THE HIGH LIFE

I went to a marvellous party, up in the gorgeous setting of the French Alps. My old friend La Comtesse Fifi de la Foufounette married off her daughter, Fernande-Arlette, to an English former rock star called Bill Stickers - you may remember him as the front man of Bill Stickers and the Prosecutors. This was a society wedding worthy of Allo Allo magazine, French nobility marrying into rock aristocracy. The paparazzi were out in force to snap the guests, who included the titled and subtitled, A-list, B-list, stars of stage screen and supermarket, politicians, footballers, "le people" as the French call their celebs. Even an Indian raja accompanied by a trio of lovely ranees in gorgeous silken saris. The event took place in a spectacularly beautiful part of the French Alps. The Lac de Savines is a man-made lake created to supply water to the south-east of France by drowning a village, which remains at the bottom of the lake like a mini Atlantis.

Before the actual nuptials the wedding party, accompanied by the groom, were decanted onto a boat which set out on a circuit of the lake. The weather was glorious, and it was a perfect opportunity for the French and English guests to break the ice and get to know each other via the international language of alcohol. As we chugged around the sparkling blue-green water a speedboat suddenly appeared out of nowhere bearing the bride, resplendent in her wedding gown, her veil streaming out into the slipstream. After a dramatic circuit of our vessel, she finally hove to alongside and, accompanied by her father, boarded into the waiting arms of her intended, to rapturous applause from the by now somewhat overexcited wedding party who thought they were extras in a Bond film.

We then proceeded on foot to the civil and church ceremonies where the nuptials were performed. Bill was looking quite the gent in his top hat, leather trousers and union jack braces, although his best man, Keith Richards if I'm not mistaken, did slow the ceremony down considerably while he hunted for the rings, which he finally found on his own fingers where he had put them for safe keeping. We then had a delightful if somewhat scary drive along mountain roads to the magnificent Chateau des Herbeys, the ancestral pile, a XIII century castle with turrets, battlements, a deer and llama park, swimming pool and helicopter landing pad. The bride and groom made another spectacular entrance by helicopter to the musical accompaniment of The Ride of the Valkyries. The crowd went wild. The llamas looked mildly interested. Inside the grounds of the chateau we were served a welcome cocktail and serenaded by well known chanteuse Vanessa Paradise while her doting husband looked on adoringly through his one good eye.

The dinner was a veritable banquet, each course brought in on a massive silver platter by four flunkeys and paraded before the guests. The fillet of Charolais beef was flambeed in Calvados several times before our eyes. A sort of MC chappie entertained us between courses with old Club Med singalongs, and the bridegroom sang a few of his hit songs: "Burn in Hell", "Car Crash Blues", and "Sweet F-A", which he dedicated to his new wife, Fernande-Arlette. As the wine flowed, the French and English guests mingled and the "entente cordiale" was going great guns, at least until the news came through that France had just beaten England in the rugby, which cast a slight chill between the tables. A mock wedding cake made of cheeses was then paraded around to the soundtrack of "God Save the Cheese" which defused the tension somewhat, and the younger guests joined together in a karaoke session which proved that the French can be quite as tone-deaf as the English when they want to.

After the cheese and karaoke we were treated to a firework display to rival the 14th of July, and I finally understood why the llamas were wearing earmuffs. The pyrotechnics culminated with a massive bang as the groom drove his Rolls Royce into the swimming pool. Then came the real wedding cake, a traditional French pyramid of profiteroles called a Croquembouche, and the newlyweds knocked the corks out of the champagne with a huge sabre before filling a six-foot high pyramid of champagne glasses. We toasted their health and tried to do justice to a positively obscene array of desserts before the young people launched themselves onto the dance floor.

Dance is a great equalizer. It was surprising to see the hitherto rather aloof French nobs release their inhibitions to the thumping rhythms of Puff Diddly Dogg and 50 Pence. The elderly Marquise de la Lambada was "getting down" with Prince Freddy of Bhajistan, who was encouraging the ancient dowager to show what she could do with her new artificial knees by yelling "Yeah baby!" at the top of his voice. I saw one of the Ranees (possibly his mother) slip some Ritalin into his wine while he was on the dance floor, with a knowing smile. I danced an elegant twostep with the bride's father, a sprightly septuagenarian who was Fifi's second husband, while Fifi was draped somewhat inappropriately round her seventh, a Polish plumber half her age called Bogdan. She swears that he's a count in his own country.

We all tottered off to Bedfordshire in the wee small hours. I slept like a baby in the pure mountain air, disturbed only by a strange dream in which I was singing the Jane Birkin part in a karaoke version of "Je t'aime moi non plus" with the bride's father. Well I think it was a dream. He did give me a broad wink at breakfast the next day as I helped myself to sausage and devilled kidneys.