partied long and hard into the night. Naming no names.)

My top choices are The Tree of Life with Brad Pitt and Sean Penn (who to pick, I love them both) Woody Allen's Midnight in Paris with a massively starry cast including Owen Wilson, Rachel McAdams, Kathy Bates and Carla Bruni, This Must Be The Place, We Need To Talk About Kevin, Drive and the latest Gus Van Sant offering Restless.

My lovely friend Judy is coming down with the BFI so I will have a pal to party with, hurray. Cannes, be very afraid! There's no danger of an anti-climax once the festival ends either. After a two day 'working' trip with Sylvia in St Tropez, I will be off to Monaco on May 29th after a rather lovely invite came through via a DJ events company, asking if I fancy watching the Grand Prix at a champagne fuelled party with guest DJs from around the globe on the Formula 1 Terrace....and I have a plus one!

And it's not going to Iain, who is at this moment kicking himself and sticking rusty nails in his eyes as he was so super organised this year that he has already arranged a boys' race day (with a far less superior view to mine!) To say that he is super gutted is an understatement. It's going to Milly instead, so we will be GP virgins sipping LP together for one day only.

There's barely time to catch my breath before the Monte Carlo TV Festival kicks off in early June with a horde of UK and US TV stars descending on the principality for five days of press and, oh yes, partying. And then precisely one week later, it's surfing in Biarritz with the gang, by which time all I will be fit for is a cuppa, a Stannah stairlift, a facelift and some very, very early nights. And if you believe that, you are very gullible indeed.

All in the best possible taste

Hot on the heels of the Royal wedding came the second most eagerly anticipated celebration of 2011, Nick P’s 50th, and despite my instincts screaming out that it’s not a good idea to throw a party the day before a party, we couldn’t let the Royal wedding pass without inviting a few Brits to goss with about the outfits, the service and why Victoria Beckham seems incapable of smiling EVER.

An afternoon of champers, sushi, chocolate cake and Eton mess was the perfect way to see it through and I was feeling rather smug as I packed and tucked myself up in bed at 11pm ready for a big weekend. I enjoyed a rather lovely mojito in the sunshine by the river at Richmond before heading off to Parker Towers in Twickenham.

It started looking dangerous when we heard the order of the night was aperitifs, supper, pre-party drinks, party and post party back at the house. Nick indulged his twin passions for Elvis and karaoke, hiring a dwarf called Brian to dress up and perform as Elvis. We were all wondering how Dwelvis actually earned a living given that he had hearing issues, didn’t really know any Elvis stuff and seemed to be struggling to read the lyrics on the screen, until it became clear that Nick had simply googled ‘dwarves for hire’ and briefed Brian in great detail for his first ever public performance as Elvis.

No expense was spared as dressed in a suit from Argos, he arrived on stage to the strains of the Superman theme tune and cheers from the crowd. My personal favourite was Suspicious Minds and there was no shortage of support from Nick, Jeremy and Shekhar as you can see in the picture above.

If there were prizes to be dished out, the award for Best Elvis Voice would have to go to Mr P, but given that Dwelvis had trouble seeing the screen and was tone deaf, the competition was a little lacking. Best Elvis costume – well, that would be Jeremy Armstrong, in a white rhinestone suit, Elvis wig, and glasses so convincing that many people failed to recognise him, the only giveaway being his red Converse peeping out from beneath the nylon bell bottoms.

Most chivalrous party guest goes to the hack who shall remain nameless but whose family are big in the lemonade industry. On being introduced to me, he said ‘Over 40...but looking good’ and without missing a beat, then turned to the hostess and said ‘So, you’re his wife....I was convinced you were going to be a big, fat, ugly munter.....but you’re rather lovely!’

Sight of the night – the hostess landing in a black bin full of ice cubes and beers (she insists she thought it was a stool when she sat down) and being manoeuvred out by four Elvis impersonators. She has now been christened Clare Bin Parker.

There was also an incident with a corset and a trouser suit in the ladies’ but the perpetrator will never speak to me again if I say anymore so nuff said. Another great moment at 5am, when someone of Geordie origin who shall also remain nameless ‘rescued’ a half eaten kebab from the bottom of the bin and tucked in with gusto as everyone else looked on horrified, especially when she tried to offer it around.

It was a little after 6am before Fleet Street’s finest reluctantly left, many in varying states of Elvis-like dishevelment, leaving bandanas, rhinestone belts and wigs in their wake but on the upside, the police left us alone this time, making it only the second house party in Parker Towers history where they haven’t put in an appearance.

Sunday was planned as a post party chill out so quite how it was that we ended up at the White Swan on the river in Twickenham until closing time is anyone’s guess. Suffice it to say that in 14 years, I have never once sat on Clare and Nick’s sofa or watched TV at their house despite our best laid plans for building in recovery time after particularly long and eventful celebrations.

