Fear and Loathing on La Croisette

Part One:

Few non-medicated civilians can fully comprehend the seething pond of bubbling perversion that is Nice Airport's international arrival lobby.

Viewed through a demi-carafe, rose wine tint, it's possible for the festival virgin to tragically underestimate the awaiting carousel's swerving, latent violence for an innocent, if slightly gauche suburban air strip.

But the alpha attack dogs of the advertising zoo know better. Banking hard onto the cote d'azure and the last stop pre-med for the Gucci elite, this is no simple touch down to AUS$200 steak frites and a trump-orange tan. This is as hard core as it can possibly get. A jagged burn that chars ego and devours self-confidence. People, many of them innocent, will be eaten, soul and all, over the next ten days. And they will be the lucky ones.

For the rest of the hapless ghouls meandering around me in search of crucially vital luggage that is already heading to Uganda, via an Air Egypt A300 out of Charles De Gaulle, the following week bent double worshipping the Lion God will render them terminally mute and deaf; their minds literally cooked dry by the combined drone of 12,000 screaming, squeaking death-ravens bent on self-abuse at the very highest levels of VR pornography.

It doesn't get any better or the stakes any higher for your aspiring adman/data curler. Careers will be escalated and diffused with equal aggression. Only the most base, animal primate flavor of marketer will survive the onslaught of experiential overload that awaits all those sporting a laminated festival pass. The seminars alone will reduce thousands to dribbling lemmings: barbarically savaged by the crude genius and psychopathic lust of the 24/7, realtime, 360, media agnostic, tech-forward, bombastic onslaught. By dawn, the hapless carcasses of the fallen will pile up on FaceBook's private beach like sodden kelp on the jersey shore.

But this terror has no ceiling for those ill equipped to handle the harpie whistle of the mob. La Croisette de Cannes: A 2km strip of innocuous pebble wasteland, peppered with posh hotels masquerading as Monte Carlo casinos, bad coffee shops and, for ten, humid days in June, a searingly relentless display of hyper gore and corporate paranoia, as the advertising world's most brutally Machiavellian tsars drag us all into a more connected brand future. Think Mogadishu with a better speaker system.

Only those with a weapons-grade tolerance for high-acidity bile and a voracious appetite for sunshine and cheese cloth will ultimately reign supreme by the ordeal's blood-soaked seven day finale.

And now, even I, a battered veteran of this putrid crash and carry out, will be tested to the maximum of my remaining muscle groups. If I have any prayer of surviving the bug-eyed storm troopers masquerading as user-friendly, multilingual immigration officials standing post before me, it is essential I re-marshall my nerves and start aping the over-achieving marketing Jedi that the bloated CV on the Lions Festival website currently claims me to be.

Three months ago, back in Sydney, my Samoan attorney, Jay Furby, had made it abundantly clear:

"They want you. Can you believe it? You! They think you're still in the business! Hysterical, yes, but I skillfully persuaded them you've stopped drinking and are taking all the properly prescribed and necessary medications. They bought it. And now, the predictable arrangements have been made. A conveniently located 3 star hotel room has been reserved in your name. Festival passes are being printed as we speak. A medium-sized sedan will pick you up at Nice airport. I have already accepted, on your behalf. And included my usual administrative percentage fee. It's legally binding you fool. Either Cannes or a cell in the Cross awaits you."

And so, now, here I am.

Staring down the barrel of a black-suited failed male model, as he holds up a card with my name, almost spelled correctly, and the bitter, greenish glint of an arch assassin who pines for the richer pickings and superior bone structure of the bona fide Film Festival judges: They, who truly lend this town its air of superficial bling, but who shot out of here in fat cat company jets back to LALA months ago.

"Fuck you, ad scum pretender" his eyes shout, as his mouth mumbles "bonjour Monsieur Nobbly" with all the enthusiasm of a back-bent, meth freak on the low slopes of a three day binge.

