I’ve known Mike for years when you break it down but we’ve exchanged just a few words over that whole time. He was in my van today. Ex copper from up Staffordshire way, he was one of my first cohort to be trained with assault rifles. He’s solid as you like. It’s funny to think how I’m actually pretty solid compared to many of my nearest and dearest because in this context I’m made out of cobweb. I arrived at work this morning having sprayed Tom Ford Ombre Leather because I bought a pot when I was flush. Sometimes I keep it in the car with me. Why not? Fuck it some people give a shit about that sort of thing. I don’t. But I wear a hat and aftershave and then I graft as hard as everyone else who doesn’t so it’s fine. There have been two jobs recently where I haven’t been able to afford contact lenses so I’ve worn my prescription sunglasses as the only vision I have. That’s been a bridge too far – people have commented negatively on that and I’ve been too proud to tell them I’m broke. Aftershave though? Fuck it, yeah I’m gonna wear chateau wank, and this hat. I’m working hard so finesse plus hat and stinkyjuice just makes a memory. I’m surrounded by people who I respect for their actual practical skill and their determination. My hat is really helpful for scale when I’m getting quantities of things. A bit of finesse and a bit of practicality.
Everybody has plenty going on in their lives, be it family, other jobs, vocations. The thing that binds us all is this strange joy in hard work. Although Ali is working later than he needs to tonight. It’s 9pm. He doesn’t need to be making orders on Amazon for stuff I could get at Decathlon tomorrow morning so it’s there in time for the deadline. And he could do it through his phone. I kinda wish I had paid the £7.99 month first, but he’s the one who paid for prime and he does things through his laptop. PhoneBAD generation. Tech wizard though. But… every time I start planning routes etc via phoneI feel like I’m on tiktok. There’s a generation above me that can’t stand mobile phones. I didn’t bring my laptop as it rarely gets used on these jobs. I’ve got my iPad I guess but usually I’m involved in being – (rymes with Clive) LIVE and my iPad doesn’t fit in my pocket. There’s an android app for everything, whether or not you like it. That’s how I’m doing all the things.
But Mike? Yeah I was on Mike. Solid fucker. I enjoyed his company. So yeah where was I … we rolled into CDG this morning after I missed the loading bay and had to go round again. By the time I drove him there I knew he had been a traffic cop so I’m basically driving one of the most highly trained drivers in the world. Fuck it. Paris traffic. I told him about priorité a droit and he was processing it for ages after. By the end of the journey I had clipped the kerb and tapped my mirror. I felt it more than ever before. It was like a three hour driving test. If he had been behind me he would have had reason to pull me over twice if he wanted to breathalyse someone. Interesting to learn that cops make me nervous.
The guys in the hotel we dropped off at are very willing but not particularly competent. There’s a lot of looking busy going on and very little busy. They rejected a load of stuff from a previous order that I think they’ll want later, and received a load more stuff, and I don’t think I saw one person there who I would describe as “handy”. Well groomed, yes. But they need someone like Roadkill to come help them out. Our team is loaded with handy people, but we are busy most of the time. There are so many companies involved here, so many people. But a lot of them are like frightened rabbits at the moment.
I picked up another cop and we drove all over Paris. The second cop is still copworking, and was asking advice from Mike. It was completely fascinating and nothing to do with the work I’m doing. I tuned in and really felt into the difficulty of the quandaries cops face. Moral and practical and legal questions. Their own language here, about when you involve the “pigs” and when you involve the “squirters” in different very gnarly situations.
I’m glad I’m just this wafting ponce with my hat and my van in this context. I’m sure the traffic cops could chow down on my vehicle operation, but they aren’t assholes. In fact I’m probably as surprised as they are that I enjoyed their company in the van all day, barring brief interludes to build stuff for friendly airport french people. I’ll waft to bed now
Goodnight my darlings. Or good morning. Good time of day. Darling. And yes I’m only saying it to make you feel uncomfortable. I tried hugging Curtis a few days ago and it was like being kicked by a mule.
Ali has a favourite restaurant in Paris. He has painted it in bright colours. In his accounts it is a golden glory of a place, full of ancient fixtures, serving fantastic food but never over priced. He’s shown me pictures. His aspect shifts when he speaks of it. This place gives him pleasure. He wants to share it with us.
