16) Two Naked Swedish Girls

16) Two Naked Swedish Girls

Sit down and let me tell you an unbelievable story.  I was in it and I’m still not sure I believe it.  It’s called 2 (yes two) Naked (yeah) Swedish (yes, Swedish) Girls (Babes actually).  And I still didn’t get laid.

Would you believe it, well yews, by now, you probably would,

I was in Cannes. Well, one has to now.  For the Festival du Publicite.  And it was nice to walk to work sur la plage.  And be taught to dance by Eva.  And tell Anarees (from Romania – nice girls in Romania)  I’d won at the Casino and watch her eyes.  And try to get Veroniques (blonde sailing babe )away from the safety of the bar.  And to watch those babes on the beach.  But keep working, of course.  Always.

So I wrote and phoned, and ticked and tocked and occasionally saw sight of my email.  And I started, slowly, to put back my network and saw Grant and Paul and Bruce.  And finally, actually get to feel the extraordinary pleasure..

[Brief hiatus while sudden thunderstorm hits Cannes beach and the rain storm starts – which means 100 of the richest and most beautiful people in France, all residents at the Hotel Majestic, have to come off the pontoon and the ‘plage prive’ ,and the waiters who run with ice buckets and trays, and come to my caff and eat lunch with Peter from Ville France – could be a story developing here.]

...of watching people actually read these stories in front of me. Watching Penny dissolve with fits of pealing laughter at The Spanish Lady, watch Louise feel the rising panic of Mandy and get so cross with Randy she refused to read any more.

Lovely.

And I talked to Grant about jo-to-go and L’Oreal, and to Paul about life and Glory and to the head of TV at Leo Burnett about jo-to-go.  Then I decided I’d done enough work for one day. Time to play.

Jim invited me to the ville in the hills.  Not that he had time to talk of work.  Poor love – wanted to but just too tired.  Went back to England from his own party.

.

Got to get him an account manager.

So I’d run out of power people to talk to so I started talking to Debby, which was nice, until John Lloyd buzzed in.  Owns QI. How interesting.  Said I should mention his name there.  Think I will.

And then I met Pippa and she was cool but she was getting cold.  So I lent her my blazer.  Which had, credit Alex, led to me being told I was the best dressed man at the party by one of the best undressed girls at the party. 

And  Pippa introduced me to two girls.  And they were two Swedish girls, and lovely. Let's call them Tick and Tock

And to say I clicked with Tick and Tock would be an understatement.  We just sort of glided into our own private party.  And it was smooth and easy and natural and lovely.

And I remember a little dancing and a little romancing and then I called Taxi J-P and Taxi Didier came to pick us up.  Which was cool.  Especially as we picked up a stray and he paid, which was fair. 

And Tock left proposing marriage. To Didier.  To the stray.  To me.

But I was stroking her thigh at the time so I paid it no heed.

So we go to their apartment by the Magestic and Tock has nicked some Rose and she pours me a glass and they disappear to get changed.  And I get up to have a pee and Tick walks past stark naked.  And I realise Tock is having a shower so, in the spirit of the occasion, I think ‘go for it’ and open the door and she smiles and I drop my clothes to the floor and am having a shower with a 30 something gorgeous Swedish girl in an apartment in Cannes.  And she is moving around a lot and yet not, so to speak, losing touch.  And I have to admit, dear reader, that I did think at one stage, that this really wasn’t going too badly. 

And, frankly boys, why the fuck not.

And yet astonishingly, fucked I was not.  I know, I know, how could this possibly go wrong?  Well, I don’t really know.  But I think I’m going to have to do some research.

So the girls get partied up.  And Tock's naked on my knee while I apply some eye make-up for her.  And I know better than to interrupt a girl doing her make-up and getting her hair just so.  So I let it pass for the moment, it’ll wait.

And Tock puts on a lovely Spanish dress.  And Tick something flowing. And we link arms and walk along the promenade to the Swedish Beach Party.

How bad does that sound?

So they get me in, of course – they’re producers – and everyone else is a Swedish delegate and incredibly beautiful or a bloke.  And I’m well chuffed, enjoying myself.  And Tock wants champagne and there isn’t any.  So I get some, ‘cos I’m a producer too.  Big time.

And there’s a certain amount of kissing, and I love kissing, especially like that.  And it’s all, to borrow Erica Jong's perfect phrase, ‘zipless’.  And then Tock turns to me and says ‘But Peter, this is my boyfriend’. And introduces me to him.

Now I think I handled it pretty well, under the circumstances.  But I have to say the words ‘ boy’ and ‘friend’ wre beginning to really get on my wick.

Where do they keep coming from? 

And when are they going to get out of the way? 

I’m going to organise a promotion where Claire’s boyfriend, and Emma’s boyfriend (not you Emma) and Pepsi's Boyfriend and Tock's boyfriend and all the other boyfriends get invited on a perfect cruise for a couple of weeks  - and torpedo it.

Especially when Tock's boyfriend is married to someone else.  But still, by some bizarre Swedish protocol, gets first dibs with Tock over the guy she was snogging, stroking and lap dancing in the shower with two hours ago.

Go figure.

So I turn to Tick, who’s looking lovely. and say ‘ Do you have a boyfriend too Tick?’  And she looks gently at me and nods in a bloke's general direction and says ‘There’. And then in another direction and says 'And there'. Then she says, languidly, as everything Tick does is languid ‘Maybe tomorrow.’

Now Tock had suggested we should go to Antibes and her apartment for the weekend tomorrow.  So I think ‘fair enough’.

And I say, ‘I’ll leave then’.

And I leave. And then go back for my cap.  And there’s some discussion, and some kissing.  And Tock says, ‘maybe later, at the Bar’.  And disappears.

So I go to the Bar , where I’d been at lunchtime.  And the best dressed man at the  Party wasn’t allowed in because he has Polo shorts on.

So I walk home, uphill, alone, un-laid.

Unbe-fucking-lievable.

Go figure Sweden.

©peter hero 2006