Hello! It's Justin again.
I'm so rich, important and devastatingly attractive that you must all be dying to hear more from me.
Well, when I left you, I was heading for Cannes with JC. She had told me that the disgusting film festival had finished, so I thought it would be safe to jump in a jet and fly down there for a couple of days of sun and the odd party. As usual, JC had got it like so wrong. The Gallic oscars were still in full swing.
When we arrived, it was absolutely like, you know, gross, if you know what I mean. The place was running alive with posey cinema wannabes, unshaven, sweaty paparazzi and crowds of Froggy plebs smelling of garlic. The most disgusting swathe of humanity I have seen since the last time Daddy invited the local peasants up to the stately pile in Suffolk for the annual "feed cheese and pickle sandwiches and pints of beer to the poor and let their spotty kids (a kid is a working class child) leave sticky finger marks all over the F430" day he holds every August Bank Holiday. I've always thought the old man was barking to allow all those light-fingered oiks near the house, but he says it's doing his bit for society, whatever that is.
Anyway, even though the Lear driver had jammed down the joy stick all the way down there, by the time we arrived, it was like 2am. I called the Intercontinental and got my usual suite for the night for a bit of shut eye, and some serious amends-making by JC! Pierre, the driver had to negotiate the Maybach through crowds of really y' know revolting sub-humanity milling on the streets to get there. I would have put my foot down and ploughed through them, but Pierre (I don't know what his real name is, but I always call Frenchmen Pierre to avoid confusion) told me that they have laws against that sort of thing in France. Then he started muttering about prisons, guillotines and human rights, so I closed the divider and turned up the Cold Play track to drown out his pigeon English ramblings.
I always get up early when I'm on holiday. So, about noon, we ordered some croissants and coffee in the room. It was decision time. Would I get Pierre to take JC and I down to Monaco to get out on the yacht and avoid the seething peasants, or go back to London until the heat had died down. The weather was not perfect, so we went home.
That evening, I heard the Rotts going like wild outside. I looked on the CCTV and saw a police car at the gate, so I buzzed him in. When he drove up to the house, the Rotts were jumping all over it and two plod, one male and one who appeared vaguely female, were cowering inside screaming "get them off".
So, I put the puppies in the garage and invited Bert and Tracey, as I later discovered were their names, in for a chat. Couldn't figure out what they you know wanted at this point. They don't normally send sort of uniformed oiks out for fraud or tax evasion, and I knew I hadn't done anything else wrong.
Bert began, "Are you the owner of a Ferrari F430 registration number R1 CH?"
"Yes officer. But it's in the garage, so I know it hasn't been stolen or anything."
"No ... sir (have you ever noticed how the police can insert that crucial pause to make the word "sir" sound like an insult?). That's not what we are here for."
Anyway, to cut a long story short, it seems that when JC had gone up to Tundra Airport to collect the F430, she had broken one or two little laws on the way back, including overtaking a squad car on the M40 at about 180mph. This was their opinion because they couldn't pace her and the old speed cameras don't work if you are doing more than 150mph (couldn't say myself, of course!).
It turned out that JC, a very fashion conscious girl, had rushed off to the frozen north without dressing for the occasion. It was only when she got there that she realised that her sugar-pink halter top, micro mini-skirt and eight inch Jimmy Choo platforms, and matching pink-dyed (normally brunette) hair so like clashed with the red Ferrari. She thought, very understandably, that she would be like so dead if anyone saw her. So she jumped in the car and headed for the motorway via anonymous, unlit back roads and then bombed it back to SW3 as fast as she could.
To make things worse, this outfit was, shall we say, a tad revealing. In fact, before she wore it, she took a legal opinion on whether it would cause her to be nicked for public nudity. The outfit consisted of a belt where you would normally expect a skirt, and a halter neck top that gave about as much cover as a pocket handkerchief on top of the dome. The brief asked to see the outfit on her so he could deliver his opinion. When JC obliged, he started sweating, tore off his wig, popped his tabs, said it was legal as long as she didn't move or breath, waived his fee and said he had to go urgently to the WC. So the outfit was at least as hot as the car!
So there was poor JC, Jimmy Choo platform to the metal, trying to avoid public embarrassment and a criminal record, when she passed a blue light job - on the inside - and went through a spy camera, all at about 180mph. They tried to catch her, which made it worse. JC was moving in the car, so had visions of being nicked for public indecency and, much worse, being photographed by the paps in a candy floss outfit next to a red car.
The girl was, as you can imagine, extremely motivated, so she got away, no probs.
Anyway, Bert started asking me who was driving and what speed they were doing, from which I sussed that they had no evidence, so I told him to sod off or I would set the dogs on him. Once she had stepped into the light, I noticed that Tracey was quite cute, in a Gestapo-ish sort of way, so I took her phone number and arranged a date - but that's another story.
I was a bit miffed and called up JC to ask why she hadn't told me, at least so I could like cover for her. But when she explained the whole story, one had to sympathise. What decent girl would want to be convicted of clashing colours in a public place?