I’m on my own and I’m knackered, but my last drop was at Invalides and then I could drive through all the police cordons running down the side of The Seine until I parked up in an abandoned bus stop just inside the barrier. Then I hotfooted it into the nearest open bistro and ordered me a magret de canard with spinach.
It’s summer in Paris so we’re all sitting outside. I’m shoving it in my face as it is very much food as fuel despite being high quality and with green things. The vibe here is extremely buzzy and makes me rather want to have a glass of their Brouilly, but it’s a great big truck and a long way home so I’ll make do with water.
Local security at events is always a bit of a shitshow when I think about it. This is off the scale but it’s a bigger event. All the different venues do it differently. I’m amassing a decent amount of experience at it, but you can’t teach stupid.
There was a guy at Grand Palais yesterday who had been told to let in all passes for his group of venues. So he was preventing access to everyone but the very small number of people who have access all areas. Let in all translates to ONLY let in all. But then TOUT is the French. The passes are in English. He could say that’s why he was essentially doing the opposite of what he was meant to do.
I was very glad my French is broader now when I went to La Defense with a van full of urgent timber. I knew they wanted it at the start of the day. By eleven I knew it was nobody’s job, aka mine. A huge pallet of 5.1m lengths of timber, 300m in total, just sitting there with some bungee and staples. “But you can’t take it Al,” says Ali. “It’s too long.”
It took me longer than I am happy with to work it out, and frankly without Mousa and my french it wouldn’t have happened. Mousa helped me get it in like this:
And off. See the red strip towards the top of the hazard tape on the van? That’s to say it has been checked and sealed at the warehouse. But still you have to go to a van check area and show your proof that you’ve been sealed. And it was noon by the time I got there so of course the checker is on a lunch break and there’s only one. There’s a number to call but no answer. Three vans.
We wait twenty minutes patiently and then I ring the number on repeat. Three rings, hang up, three rings, hang up, etc. It takes a while but they answer and then minutes later they are there. I have to go to gate 4. I go to gate 4. I can see the loading bay just the other side. They won’t let me in though. I have to go to another gate. At the other gate they say “This is the spectator gate and car park. Deliveries go at the gate you were just at.” “Yes, but the guy at the gate is a bit slow.” I go back to him. By now Herless and Mariona have both come out of the venue to try and help but these people are Grade A morons. I’m still being polite but it’s infuriating when I get back and can see the loading bay and he won’t open the gate. I’m sent round again. I end up at a third gate with a man in hi-vis waving “NO” to me, so I wave “hello” and keep coming. Then he is shouting “STOP STOP THIS IS NOT THE GATE” and I shout back “This IS the gate, I’ve been to all the other gates.” “Don’t come!” “I’m coming and you’re going to let me in.” Usually I’m bluffing but this time we’ve had all the accreditation done properly. I also have a collection of passes to get in on foot but I’m not carrying all that timber through security, TOT or no TOT. He is going to let me in.
Needless to say I got in. But seriously, what a clown show. What the hell is that idiot doing refusing to open the gate because it is supposed to be for athletes when they aren’t here yet. We open tomorrow.
Long long days and much to contemplate in all of them. I’ve finished my duck. It’s quarter past eleven. Time to find the van and get it home.
AlBarclay 