This blood thirsty lunatic has me down pat. He's seen the genuine article. He's smelt the real deal. And he recognizes my imposter stammer and clammy fist. In seconds, he will strangle the jet-lagged life from me. I know that look. The itchy, twitchy trigger finger. The polished loafers. The white-knuckle hatred of all that data-driven creativity holds dear. Between festivals, this Rottweiler no-doubt protects Marine LePen and her Nazi kin, as they plot the demise of the brown intruder, over blue-rare steak and chilled Sancerre, from her palatial, Provence pool-side retreat.

This twisted bastard will have me hog-tied in the back of his Mercedes E-class wagon in a petit-moment. Only laser-clear focus and rat cunning can save me now. If I have any hope at all, I must up my Cannes-Game substantially. By three notches; perhaps even more. I will need accessories at the double. Top drawer labels. Shi-Shi and foo-foo. Nothing less. No "vin-ordinaire". No expense spared. Whatever the outrageous cost or criminally baked conversion rates this side of the world threatens. I have to shop hard, like my life depends on it. Or be devoured by this perfectly tailored man-lizard.

I will need suade. By the meter. And calf skin shoulder bags. White pants; a dozen, minimum, tapered like razor blades. And tangerine cashmere. As much as I can feasibly carry. Feather-lite linen suits. Deconstructed. Ideally, pink.

But the Publicis Comms overseas protocols are painfully clear on this subject: transcribed to me in person only days ago in Sydney, with ferociously forensic detail by their Regional CFO? "There can be no infringements". He was adamant. "Zero tolerance" for unbillable extravagance. "No wriggle room" he stressed. Not after the "London Incident". Shit damn! I am in a pickle, and given my driver's leaden right foot, it will only be a matter of minutes before we arrive at my prescribed hostel for the next ten days; The Grey Albion", a name that reeks of moderation, low intensity wifi and a minimal use of marble.

I will be undone, before I have even started. This is my bat-shit twisted attorney's fault. He knew full well he was sending me into the bowels of the beast with pitifully underpowered munitions. I am doomed. That beer soaked maniac has pulled this trick before, when he accompanied me to Dubai in '08 to co-chair their extravagant, diamond encrusted Lynx Award Festival. Then, only a wandering CNN news crew and the last minute intervention of the Deputy PM, Julia Bishop, saved us both from a thousand lashes, at a minimum. Now, here I am again. But where is he? Spending the last of my commission in Kings Cross, no doubt.

I reach for my company iPhone. At this rate, my Publicis international roaming package can only feasibly stretch another day, but to hell with it. No fucking emoji can do this nightmare justice. This more than spells full blown, global emergency, and Jay Furby, for all his demonic excesses, is the only man intellectually and morally ill-equipped to lift me out of this ensuing mire. He is a savage lion amongst fetid rabbits.

"Jay, I can only speak for a moment", I spit out as the process blue coastline of the French Riviera looms into view ahead of us.

"Go ahead Nobay, you have my full attention. But, I warn you, I am recording this conversation. Just in case".

"Never mind that, Jay. I require a new wardrobe. ASAP. These Frenchies are onto me, I can feel it!"

"Relax, I've thought of everything. Your time has been secured for the Lions Outdoor Jury, correct?"

"Of course! You secured it, you maniac?"

"Well, given the prevailing heat down there in June, and considering that, unlike the other 1,742 Lions juries, yours alone has the added pressure of being judged entirely outdoors, with no reliable air conditioning and zero practical shade supplied..."

"Yes? Yes?" I splurt out as the modest entrance of my reasonably priced hotel approaches...

"Well, as your formally retained attorney, I believe you have sound legal recourse to fully expense especially tailored outdoor clothing, specifically for said event."

"Seriously?" This zombie is my attorney for good reason. No-one else in his price bracket spots the angles like Jay.

