Locked in the Cannes!

La Petit Carlton, Cannes (not there now I hear).

A little story for you:

The other day I was talking about being locked in various places and today I noticed the blog post I wrote in 2013 was being viewed. So here it is again:

I have been to Cannes a few times; Cannes, in the south of France, that is; well four times, actually, and each time I stayed in a flat near La Croisette which I really liked; I think I was in there by myself twice and definitely shared twice.

I travelled three times with round trip flights from London to Nice and the other time I drove there, with two posh chaps who were old Etonians, and on that particular trip I caught a train back from Marseilles which arrived at its destination in the north of France smack on time.

You may ask why I came back by train? Well the old Etonians left me there and I had to find the money to get back – moral of the story? Never trust an old Etonian! They're not even trusted amongst their own posh fraternity; the 'public schools' of England.

The upper classes tend to think, and they may be right, that Eton and Harrow are populated by the Neauvo Riche as they're the only public schools the plebs have ever heard of – who cares, aye?

I was there trying to sell the idea of my film being a TV series; since it's been on YouTube, by the way, a few people have contacted me and said it would have made a good series – too late, I'm afraid – those days are gone, Joxer 'dem dayz is gone!! Have a look if you wish https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WpWmesv5nVA&t=746s&ab_channel=JustMaximumPublicity

That's a new cut by the way in 2014 where I dubbed a scene between two of my friends who are both now dead – Ron as the rabbi in New York and Jeff as the New York dealer at Portobello Road.

So why am I writing about this now?

I was listening to one of my favourite programmes on the radio, on Saturday, and they started talking about people's experiences of being locked in places and being rescued by the fire brigade or whatever.

On one particular trip I was locked in somewhere three times in three different places; this was one of the times when I was staying in the flat alone.

I loved Cannes and considered moving there on a permanent basis; in those days I smoked and I would inhale those delicious Gauloises and blow the smoke out over anybody within passive distance; but then we all smoked so they didn't care – well most of us did.

We could even smoke on the plane and each time I flew back to London we nearly drank the plane dry – pissy, hazy journeys with the Gauloises/Gitanes air making it even hazier than I can remember!!

I had a favourite super market, in Cannes, which sold wonderful Olive Oil, I knew some street markets too, that I would frequent and my local drinking hole was Le Petit Carlton; which was a wonderful deli/restaurant/bar with a very rude waiter called Pierre – well he wasn't that rude he just gave as good as he got and we were very fond of him.

I remember the French Onion soup, the millions of French Fries that were served up with each meal – I was so French it was unbelievable; but I could hardly speak a word of the language. I can speak a little bit of Spanish, enough to get by but French?? Sounded all Greek to me.

One time I was in the apartment and someone knocked on the door; I answered and a desperate looking man, with five and a half days of beard growth, got through a whole sentence before I could get the word in that I didn't understand him - mon chaton il disparu, he said.

Sorry, I said, no French no French!

Then he started making susshhhh, noises and waving his arms about saying shooo sheee shaaa!!

Sorry, I said.

Mon chaton, he said, looking passed me, Mon chaton!! – then went.

What the . . . who the?????

Not long after that I saw a cat on the balcony; I might have felt French but I knew they had rabies in France, every cat, every dog – all animals there, all had rabies. Well I would think this, wouldn't I, as we were propagandised to all the time by the British Media about Rabies!

I saw the man later and he told me he had brought his cat along from Paris and it had escaped from his apartment – but he got it back; maybe that man was some kind of omen as strange things seemed to happen later.

One evening I was on my way out but when I tried to open the door the key wouldn't work; I was locked in. It was the only way out; there was a balcony but I was five floors up, I didn't fancy doing a spider man down the side of the building then I realised some friends of mine were staying on the floor above; I prayed that they were sober or even in. In those days we didn't have cel/mobile phones and I hadn't taken the phone number of their apartment yet.

Their balcony was almost directly above mine, just one over, so I went out and called out to them but I couldn't make them hear.

But I could make the man directly above me hear who didn't speak English; I found this out earlier, of course, as he was the man with the cat.

Non Engleeesh, he said, mon chaton bon!

Mon chaton bon – mon key, kay que not bon not work kaput!!

Then I heard them stir in my friends' apartment – hello matey, said my pal, what's going on?

I explained and suggested I throw the key up – No matey, he said, I'll never catch it.

He came down to my door and I slipped the key under the door to him hoping it would work from outside; it did!

Apparently if I'd broken the lock, the management would have sent for a locksmith and I would have had to pay the bill.

In the day time I would wander around the Le Palais du Festival bumping shoulders with the famous and not so famous then I would go back to the apartment at around 5:00, take a nap, and then go out in the evening trying to sell my idea of a TV series, usually ending up singing either The Wild Rover, in La Petit Carlton or Beatles songs in the Carlton Hotel with a load of Germans who sang exceedingly high which ruined my throat; it was a hard life in those days, I can tell you.

The pianist at the Carlton Hotel got to know me and would play Danny Boy whenever I entered the bar. He was quite famous, American, and he played on a regular basis at Carnegie Hall.

One evening I came back to the apartment building and entered the building with a woman; we both walked to the lift which was an old style lift/elevator with see through iron gates; like this:

I didn't speak French, she didn't speak English so we pressed the buttons of the desired floors ourselves and when the lift went up passed the third floor it came to an abrupt stop!

We pressed the buttons, rattled the doors and she screamed!

She screamed and screamed and screamed and screeched!

Then she started moving around the lift screaming; I didn't know what to do – I couldn't touch her to stop her as she might have accused me of something.

She screamed so loud that it was as if I was attacking her.

Everybody heard her and everybody came out of their doors and a load of French was spoken and shouted and I tried to get a word in and the manager said things to her and she screamed back unintelligibly and I . . .. what could I do?

They managed to get us out and I went and had my nap – by the time I woke up my friends had gone out so I decided I would take a shower and go and eat by myself.

I found a small restaurant near the harbour and took a seat on the patio but . . . I needed to go to the loo; it was a single loo so I locked the door and when I had finished it wouldn't open; I was locked in again.

I banged on the door and shouted; nothing! I was in the cellar and the staff were on street level.

Eventually someone came down and asked me something. I don't know what I was asked and they didn't know what I answered but eventually, after a lot of scraping and tapping and bumping they got me out; they couldn't stop laughing and neither could I – till they presented me with the bill for my food; I would have thought it might have been on the house.

I remember saying to the waitress that I was sorry that I could only speak English but that I was learning French; Moi aussi, she said, Moi aussi.

Obviously she meant she was learning English.