Because this is Ali. He is in love with life. It makes him a joy to work alongside. He’s a force for good in the world.
We were going to go this evening. The dream was that we would finish early tonight, maybe freshen up, go into Paris, dine like kings, get back in time for an early bed.
Ali didn’t get the pick list for tomorrow until half five.
My day had been largely about DIY stores. The French are so totally not in a hurry that it’s a marvel they aren’t going backwards. I had a collection order from Brico and went to get it. “Come back in a bit,” they told me. “It isn’t ready.” I went in, and ended up with a load of messages regarding what was needed short notice. I did my best to find all the things and load them up. There was some fuckery with screws where I had just bought some that would be fine when they decided they wanted a different configuration and I had to go back round and get credit etc etc. Surely you needn’t be too picky. Then I went back to the collection boys and they were trying to load a huge pallet that was too tall into a transit van by splitting it with the forklift. They wouldn’t give me the stuff. I went away again to look for mesh. Some guy wanted 100 metres of 2 metre high black wire mesh, but then he didn’t. Only sand by the ton. I still think I should have just got a ton of it and a shovel, put it by the warehouse, anyone asks for sand we have got it. Ended up driving across town to find smaller bags.
Even the dodgy van guys at the brico don’t work on Sunday. We do.
Evening had just 4 Brits in a huge warehouse. Grace and Greg, Ali and Al. Late order. Had to be arranged. So we all mucked in and it all happened and it was half nine before we knew it and so much for Ali’s restaurant.
“This was the last chance we had, in theory,” he tells me. Perhaps. Perhaps we will make a chance.
Ali is a brilliant human. Lovely to work with. I am lucky to be working so closely with him. We both just get on with it. I really hope though that one day the stars align and we get to go to his favourite restaurant.
I am exhausted again. I somehow remembered lunch today and grabbed a takeaway chicken burger while I was carrying a box of stationery. It’s hard to find parking in Paris. In London I know how to run a van without getting smashed up for fines. In Paris I haven’t got the local knowledge so my phone is filling up with pins: “Sunday parking near stationery shop” etc. It takes time to find them though. I’ll make sense of it. Just a week and it feels clearer, and someone in a shop asked me if I was from the South of France, because I had an accent. Which is a win. Especially considering I’m usually “HiLo I wAnt thing YoU find on BEacHes yellOw sTuF MmaKe Casstles yes?” “Sand?” “Yaress I mAke purchase fOr bagginGs to do with SaaaNd.”
A quiet day today. Despite this being an event, most of the people working it are still taking the weekend off. A chance to sort through things and really make sense of what’s available and what isn’t. I’m on the response team and it’s always good to know what sort of things we can get hold of easily to solve any issues. Prevention is better than cure.
I’m slowly making sense of Paris, but it’s not a great driving city. Gridlock and the French road system, and the French drivers. The system is obtuse, not horrible, but it can be very obtuse. You’re better off if you’ve looked at a map first, as it’s easy to miss a turnoff if you don’t know the name of the road or the place you are going towards.
My problem with French has always been my ear. I can gladly create a monstrous chimera of a sentence that gets my point across. But then I can’t always parse the reply, and the more I have to say “please speak slowly” the less easy it gets all round. This evening, listening to the football, I noticed my brain has started arranging the parcels of sound that before it has just filtered out as noise. Something in me is sorting and interpreting. They aren’t saying interesting things, but I’m beginning to understand them. Good. This event is in France, I’m working it. My French needs to be as good as it can be to help solve whatever the thing is I’ll need to solve.
I’m happy with the work so far – apart from the drama at Grand Palais. My job on stage is drama. I can avoid it when I’m not working surely? I usually do. I’m not gonna let myself get swept up in it next time someone tries to be a douche. There’s just too much to do. Which is why I’m surprised so many people take the weekend off. Quality of life, you say, and yes I suppose if you have a family then you need to spend time with the children. I take such an inordinate amount of pleasure out of my work, be it event work or acting work, that the work life balance thing is less relevant, as the work is the life. I do miss Lou, but she’s an event worker and self employed as well. She gets it and is similarly working hard and long hours right now.