"Buy with absolute impunity! From a human-recourses perspective, I think we're on very strong ground here", Jay adds, with a confident swagger that underlines the righteous swing of his club.

Before my Samoan attorney can elaborate further, I am already out of the Mercedes and rushing at pace towards the string of gilt-edged fashion boutiques that glitter like a string of diamonds along the steaming hot, dog-shit-smeared, bitumen that marks La Croisette...

Part Two:

Your standard issue, provincial French desk concierge falls easy prey to bitter prejudice, rained down by bloated, semi-illiterate, invariably mid-western, fanny-pack freaks; juiced to the max on day-glo, sugar-rich sodas and wrongfully boasting English as their primary language.

But the Cannes-based concierge is an altogether different beast and must only be engaged with extreme caution and, ideally, heavily armed. And here, mark my words, no such liberal or PC sympathies should apply.  For this utterly feral, outlying genetic strand of the domesticated species is nothing short of a sadistic, stone cold mercenary; honed in the dark arts of pagan sacrifice and total "nose to tail" cannibalism: more than ready to disembowel naive, low level, bottom-rung, lobby plankton with casual ease and utter abandon.

The pristinely dressed goon presently eying me over his rose gold YSL lightweight frames is a case in point: Michel, (according to his lapel badge, but doubtless not his real name), analyzes my newly acquired wardrobe from the ground up, with the practiced lens of a Harvard neuro-surgeon.

First, Michel takes in my box-fresh, powder blue, suede Ferragamo loafers. He pauses, only to register my fleshy, un-socked ankle and affords me the faintest nod of approval. Then north, to my HUGO BOSS hot pink linen, wide shouldered, two button suit (just one of ten I purchased moments ago on my Publicis corporate Amex in preparation for the hideous contest ahead). The ridiculously baggy marquis pants are pulled in high and sharp by a EURO 2,500 Hermes green lizard-skin belt with the iconic "H" buckle pronouncing its proud defiance in glistening, rose gold. The combination is unashamedly brazen and projects its crude message, guns blazin' across the tatty lobby like a primed 12lb sack of C4.

Michel, as with all these CIA backed and SEAL-trained pseudo receptionists, appreciates the subtle, time honored code of rose gold. And, wisely respecting this local convention myself, I have taken the precaution to plump for its metallic glow at every possible opportunity: even my Publicis issue, limited-roaming iPhone is now bathed in an authentic, rose gold Chanel sheath. Deep cover played out at this high level is a 100% commitment game and I'm leaving nothing to chance.

Michel's mouth twists into a cruel, half dolphin smile. He instinctively knows he's dealing with significant money here; albeit nouveau. The whiff of my EURO foghorn has already impregnated his fine, Gallic nostrils and he leans in closer; intrigued by my wardrobe's savagely uncompromising theatre.

"How is your room Monsieur Nobbly?"

"Frankly, Michel, I'm not impressed".

"Pourquoi? It is one of our best standard singles?"

"And there you have it my friend. Goddamnit! I was personally selected for the Outdoor Jury by News Ltd Australia. Could you imagine Rupert would be happy with a standard single?"

Before he even stammers a response, I know my casual reference to the Dark Knight has drawn blood. Cannes concierges are famously impervious to high level intimidation. Years of Hollywood elites bemoaning the tardiness of their room service orders have toughened the outer skin of these lobby overlords to a battle-proof Kevlar more than capable of deflecting a full frontal attack from a banshee-crazy Angelina Jolie. And yet, and yet...the whiff of a possible family connection to the Clan Murdoch is an altogether more terrifying proposition. He is Australian, technically, after all. Whether we want him or not. My nuclear deterrent released and airborne, I slouch laconically across his antique olive leather desk; victory almost at the plate.

"You do not like the hotel?"

"Let me be blunt Michel: it lacks kerb appeal. And the bidet was clearly designed for a dwarf. I must have a properly hydrated anus at all times. It's vital if I am to efficiently perform my jury duties here!"

