I’m lying on a sun lounger in Monte Carlo and there are so many women with extended blonde hair, hornet-stung lips and bazooka breasts stuffed into tiny monogrammed bikinis that I can’t distinguish between them. They make me feel as though I’m part of a different species. My battered copy of Bret Easton Ellis’s The Rules of Attraction and a sweating glass of champagne complete the scene. Like Bret, I’m drawn to the dark side of glamour, which means Monaco is a people-watching paradise. Along with the bazooka babes, ninety-something men also aren’t in short supply. A leathery, wispy-chested man in that age category is slumped next to the pool, with a bandage on his foot, plasters up his arm and a wheelchair tucked away to the side. He is chain-smoking cigars and chugging beers. I fear his obit is due any minute, but what a way to go.

One striking feature is the sheer number of newly installed British expats. With Labour’s changes to non-dom status and the tax raids on private schools, can anyone be that surprised that our ultra-rich are fleeing to places like Monaco? Though I’ve heard there have........

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