I got paid for some invigilating today, and it did make a difference, but I can’t tell you how lucky I am this came in when it did. I was thousands of pounds out of whack and beginning to quietly panic. This will get everything back to the right side of zero in time for me to start in Stratford. My mood has always been affected by my solvency or lack of it. It’s a blessing to know that after a long stretch of hard work, I’ll be out of the red in time for Othello.
Tomorrow will be another working day, looking at supplies and finally doing what I like to do when I arrive in a new place – a full scout of the local area, filling my maps with pins to local businesses and photos of what they have. Amazon Prime lives here so the whole world is a day away, but sometimes there’s less than a day in hand. Better to have a solve in the back pocket and not use it. The quicker and more efficient I can be grabbing things and communicating etc, the less likely something like yesterday’s misinterpretation by Rk and Bob can happen. I know and care about this work, and it connects me loosely to dad who was a winter Olympian many times over. I’m happy. And tired. And there was no hot water when I tried to run a bath but I’m hoping it just runs out in the evening. We’re in a new Airbnb. Quite a lot doesn’t work.
Wheels up at 7. Another busy solving day and largely driving.
I stuck a pallet truck in the back of the Luton, ratcheted to the side. There are three huge pallets and one small pallet. After the usual clueless fuckery, Tamara finds me. She’s the venue manager. She only needs the small one. I start talking to her in French but it turns out she’s from Devon. She gets me to the right place but there’s no loading bay so there I am already soaking wet before nine ayem trying to maneuver a loaded pallet truck onto the tail lift without dumping the contents or looking like a prat. Fifty percent is still a pass in exams these days. The contents remained undumped. I frequently look like a prat and don’t particularly mind.
First load signed off. Now I’ve got to get to The Sheraton hotel loading bay under Charles de Gaulle airport. I stop at the warehouse on the way and go and badger poor Curtis for the correct accreditation because oops. Getting into airports is hard enough when there isn’t a major event happening. I know I’m gonna need to be on point for this one. We sort it.
Everything works. I needed that printout. I get into the airport. It’s a maze under there. My instructions are in French and obscure at best. I make it to the bay and there’s a guy in it taking his time in a tiny van. There’s a queue of cars already behind me and we are in a narrow tunnel where I have to block them until he has vacated the bay. He’s in animated fun conversation and in no hurry. Honk honk honk. Not me but at him. Eventually the bay clears and I pull in to unload.
Nobody is at work yet for the drop off. They’re all having breakfast in the Sheraton. Karim the concierge though proves an absolute gem. Anglophone and Anglophile, we slip into my favourite language dynamic, where we both practice speaking the unfamiliar language. He is talkative and receptive and he helps me bypass the fact I’ve been given an incorrect contact number. The company I’m dropping for are caught napping. I suddenly have about twenty enthusiastic young french people with their Olympic hats and t-shirts, all descending on my van. I know people and companies like this so well from other events. There’s nothing they can do here to help but they want to because they’re on an adventure.
Three huge pallets and one pallet truck to unload. Lots of happy friendly people but nobody hench and no other pallet trucks so I’m on my own. A pallet truck is basically one of those manual forklift trolleys like they take the lost arc on in the final shot of raiders. We’ve all arrived at this way of transporting goods in bulk that involves a timber frame, a huge stack of stuff, and it’s all wrapped up in clingfilm.
As I haul the pallets, the corridors are lined with happy young french people. They are opening doors and moving chairs, summoning lifts and smiling benignly. Getting in the way as often as they are helping. It’s like I’m an Olympian. Pallet Shifting through the delighted crowds. It wasn’t my special skill a week ago. It still isn’t now. Always learning.
Two nice drop offs and I’m on the way back when I’m told that the guys at Grand Palais haven’t got their two extra banners. Same venue I couldn’t get into last time. I’m nice. Instead of lunch, I drop off the Luton and swap to a transit that has been pre loaded with their banners. An hour through awful traffic to get them there. They were due at half one which was when I got the call. I know how to get to the gate now and I’m feeling pretty pleased with myself when I get there.
Bob is waiting outside the gate with a guy who looks like roadkill. Bob is effete and groomed with a very French air of pomposity that likely outweighs his competence. Roadkill walks in two directions simultaneously, is completely bald and has been cooked to cinders by endless outdoor labour. Bob’s a shrugger. Roadkill’s a mugger. I’m happy to be solving problems. My mood is about to change. I forget that these guys just think I’m the inexplicably English delivery driver who had bad accreditation yesterday.