"Anything else Monsieur?" By now he is scribbling notes. Traction achieved.

"I am one of the super-elite judges selected for the prestigious Lions OUTDOOR category...as you can plainly see from my suit, I am at the pointy end of this godless industry..."

His bic hovers over the pad. Clearly the dots are not joining up for Michel.

"OUTDOOR!" I scream, drawing the attention of some young Swedish students battling in vain to attain affordable hotel wifi just a few yards from me.

"I must be almost entirely Outdoor, at all times, if I have any chance of unearthing a credible outdoor Grand Prix! You understand my dilemma, surely?"

"Ah, I understand". Michel is back in the saddle. "You require a balcony room?"

"The very best you have.  Expense is of no importance. My lawyer assures me I have a legal prescient that insulates me from aggressive procurement assaults."

"Then can I suggest our Donny Deutsch Rooftop Suite? It boasts an outdoor pagoda and self-cleaning jacuzzi. It's also possible we could move your water bed outside, too?"

"Now you're talking Le meme language mon ami!" As I kiss this uniformed ape full on the mouth, French style with heavy tongue, like a brother in arms. Now is not the time for nerves.

"Cigar friendly?" I add as I shove 20 to 30 brightly colored shopping bags in his direction. "As a recovering alcoholic, I am encouraged by my court-appointed specialist to imbibe at least three Cuban cigars a day. It's an experimental decoy remedy. Swiss, I believe. Breakthrough stuff. I have all the current research paperwork, if required? In fact, on second thoughts, have 12 fresh boxes of Monte Cristo No2 charged to Lord Savage and sent up immediately. And cheese: I will require all the finest goats cheese you can get your silky hands on! Chèvre is very important and fundamental to the remedy.

Now a fully seduced, primed and an altogether more user-friendly proposition, Michel throws an arm over my heavily-cushioned shoulder pads, as he personally escorts me to the VIP lift.

"Would I know your work Monsieur Nobbly? You're clearly a master."

As we cram into the minuscule space, I offer this deranged fool my most conspiritual of winks:

"Name your favorite advertising?"

"Nike? Just Do It?"

"I did them all. All the really good ones"

"Old Spice?"

"Those too. Apart from the first one."

"The fearless girl of Wall St?"

"My idea. 100%. I also chiseled the statue with my bare hands"

"Make America Great Again?"

"The Donald and I go way back. I have personally overseen all his branding activities since Watergate. Apart from Trump Steaks. That was the one time he ignored my advice, and it haunts him to this very day."

"Trump is a great man. If only Marine Le Pen had been given the same chance. This country's going to the animals!" Michel laments as he unlocks the huge double doors that signal I am finally home.

Scratch a little below the crisp white linen, turquoise silk and rich, brushed suede of this pretty coastal town and it's not long before the unmistakable stench of white supremacy rises up to greet you. Big, ridiculous, aggressively sprayed hair and savage bigots go hand in hand down here in the south. The old time locals may outwardly welcome the fiscal glow of foreign ticket sales during Festival time, but never underestimate the bubbling presence of Le Front National seething from the picturesque hilltops above. Michel is undoubtedly a card carrying fascist, but it's vital I keep this racist scoundrel close if I have any chance of surviving the horrors ahead.

As we walk onto the palatial rooftop deck that bears the former Ad Titan's name, I am momentarily humbled by the sheer, gaudy, retro opulence of my upgraded digs. A Salmon pink leather, gold-stitch monogrammed, eight piece suite dominates the lounge, that opens onto a deck capable of hosting a perfectly respectable mid-sized Latvian orgy. My eyes instinctively flick over the room service menu, like everything else in this porn-palace, braided in gold.

"Tell me, Michel, how is your bouillabaisse? Fresh I hope? No smelly langoustine. I only enquire, as the bouillabaisse at the Carlton tastes like pot noodle."

