The Roman Empire

Stumbled across Roman Abramovich's super-yacht in its glamorous jet-set hideaway.

There were flunkies, junkies and liveried monkeys waiting on winners, losers and jacuzzi-users. I spotted caviar-guzzling plutocrats hob-nobbing with hob-nob munching, thermos-toting, long-lensed paparazzi and short-sighted judges turning a blind eye to the blind eyes being turned on all sides. There were stars and starlets, bimbos and himbos, speed-freaks and hop-heads. High-rollers and low lifes. Bums living high and Saints from the gutters. Billionaires sneering at millionaires and has-beens looking down on never-wases whilst dissolute playboys snorted coke off the alabaster breasts of alabaster busts. Hired guns and goons loomed above switchblade street-fighters with everything to prove, nothing to lose and plenty of time in which to lose it.

Only, whilst I got my camera ready, it clouded over and they all went inside.