I catch Bob’s eye and shout his name smiling as I approach the gate. He and roadkill come up to the door. Roadkill snatches my accreditation out of my hand and goes to the back of the van to try open it. I’m still in a busy road. I haven’t been through security. Alexandre comes to the door. He’s huge and funny and we share a name, but he still needs to see my accreditation. I’m in the middle of the road and I was yesterday’s panic for them. Roadkill has got my accreditation. “We need to see your accreditation,” say two anxious people in hi-vis. “Hallo Alexander!” bellows Alexandre through the fence. “I hope it works this time!” “Open the back now we want them now,” says Bob. “That man has my accreditation,” I say to the security about Roadkill who seems to think that if he stands behind my van in the road it’ll open. HONK go the cars I’m blocking. “Just open the back,” says Bob. “We have been waiting here for two and a half hours,” says Bob in English. “I know,” I tell him. That’s why I’m here you idiot, I think. Then “That man has my accreditation,” I tell security. Roadkill is avoiding my gaze, fannying around trying to break into the van. “I have nothing, what are you talking about” says Roadkill, even though he has my accreditation in his pocket. “Open the back,” he demands in French. “You can’t stop here without accreditation,” shouts the security guard. “Just open the back,” tries Passive Bob again in English.
I think I said but this venue is at the north end of Les Invalides bridge. Traffic is absolutely crazy crazy crazy. I’ve worked out a good route that bypasses about twenty minutes on Google maps but it is still rammed and traffic is going every which way.
“I’m not going to unload my cargo in the road on the public side, I only did it last time because I had to and I was parked tight. I’m going through security this time because these guys at the gate will freak out every time they see me if I don’t get cleared. I’m gonna be here loads so we need to get this system working. What the bitch are you doing mobbing me before I’m even through security?” Bob comes close to my face. “We have been waiting for two and half hours,” he enunces like an angry Scottish grandmother. “I know,” I tell him. “That’s why I’m here. Now give me back my fucking pass?” Roadkill looks blank. Bob shrugs. “Ok, you’re all going to have to wait while I bring up my email because one of these two men has my accreditation in their pocket.” “Honk,” go the cars. “Just open the back,” goes Bob. I ostentatiously bring up my phone and ignore all the noise. A security guard pulls my attention: “Sir you have to show your pass.” I’m still just about calm. “One of these men has my pass and is pretending not to. I’m going to have to find my copy on email.” Roadkill hears this and responds, finally. He only speaks French – as a matter of practice – but I have been only speaking French but for a few more detailed spats with Bob, who is a prat. If he was willing to be patient towards the unknown for once in his life I think I would get on with Roadkill. Within that, Bob would be and will always remain a prat. Bob shouts “Bob” when Beyonce asks “Who run the world?”
Roadkill pulls my crumpled pass from his pocket where he stuffed it. He is looking me in the eye as he does so. I flashback to school. He is the guy I needed to contact yesterday. He is the guy I needed to contact today. He said to me on the phone yesterday “I can’t be bothered talking with English people.” I’m in his country working, but with a modicum of patience I can communicate efficiently with people who have no English. Like a knife it occurs to me: he’s making it hard on purpose cuz I’m English. Bless.
He reluctantly gives my crumpled pass from his pocket to security. He looks into my eyes defiantly as he does it. “I can do what I like with your stuff,” his look tells me.
I’m in French-head. Instinct brings me to say “va te faire foutre” which is schoolboy go fuck yourself. It’s the best I’ve got. It’s nice to say a schoolboy swear and mean it.
Security beep the pass he tried to hide and everyone is genuinely surprised it checks out.
“You see that name?” – this is Roadkill pointing to the name written on my consignment. He’s peacock now. “That’s me. That name is me. I’m Matthieu Lastname”.
“I’m Al Barclay,” I respond, shaking his familiarly gnarly hand. “You need to check your phone more often,” I add in English, smiling and nodding. He won’t.