"The finest in town sir. Would you like me to send some up?

"Yes, along with everything else on the menu. Twice, just to be sure. And hurry up with those cigars. This is a goddam medical emergency. I can already hear the mini bar whispering to me!"

Part Three:

No-one bothers to warn you about your nipples when you sign on as a judge for the Cannes Lions Outdoor Jury. That said, according to Jay Furby, my Sydney-based Samoan attorney, there has been more than enough warnings pinging over the equator with my name attached over the last 24 hours, ever since I touched down in this pagan repository for over-priced gut bacteria and high-stakes trophies.

It appears I may have woefully underestimated the jungle telegram that runs constant loops between the Croisette's Gutter Bar and Lord Savage's underground HQ in the secret caves below the Hotel Du Cap, 20 Km's down the coast.

What began as a colorfully Machiavellian, if undeniably illegal, strategy to recoup the EURO 72,000 I had been urged to drop on luxury threads by my attorney down-under, has now rapidly escalated up to a global threat alert that, according to the messages clogging my voicemail from Phil Thomas, Lord Savage's debonair, executive leg breaker, have every probability of "undermining the ongoing credibility of the entire Festival".

In fairness, it had seemed like a simple enough plot. At least at 3am outside the Martinez, sprawled across the gutter that passes for an open-air bar and poisoned fly-trap for the industry's hard-core underbelly.

"How much is a GP worth on the open market these days?" I loudly mused as I puffed on the third Monte Cristo of the night.

"For instance, is an Outdoor Grand Prix worth, say twice that of a radio GP? Or, for that matter, half a Titanium?"

All undeniably pivotal questions that demanded a precise, mathematical response, if I had any hope in hell of surreptitiously convincing the Worldwide CD's of all the major holding groups to bid overnight and clear my hideously bloated slate before my own Regional Publicis CFO gets wind of my sartorial hedge fund activities and I find myself, for the second time in as many years, far out to sea on the choppy open job market, faster than you can pop out a buttery, hot escargot.

Alas, at 3am, my immediate audience comprised of only three near paralytic Chinese executives from a nondescript government media buying conglomerate, none of who appeared to speak a word of English, other than "Robert De Niro"; whose name they repeated with Gatling gun rhythm at least 400 times between girlish giggles of high pitched mirth, whilst excitedly prodding my belly and pointing feverishly at the curls of bluish smoke emanating from my magnificent stogie. Perhaps best, in retrospect.

In just a week's time, that same fetid corner of La Croisette will be heaving with a damp, urine-stained swell of approximately 3,000 of Adland's most debauched marcom warriors; swaying as one to the primal boom of the disco throb slowly dying across the beach, as they spit harsh nonsense into each other's tortured eardrums at decibels that will never register a response, on subjects that can never ultimately matter.

But that is then, and this is now. And, right now, at this very second, according to my attorney, the status of my Publicis Corporate Amex account is certainly the very least of my worries.

Lord Savage is, allegedly, on the war path. A fierce path that threatens to lead up the stairs to my very own Donnie Deutsche Rooftop Suite at the reasonably-priced Grey Albion hotel, and beyond that, most probably a court room. Possibly in Brussels, according to Jay, but in all likelihood, given the tone of the messages my now Doberman-loyal concierge Michel is stuffing under my door with alarming regularity, Nuremberg is where this folly will screech to a deafening halt.

"Nobby, I specifically told you not to trust them!"

In my panic, I have forgotten that Colleen DeCourcy is still bobbing in my jacuzzi. By now, showing definite prune-like discoloration.

Dear god, why didn't I take her sage advice ten hours ago, when she begged me not to group-text my promotional proposition of "a guaranteed outdoor GP for just EURO 75,O00, no questions asked" to six of the industry's most powerful and ethically relaxed worldwide creative directors?

