Once you’ve created a fuss at Camping le plein Air des Chênes just outside Montpellier, a worker there grudgingly lets you in….after which, you can’t get out again without another code that must be a State secret known only to Francois Hollande – who, I’d imagine, designed this camping site – and drew up its rules with the help of the Stasi.

On finally returning to the reception at ten past three, the ‘Help’ desk deals with the clients’ plight by informing them that they’re trespassing on private property, demanding to know the name, rank and serial number of the Fifth Columnist who let you – the client – in. It seems that the staff at Camping le plein Air des Chênes think the best solution to your problem from here on is for you to spend the rest of your life there as a prisoner, and be told every five minutes that none of this is their fault.

The low point of this encounter was being told by a receptionist of the Rosa Kleb cum laude NKVD school that the next time I did this (ie, arrive and expect a promised welcome) she would call the police.

You may have noticed the repetition of the brand name Camping le plein Air des Chênes at Clapiers in the Herault just outside Montpellier. The idea here is to imprint it indelibly upon your brain, and create an eternal exclusion zone round it: to render it bankrupt at the earliest opportunity, and then allow it to be taken over by the Strength through Joy organisation, who will inflict a mercy holocaust upon the entire Accueil staff, but nevertheless deliver a service of infinitely greater amicalité.

But let us now pull the helicopter joystick towards us, gain height….and see what the real problem here is.

The tell-tale clue in all this is that Camping le plein Air des Chênes is part of a very big organisation. This organisation is called sandaya.fr., which also creeps about under the name of Camping International Maisons Laffitte. But its owner the Sandaya Group is in turn owned by an even bigger conglomerate called Groupe ACAPACE.

Have you ever noticed how, the more interminable levels there are to an organisation, the higher it climbs….like a tower of Babel where the folks at the top can’t understand a f**king word the plebs at the bottom say?

Acapace is a multinational estate agent. A property developer. It advices the fat and rich about how to shut themselves off from the unpleasantness of real people during their retirement. It is, let’s not beat about the bush here, a top down crock of élitist excrement up to its neck in consultancy to the planners of corporate, public and private urban and coastal gated senior citizen communities.

The Chairman François Georges has somehow organised it so that, for the wealthy who pay a 15% minimum premium to buy his properties, there is what L’Express calls “an arsenal of tax deductions”. This in a country where the President de la Republique is (allegedly) a socialist. Astonishing? Not really: the more one looks into these things, the less surprising it all is.

M. George’s horrid group has just launched France’s first floating holiday village. Let us hope it sinks without trace. But back in the real world, let us also ponder upon something. Departing this truly obscene example of arrogant neoliberal globalist bollocks, I motored but two hours further down to Grau d’Agde, where a small family business was offering, by comparison to Camping le Complete Crap Foul Air de Shite, free wifi, ample camping car spaces, free unlimited wifi, 24-hr surveillance without barbed wire, and a heated pool that does not require evidence of a Black Amex Card to gain entrance.

This may seem a little random, but bear with me. I was profoundly disappointed yesterday to read a Telegraph piece by the normally sound Charles Moore, in the course of which he suggested that there was no longer any need for the inquisitorial interviewing style of Jeremy Paxman. Charles very badly needs to get out more, and see how those he rarely meets are busy screwing up every human experience we’re allowed, and disallowing others we used to take for granted….like being able to turn a corporate mobile phone off without being fired.

God save us all from the arid and narrow academics who have helped deliver us unto the likes of François Georges. I have written elsewhere that cynicism is the new naivety. But verily is old naivety the key to the wine cellar for the barbarian cynics.