“We were waiting for two and a half hours,” says Bob again in English. He has sidled up and is trying to impress the boss. “I was doing other things,” I tell him in English. “My job is to solve problems. You had a problem. I solved it. Don’t come to me about your slow delivery, that’s nothing to do with me. And tell Matthieu to check his phone from time to time.” Bob doesn’t look happy. He’s gearing up for more shrugging and he is GOOD at shrugging. His facial hair is twitching.
“SIR YOU HAVE TO DRIVE THROUGH THE GATE.” Security. It is open! Roadkill is still barking: “Just open the back door!” “HONK” goes the traffic.
I drive through the gate. I stop and open the back of the van. We are now safe. Security has determined that they aren’t going to take two boxes of explosives. This is why we have security Matthieu me old mucker. (A note regarding Roadkill: I usually really get on with outdoor working badly socialised angry but intensely practical misfits. He does his thing extremely well. But we don’t like each other in this instance.)
Alexandre barrels up now, because I’m legally back to where I was yesterday when everything exploded. “It worked, Alexander, your pass worked!” He’s both happy and surprised. I’m so over it. I think he’s one of my favourite people, Alexandre. He’s good at his job in a venue full of morons. Likely these idiots will need something from me before close of play. I’m gonna make sure they know they can use me. I’m not proud. I’ll do things for potatoes. We all just want this event to be brilliant.
I open the back of the van for Bob and Matthieu. They take a while to get onto site to where the van can stop. “Where the hell are those idiots”, I ask Alexandre. “They’re in such a hurry they want me to unload in the road and now they’ve vanished.” But of course they are clearing accreditation. I like to think the security staff were making it harder for them on purpose. Neither of them strike me as the type to win friendship from security. Bob reckons he’s the business. Roadkill is practical but his dnd roll is 4 Charisma. It’s a decent partnership. Smug manicured shruggy git who speaks some English, remote controlled by squat angry prune who speaks none.
They get their banners and off they trot with veiled threats. How fucking dare I be English. They really aren’t happy that I dropped all my jobs to take on their dropped job. Imagine if I hadn’t? They would still be waiting now. They don’t know how to check WhatsApp or email. It must be hard being a potato.
By this time I’ve been driving or loading for a pretty much constant 9 hours, barring a quick wee and making Curtis send me things. It’s another hour back to the depot. Then just bits and bobs so generally a pretty pleasant day, just with a few adult children who are in over their heads.
Loved ones have fallen foul of this thing. The French have a deep vein of insularity and protectionism. They don’t like foreigners. I’m a good mimic and have had time in this country, and I know that in a week I’ll likely be able to pass if I am spare with my speech. But Roadkill and Bob know I’m a gaijin and they don’t like gaijin and somehow that’s more important than just doing the fucking job.
I’m ok with putting up with it. As a nation we are arguably even worse than they are. I know I’m working here like this because I am skilled in such work. It involves being responsive and positive, and so long as there are no eejits breathing down your neck you can achieve a great deal in a short space of time. “It’s about the work,” as my old voice teacher used to say. And that goes for every walk of life. I get it now: “Live like a Frenchman but work like an Englishman” Great food, but your personal bits get in the way of big pictures…tant pis
Central Paris and the roads are still lawless. Curtis had booked me in the Luton. A big van. I told him I was gonna load into the Dacia. A little nippy car.
It was just two rolled up banners to carry. The map I had been given was incomprehensible. All I needed to be told was “It’s at the North end of the Invalides bridge, there’s a huge gate and millions of security guards”. Instead I had a blurred Google screenshot with loads of digital hand drawn arrows covering an area both north and south of the river with absolutely no indication of where the actual fucking gate might be and no contact information. Not my first rodeo though. I asked Curtis for more specific info and he gave me the district number which is less specific. Then he looked at the map and pointed to a spot south of the river, but I could sense he literally didn’t know. That’s why I swapped to the Dacia. I knew I needed to be able to just stop and scout on foot once I was in the right area. Which is what I did and how I found it. But then of course they wouldn’t let me in. An event of this scale needs serious security. Quite right that I struggled, frankly. I’m not even accredited yet. Security is far more important at such an event than practicality.
“Can you print my pass out,” I had asked Curtis the night before. “No.” Straight no. This is all just in the process of being put together you see. Printers aren’t designed to be on the mezzanine in a fucking great big warehouse. I literally couldn’t have a printed pass, and a digital pass is somehow less trustworthy.