"Someone grassed you up honey. Big Terry probably rewarded them with a locked-in Prez spot on Titanium next year." Colleen winces, as the Riviera's dawn sun prods into view through the pagoda.

"But who? I hand picked that list? Every one of them."

"It was always going to happen. This business breeds sharks. You know that. Now throw me a towel: Jesus Christ, what the hell did you put in this water?

"That'll be the Tiger-balm. I doused it liberally on my nipples yesterday, to overcome the brutal, icy rush of the air-conditioning in the Palais's jury room.

"Tiger balm?? You perverted lunatic! No wonder my bits are on fire!" She screams as she explodes out of the jacuzzi, skidding across the polished roof deck and crashing into my waterbed.

"It's an old judging trick that Bob Isherwood taught me back in the day."

"You maniac! Whatever it is, my lady parts feel like they've been napalmed." Colleen is suddenly robed in an elegant, bejeweled, ankle length Arabian kaftan.

"It's not my fault.  The hotel specifically described the jacuzzi as one of the latest self-cleaning models. Apparently, Donnie insisted on it?"

Colleen is patently unimpressed by my flimsy defense:

"You goddam freak! How am I meant to preside over the Cyber Jury today when my skin is blistered and charred? This is the last time Nobay, I mean it. I'm not going down with this ship!"

Colleen is not a lady to mess with. I've been through some savage burns with her over the years and if history has taught me anything, it's to never underestimate the ferocity of her tongue or the dexterity of her mat-work at the wrong end of an all night pool party.

"If it wasn't for that lightning in a bottle angle you threw me at D&AD, I'd rip your fucking throat out, right here on this deck!"

She is, of course, referring to her now widely shared and much admired speech from last month's D&AD lecture in London, entitled "How to catch lightning in a bottle". To many in the global advertising industry, a timely, brilliantly drawn and utterly inspirational analogy on the wavering trajectory of our business's mission and the urgent need for a hasty recalibration of our creative talent's combined focus.

Only myself and the now frowning, still ruddy and prune-faced vixen before me know the real truth about the genesis of her recent, evangelical epiphany...almost a decade ago, at the final-night rap party in Colleen's suite after an especially raucous last day of judging my beloved Andy awards in Hawaii. Back when the booze and pills still had their demonic fist around my fast-dissolving grip on reality and the exotic locale seduced us all to not just hit the mini-bar hard, but utterly exhaust the alcoholic supply of the entire hotel.

Predictably, it had all ended sour after an epic session of karaoke, led traditionally by the curly topped prankster Keller, who, after worthy praise for a phonetically precise rendition of "Love on the rocks", had bounced so high off the double bed, he clean cracked his skull on the ceiling; spared from an early death only by his unfeasibly dense pillow of blonde mane.

For my part, the adventure escalated to unimaginable agony when, in a frantic attempt to visualize my own, personalized theory on quantum physics and the fragility of the Big Bang concept to my baffled audience, I had unwisely inserted my penis into an half-empty bottle of 12 year old Laphroig single malt, in a valiant, if tragically misguided effort to illustrate the process of an inverted, parallel universe, passing through a black hole only to be ripped asunder by extreme negative gravity.

The resulting vacuum near tore my own, now spectacularly swollen member clean off, save for the swift intervention of Pete Favat who, famously, never travels without an emergency tube of KY jelly close to hand.

In, what I still personally believe to be, a genuine effort to save my withered manhood, Colleen had viciously lashed out and struck the scotch bottle hard with a heavy, brass bed-side lamp. The power of her muscular, downward swing, shattered the thick glass; effectively freed my member, but simultaneously lacerated it with a thousand jagged and wafer-thin shards.

That specific part of a man's anatomy effectively pumps blood like a 75,000 gallon North Sea Esso drilling rig and within seconds the $2,000 a night suite was transformed into a gore-soaked, military triage. I still credit the quick witted creativity and elegant finger-work of the achingly handsome Jose Molla for my ability to father a child five years later. Thank the heavens his Patagonian grandmother had schooled him to lovingly crochet authentic woven Argentinean mountain shawls as a young boy. Only his masterful skills with the hotel bathroom's complimentary sewing kit succeeded in stitching the awful, bloody mess into something roughly resembling a mammal's reproductive organ.