As we left this morning, bleary eyed and baggy faced to catch the flight home, we caught the headlines that Osama Bin Laden had been shot dead by US troops. The phone rang, and Nick’s bank holiday was hastily relocated to Pakistan. But there’s a silver lining – it’s dry there so a perfect place to detox and a there’s a nice long flight to sleep on.

A big fat gastronomic wedding

Post the excitement of New York and Miami and with the Easter holidays looming, I was expecting a couple of weeks to calm down, catch my breath and get my feet back under the table, or preferably on top of a lounger by the pool.

Not so. First day back and I was interviewing like a demon. Richard E Grant was charming, as we discussed the South of France, he quipped: ‘Are you doing this interview from your sun lounger then?’ If only he knew how near the truth he was.

Billy Connolly was a dream, just as funny off camera she you secretly hope he will be (particularly as a fair few comedians I’ve interviewed are surly and completely unfunny as themselves. Naming no names but a certain rubbery faced Blackadder star was one of the very worst.) Billy on the other hand is a brilliant raconteur as well as searingly honest and not afraid to say what he thinks, which is also a rarity among the A list these days.

And Ashley Jensen, of Extras and Ugly Betty, was every bit as down to earth as you would hope, holding forth on everything from Ricky Gervais’ controversial performance at the Golden Globes and life in Hollywood to the difficulties of losing pregnancy weight and refreshingly, how in the plastic fantastic world of LA, packing a few extra pounds of post baby weight really doesn’t bother her.

Then we had the pleasure of Poppy’s company for six days, Issy’s best pal from London. They have known each other since birth when her mum and I used to sneak off to the David Lloyd outdoor pool during our precious few weeks of maternity leave in the long hot summer of ’99 and place them side by side in their car seats. They are like sisters, born eight days apart and sharing an insatiable passion for chocolate, popcorn and fit Abercrombie male models.

We had a week of beaching, going wild at the Labyrinth adventure park in Villeneuve-Loubet and shopping in Cannes. Since Pops left I have been finding sweet wrappers, chocolate foil and empty popcorn bags stuffed into carrier bags and hidden not so discreetly all around the garden, so I obviously didn’t foil their nightly midnight feasts.

The week was rounded off by Eric and Corinne’s long-awaited wedding. After a month of relentless hot sunshine, it poured with rain on the big day but not even the storms could dampen the joy of seeing the happy couple above exchange vows at the Mairie in Bar sur Loup. It was the quickest wedding I’ve ever been to, half an hour from arrival to finishing the photos on the steps outside under storm clouds, and then the celebrations really began in earnest. We had aperos and canapés at their restaurant Michelangelo before moving onto La Bastide aux Oliviers in Vence, a beautiful chambre d’hotes with a wedding marquee in the grounds.

Now the French are a nation of food and wine lovers and Eric is a chef and a perfectionist to boot so it was obvious that the catering was going to be top notch. But oh my God, I now need to run five marathons to work off the delicious array of delicacies we waded through that night. Jerome Ravel provided the catering and the tiny bouchees of spicy crab and avocado, quails eggs on caramelised onions, mozzarella and sun dried tomato skewers, crab morues, tempura courgette flowers, stuffed aubergines, marinaded barbecued prawns and scallops washed down with Champagne flowed until 11pm.

Then to our utter astonishment, we were ushered to tables to sit down for the wedding breakfast proper of perfectly pink duck, sea bream and mountain cheese from the Savoyarde village where Corinne’s family come from. At 1.30am, what can only be described as a juggernaut sized trolley rolled out of the wings laden with around 500tiny servings of home-made tiramisu, crème brulee, choux buns, and I cannot remember what else.

There were many memorable moments, not least during the vows when Eric, in response to being asked if he would take Corinne as his wife, uttered the French equivalent of ‘Bring it on!’ Then, as we sat down at 11pm to continue the food fest, he took the floor with Corinne for the first dance, and suddenly everyone got up and joined them in a mad frenzy of boogying for an hour before reluctantly taking to their seats to eat!

The partying continued until 4.30am and resumed a few short hours later on Sunday for brunch back at Michelangelo with all the other wedding guests still looking as fresh as daisies. Meanwhile Fiona and I sat wearily in dark glasses trying to sip a hair of the dog glass of pink Champagne. We felt like even bigger lightweights when Corinne’s 94-year-old grandpa arrived with his walking stick and greeted everyone with a nifty shimmy, a broad grin and a cheery ‘Bonjour tout le monde!’

I’ve been to many weddings but this was my first French one and I was struck by how friendly everyone was and how quick they were to embrace les Anglais. Along with Fi and Graham, we were the only English guests, the rest having travelled from Paris, Annecy and even the Phillipines. If Will and Kate have half as good a time at their nuptials on Friday, they will be very lucky indeed.