I found the gate though, by scouting on foot and then returning. I even talked my way through the gate which I was proud of as I didn’t know my pass was invalid at the time. When the head of security had determined that my pass had been cancelled somehow I was already inside the barrier and he totally panicked. I could see it in his head – “WHY HAS THIS BEEN CANCELLED OH MY GOD”. I had determined that it was gonna get me further being Englishman no speaky Frenchy, which was likely strange for the guards I had been nattering away with to witness, but I remained benign and nodding in the face of his natterjack french “you have to leave immediately”. Still I got ejected. Then… Bob showed up. We spoke through the fence like reverse prison.
Bob knew what I had. He knew why I had it. He was on none of my lists. But he wanted me to give him the banners. Head of security was comfy with Bob. I got loads of info from him before I finally trusted him with the banners. Photographed his ID. Still “I had to pass them to Bob through the fence” was not the best way of explaining where the banners had gone. Thankfully talking to Bob had been the right thing. I determined to be a little less front end going forward – to really push for information about how people expect me to do the things they expect me to do before just knowing I can solve it live. “There’ll be posters of your face up in that venue now mate,” Greg comments. He’s not wrong. I’ll go back there some time with everything completely shipshape. I shook all their hands and asked all their names and thanked them. Nice people doing a job. Stressful job. Next time it’ll be easier.
More things have to be moved tomorrow morning so I’ll be up at crack of dawn and off to Versailles, but now I’ve got two telephone numbers and a gps pin, and I’ll be hauling the Luton through the sleepy early morning Paris streets trying to drop off before they turn into hell on earth at about 8.20.
Getting to know Paris a bit better but I’m still an amateur in this city, and cities have to be read. A morning of organising and cleaning and then I took a gamble that the newly rented “warehouse” hire car would have enough capacity to take six dustbins. I jumped on the metro.
I’m right by Bobigny station. Line 5 of the Metro. They still produce the slim tickets I remember from my teenage years. €2.15 for 8 stops from Bobigny to Gare du Nord. Any old fool can drive a train. If I wanted to do the same thing every day I’d push forward / not forward for the 65k a year they get in the UK. It puts it all into perspective though when you pay two quid to go from suburb to central. Travelling is not so much of a luxury in this country. Sure there were two “How did that happen to you? What were you before? How do you afford the booze?” humans. Just two though. Men close to my age who had drifted until they couldn’t drift back. Expensive tattoos, branded clothes, lost eyes and faces and movement. But… only two and neither of them puked even if there was a moment where one came close. Something like meth maybe? Not there anymore. But it felt like puke would have been dealt with swiftly had it happened. They were mobile because they could be for only €2.15.
I had forgotten to take my Paris 24 hi-vis off. I kept on having to fend off lost people. Gare du Nord was designed by Daedalus for King Minos of Crete. I’ll leave Theseus to find out what’s in the centre. “Je veux m’echapper cette gare,” I told the lady after I had seen the same barrier three times and been refused. She let me out. No Minotaur here. The Minotaur works for EasyJet, boarding passengers to the CDG plane.
I picked up the rental car. A Dacia. 64km on the clock. Poor thing. Greg will be commuting with it and claimed it. He’s my direct boss but I have a strong feeling I’ll be getting a lot of use out of that whip.
Back at the hardware store. The crowds of workers hoping to get cash to carry your heavy shit into their van is genuinely intimidating. Usually there’s one van between four, and at the Stalingrad Street Brico, half the car park is absolutely colonised by people with the van door open and engine running waiting to engage anyone who isn’t them. If you make to reverse into the space next to their van they get out and stand in it. The car park is THEIRS. That or they’re sitting on the big bags of stuff hoping that you might come to buy some fertiliser or gravel so they can carry it to your car for cash. God forbid if you want to carry the gravel yourself. Back in the mists of time there was a philanthropic person here. “Could you help my friend and I carry this single bag of firewood to the car? It’s such a cold night. And it’ll rain later. We can give you fifty euros? Is that fair on this cold rainy night?” Now there are hundreds of people who need cash, in so much competition with each other that it just feels unpleasant.