Frightening physical scars aside, the horrific incident badly traumatized me, but succeeded in forming the catalyst for what would later become DeCourcy's magnificent London soliloquy "catching lightning in a bottle" many years later.

Bowing slightly, I obediently hand her a hotel pillow case stuff two dozen bottles of high-end hand and body moisturizer I lifted from the Emirates flight on the trek over here. Given the circumstances, I feel it's the least I can do. Colleen accepts them with a scowl and slams the door with a pronounced grunt as she exits the suite.

The tension is violently broken by the vibrating hum of my iPhone.

I peer down to spot an incoming text from my attorney:

PAYMENTS RECEIVED FROM ALL MAJOR AGENCIES...ONLY JWT HELD OUT. AM BOOKING FLIGHT. DON'T EAT ALL THE CHÈVRE. JF

It has been over three, full days since I have slept. My addled brain is jazzed to the max with a dangerous cocktail of bitter Nespresso and full-fat goat cheese. Questions ricochet around my battered skull like a manic pin-ball:

"Why did Matt Eastwood shop me to Lord Savage? And worse, how am I meant to deliver 5 GP's to the rest of the swine who coughed up the ransom?"

There's suddenly a furious knocking at the door. I recognize my Concierge's rich, silky rasp:

"Monsieur Nobbly. You have to open the door. It's Le Gendarme and they want to speak with you very urgently".

It's at times like these you fully appreciate the French people's total love of Le bidet.

Part Four:

This entire gender-diversity fad is in perilous danger of swerving clean off the road, and taking all us testosterone-laden lemmings with it, straight over the edge to a dark, deep oblivion.

Over here on La Croisette, Lord Savage, with all the renegade zest of a teenage student activist, has had his vice-tight grip on the wheel and foot down hard on the pedal for months now; pronouncing a total shattering of the glass ceiling and surrendering extraordinary, so far unheard-of levels of percentage equality to the other side (some recent figures right up there in the high forties!). This screams truly precarious and terrifying trials ahead for the majority of us card-carrying admen who specifically got into this arch caper thirty years ago based on the express guarantee that THERE IS NO GENDER EQUALITY IN ADVERTISING??

Goddamnit, if it isn't bad enough over half my clients are sassy, confident, independent-thinking women, now I have to fight off a fast-amassing battalion of creative storm troopers in cargo pants and comfortable heels, just to keep my frequent flyer status in top notch condition and my humidor bulging with Cuban gold? At this rate, I'll be an Uber driver by Christmas.

Of course, ladies who can simultaneously walk, write, art-direct, chew gum and mercilessly ass-whip me in a global pitch are hardly a new phenomenon.

The first wave of attack-ready "Adman-Terminators" sent back from our femo-future came in the battle-ready form of the early T1 model ECDs...Hoffman, Credle, De Maupeou, Royer, Keenan, DeCourcy, Stanners and their whole super-focused and scarily articulate recon-patrol of powder-coated ninja assassins. From our protected slouch, few of us saw them coming and were frankly too smugly drunk on the cushy sag of our boardroom couches to cotton on to the stark reality we were about to get dramatically body-slammed and beaten down within a humiliating inch of our fairy tale, cock-sure lives.

Then, no sooner had we negotiated a pathetic but diplomatic detente to save witnessing our entire, sweet deal of a citadel sacked and burned around our ears, than the next model of She-minator was suddenly amongst us: this version more talented, lithe and cunning still; capable of morphing into a myriad of executive positions right across the C-Suite of our once wonderfully cushy creative industry.

