So there it was: 11 days of the world's most important, most glamorous, most excessive film festival there is. I've lost count of the number of films I've seen, the number of Ferraris cruising by, the number of parties and, thank the heavens, the number of glasses of rosé I glugged.
But it was a good festival, not the greatest – although last year was an impossible act to follow – but certainly remarkable in that the choice of films was egalitarian and without bias.
Many festivals throw in lots of US fodder just to attract the big Hollywood names, but the Cannes jurors only chose one American film (Fair Game) for the competition and showed just two others: Woody Allen's You Will Meet a Tall Dark Stranger and Oliver Stone's Wall Street sequel.
The rest were drawn from all corners and came in all shapes and sizes (from 69 minutes to Olivier Assayas' Carlos at 340 minutes) and displayed the wealth of great film available to all – if we just open our eyes and minds.
My tip to win the Palme d'Or is Mike Leigh whose Another Year had critics weeping in the aisles; although keep an eye on Xavier Beauvois’ Of Gods And Men, and the very Russian, My Joy, might get a look in.
But it's always been my contention that there should be a Soirée d'Or, for the best party as so much money and effort goes into them. I would honestly give it to end of fest Red Bull do in Jimmy'z - a lovely little high end joint on the Croisette – that featured the DJ talents of Pilooski and London's Faze Action team. As such the music was great (despite requests from the club manager for Madonna) which is rare because in Cannes the music veers from substandard to utter shite.
As a camera-free, press-free zone, Jimmy’z is a haven for Cannes’ A-listers. But everyone was welcome on the final night. Once in, we were ushered to the Red Bull table where the lovely Emily looked after us – and the Belvedere Vodka with Red Bull and the Moet flowed like there was no tomorrow... which there wasn't cos we left at 6am after dancing like the demented.
Cannes itself can usually inspire a film or 10 and this year's great story is of the British managers of a hotel who had to sack their senior employee, Manuel, (and, yes, he was from Barcelona. But the Spaniard refused to leave, boarded himself in his room, disappeared when the police came and subsequently hacked into the hotel's computer causing havoc.
Meanwhile for your truly, everything was pretty straightforward – I didn't lose my wallet, didn't have to sleep on a bench, didn't get shat on by a huge seagull (which ruined my best suit two years ago) and did not get a blister the size of Wales on the sole of my foot. I must be learning.
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