I picked up a collection order of tape and spanners and some full sized dustbins. I quickly wished I had someone with me. I was having to drop the back seats to fit the dustbins, but the guy who was asking if he could help me load a few tools felt like he was trying to see if he could lift my spanners without my noticing. I was in a hurry and suddenly I had to slow down to look behind me. There’s instincts I’ve honed over decades of active observance in some pretty fucked up places so it would have been just an observance had they not slowed me down when I was under time pressure. Whatever I think of my own instincts and the work I’ve done to hone them, there’s always room for improvement.
I learned my basic French on a brief job cutting wood in the Lot Valley for cash in my early twenties. Long story but I’m glad of that job when I look back. I learned tools and language and social skills, and fuck me was I an awkward bastard when I was a teenager. Not like now, eh? Now I’m just so socially capable, like the social ninja of social, never looking like a lemon oh no oh goodness no. But yeah, I learnt something even if I can’t remember any of their names.
Marianne Faithfull wrote a song about driving through Paris in a sportscar, as if it was something to aim for. Awkward teenage Al was driven through Paris in a very fast car but it wasn’t open top, and I never really think about it as anything clever. Today I was in a Luton van and it was just an annoying drive really.
Every fucking vehicle in Paris has damage on it. Priorite à droite doesn’t really work. They all just try and drive through each other. Nobody has any compunction about blocking lanes, they undertake and overtake suddenly and without need. It’s not as bad as Saudi. It’s worse than London. By a long way. London – not counting the South East – tends to have a certain honky politeness. They will insult and intimidate you but they won’t just drive at you so much, like they’re the Terminator. “On your right, in the right, right? I’ll be right.”
I’m back in my little hotel room. I like it here. It’s beige. There’s nothing but my clothes and a shower that smells like cat wee. But … it’s mine, and last night my god I slept well. I woke up naturally at half five, put myself back down for just an hour and then got up and entertained myself before wandering across the road and helping chop up some timber. My only annoyance is that there’s no kettle. I don’t want to be spending on coffee anymore. It’s a trap.
I’m surprised how quickly I’m remembering my conversant french, but with very little time here I’m finding there are ways I can really be helpful in that regard. There are, of course, a vast majority of French people working here. Then there are many other nationalities who share English but have very little French. Another façon in which I can add value. And if I’m in the warehouse much longer I’m very much hoping I’ll have to cover a forklift before the end of the month, even supervised in a quiet moment. Useful skill to have. Better if provable, but we learn by doing.
This hotel is about ten miles from the Champs Elysee, not that it worries me. I’m here to work and that’s what I’m gonna do. We are essentially in Tottenham, Paris.
Only about an hour of actual sleep and then I was off to Victoria on a grotty morning. Monday. Nobody is happy first thing on a Monday. I met one of the worst humans I’ve met for a long time at the boarding gate to my Easy Jet flight to Charles de Gaulle from Gatwick. I ended up on the flight wearing half my clothes, with what I couldn’t fit of the contents of my carefully packed and fully paid for overhead cabin bag shoved into my under seat bag. What didn’t fit went in a little tote kindly donated by a Frenchman who could tell that I was banging into a rock.
It was Brian’s new bag, bought new and sold as being cabin compliant. It almost fit in the stupid cage. Had I the tools I could have pulled off a plastic handle to make it fit. But… Monday morning. And these people are like traffic wardens – they are the societal outlet for people who might otherwise kill babies. The nice face of the sociopath. They’re in for the kick. I remained outwardly calm and polite while volcanic inside. They were intractable and robotic. Knowing that they were probably secretly excited and sweaty at the possibility I might say something that allowed them to throw me off the plane, I avoided all snarky comments that occurred to me apart from a few grumbles, and a polite shout up the queue : “Forgive my sudden volume but I find I really need a plastic bag. I don’t mean to trouble anyone but should you happen to have one you don’t need, please pass it to me.” “SIR PLEASE DON’T SHOUT,” they responded, and then I think stopped as they realised the double standard.
“You dealt with that very well,” my neighbouring passenger told me once I was on “I’m so angry,” I told her. I then had to breathe consciously for the first half of the flight. In retrospect it was funny.
I owe Brian a bag. Had to just … leave it there by the gate. Grumble grumble.