Utter defeat was patently unavoidable: stared down and crushed by this fully loaded, merciless shape-shifter; bent on utter domination of any conceivable strategic brief and demonstrably wiser, brighter and more aesthetically palatable than we toothless, hairy mutts could hope to compete with.

The end is nigh. The iceberg is well upon the bow and the best we can pray for is a magnanimous and merciful conquest.

But losing the battle for inequality is far from front of mind, as I study the dark, panda shadows encasing my blood-shot eyes now glaring furiously back at me from the Louis the something gilt-edged mirror that centers the enormous salmon marble en-suite bathroom of the impressive Donnie Deutsche Rooftop Suite that has been my cell here at the reasonably priced Gray Albion Hotel for the last seven days.

That said, according to the debrief I received under a hot lamp just a few hours ago in Interview Room 2 of Nice's Central Police HQ, perhaps I shouldn't be quite so loose with the word "cell".

From what I could grasp from the Inspector's garbled impersonation of Peter Sellers alter ego, it's a miracle I'm not currently being brutally sodomized by my inherited bunkmate at Hotel Du Cop.

It seems offering up a Grand Prix on the open market is frowned upon by the top-tier execs who run the Euro-printing machine that is the Lions Festival of Creativity.

Lord Savage was more than ready to throw the book hard in my specific direction, but mercifully I received a last minute reprieve from his head capo, the ever urbane Festival CEO, Phil Thomas.

In truth, his intervention was not altogether altruistic, nor entirely unexpected: the full, no-questions pardon from the Palais's back office came through hot and fast, just as I predicted it would, moments after Thomas received my downloaded jpeg of said silky CEO and Jeremy "The Kraken" Craigen, knee deep and waist high in the twilight throws of an especially memorable naked slumber party cum DDB Global Creative Summit in room 724 of the Carlton Hotel back in the heady, humid Summer of Cannes '04.

Back then, Craigen was, and presumably still is, an ardent and unapologetic nudist. His perfectly bronzed, hairless 360 degree tan can be clearly recognized in the photo, along with his exquisitely manscaped pubis. In fairness, little if any of Phil's face can be seen, obscured as it is by the black, heavily-studded PVC mask. Indeed, no court in the land could or would conceivably convict based on this simple, blurry image. From a forensic POV, it would be aggressively argued that the crudely pixelated image simply suggests a middle aged, Caucasian man in his M&S underpants, demonstrating to Jeremy the gymnastic extent of his yoga training. Thank sweet Jesus, on this particular occasion, Phil was clearly in no mood to roll the dice and risk his own potential "Weinergate". And so, seconds from impending incarceration, a love of anonymity saves the day and liberty is mine to spoil once more.

Not that I am remotely clear of the Branston Pickle. For one, my Samoan Attorney has been grounded in Doha and is undoubtedly already cutting savagely deep into my ill-gotten loot, physically isolated deep within its next-gen First Class terminal. In my experience, you can blow through a staggering amount of moolah within the perfumed bunker of your standard Arabic long-haul airport. Dubai, for instance, boasts duty-free Ferraris, along with all the mandatory extra-large Toblerone, soft toys and luxury luggage.

In Jay's defense, even his jangled brain couldn't have predicted that the Trump-inspired regional embargo of the tiny but cash-fat desert kingdom would result in his Qatar premium-economy flight from Sydney being forced to fly in ever-decreasing circles around its capital, strenuously banned by its three immediate neighbors from entering their hallowed air space, until the 747 finally ran out of juice and gently nose dived into a conveniently spongy sand dune just yards off the runway.

My best hope right now is that my loyal, if terminally racist Concierge Michel is successful in negotiating some much needed cash back from the area's neighboring boutiques for the mountain of bags of pastel-inspired luxury togs that have survived the last 72 hours on this wretched stretch of beach relatively unsoiled.

Michel is promising 30 cents on the dollar, but after his cut, I'll be lucky if I can afford a round at the Carlton bar.