Then I landed in Paris.
“What’s the weather been like?” I asked the taxi. “Terrible.”
This week looks like it’ll be logistics. There’s a great big warehouse full of things that need to be sorted or moved. I was there and work was needed so Ali and I got stuck in and now I’m absolutely shattered. It’s ten local time. I’m in bed, had a shower, gonna give myself a good rest. This’ll be a big team and a huge event. I know how I can add to these things, and I know I’m understood and trusted. Just got to work hard and it’s gonna be a good month or so.
Two outdoor shows. No rain. Now I’m home and I got myself to packing. I wanted to try and undo some of the spreading out that I’ve been doing lately, just as I won’t be home for ages. I’ve packed my diary. There’s still things to juggle. But I’ve got a point of focus coming up and it is likely to keep me very busy.
I’ve been given invoice information for the shows about The East India Company at last. I really hate not being paid anything until I’ve finished the job with stuff like this as it is totally disempowering if they turn out to be no good for it. These guys though, they’ve sold enough tickets, plus have multiple streams of funding. I guess I should treat it like low paid filming work. With rehearsals and no buyout… I’ve sent an invoice and I’m sure it’ll convert to being marginally less broke.
But tomorrow I’ll start sorting out the being broke thing post haste, back into the unknown but the nicely paid unknown which is the best unknown.
Packing packing packing. Trying to pack light. I had the kickyfoot on the tellybox as they are actually making this tournament possible for people who are only mildly interested by putting it on the BBC. I don’t have to go to a drunk pub to find out how we are all doing.
Boy got dropped off for Brian to look after when I’m away. The original plan was for me to do it but Brian is gonna be here and I’m off being Captain Random again.
Chargers. iPad for admin. Converters. 7 underpants. 5 T shirt. 2 shirt. 2 Trousers. 1 jumper. 1 Hoodie. Nothing fancy. Although I might shove the Steam Deck in there in case there’s ever downtime. Likely it’ll sit there until I leave.
Passport. Driving licence. Multiple cards.
I’ve laid out my clothes for tomorrow. I packed the aeropress for cheap coffee and a flask for environmental water.
Charging my Fitbit and headphones overnight.
Powerbank A and Bose Soundlink Mini Speaker both got traded for crack in Brighton last week by Car Thief 01. Don’t need Accordion so Car Thief 02 has done no harm.
Got Powerbank B.
Paris is highly civilised. I will not be working 24/7.
Bedtime. Don’t want to miss this plane. Sleepy drink, do thy work. And come the morning Boy will fist me in the gob before my 5am alarm, I suspect.
I’m not a good enough mechanic and I’m okay with that.
Morning found me downstairs attempting to wedge a doorstop into the backseat doorhandle of my car to start the process of changing the broken power window. I reckoned I could get the whole doorcard off before it started raining and then it started raining. With electrics involved and absolutely no time left before I fuck off to Paris, I opted to drive it to the honest saffer at Culvert Tyres in Battersea and ask him if he was better at fitting windows than I was. He really really was. Of course. And his Saturday guy came in. £60 window. £60 fit. £120 plus accordion. I can jettison the bad feelings.
I had to meet Lou. She was getting into town for eleven and I dropped off Bergie at ten past ten. Suddenly confined to public transport my bus only got to Victoria just in time and then we had to tube to Waterloo. Slumming it. I know the tube too too well. But honestly I avoid it when I can.
Brunch with Flavia and she’s bought a new vivarium for Hex.
I remember one time, years ago, when Flavia had to look after two weird tropical giant snails with Ivo, her son. It was some sort of school project. Different children got the snails at different times and had to make sure they didn’t die. Flavia LOVED the weird snails. When I needed someone who would not just take Hex but love him, I knew she was the right person and good lord she’s doubled down on that. It was nice to see him though. He’s definitely better off now than he was in Mel’s broken tank.
He’s a dude.
Rain was making everything tricky for the East India Company Walking Tour thing but I came over to Monument and slotted in for the evening. I’ll be back for two shows tomorrow even though no-one has been paid yet. It’s important work and they’re good for it.
Bedtime now. Pretty much gonna be able to drop everything and fuck off to Paris forever. Man, my life.
AlBarclay 