A quick run in the morning to Yves de Manoir. All the local police and security are clueless and they love to toot their whistles. I just had a pair of staple removers and I was on my own. Without someone to take the van I ended up being pushed from place to place until I was about a mile from the venue, at which point I reversed up to a bus stop right by the entrance to the official car park and told them they were going to have to get me towed if they didn’t like it, but that I was only there for as long as it takes to walk to the stadium and back.
Michael was there to take receipt. It took less than ten minutes. England was losing to Argentina in the women’s hockey. I just did my job and went. Loads of noise from the stadium. Nobody towed me but I had to have a heated discussion with the car park lady.
I’m still going into venues all the time but I can’t be fucked with going by van unless it is crucial or way too far to walk. It’s so obstructed. I’m so over these clowns.
The van gate guys are there all day, but they are mostly astronomical wankers and they don’t want to work. They’re not here to work, they’re French. It’s not worth having to get past their desultory shit. Even at VNS today I had some lardy old twit forcing me to jump through all sorts of hoops. Not because they were necessary. Just because… It’s idle work syndrome. They sit there all day doing fuck all. When someone shows up and everything is in order they don’t just wave through as they feel like this is their opportunity to justify the fact they’ve been rearranging their testicles for the last three hours. The other option for me is to walk miles though. I don’t have time for that shit. So for venues like Vaire Sur Marne Nautical Stadium I go sealed and then have to justify why I’m there in my unusual French. Today they made me get Marcus to come and wave at me from just inside the compound. I very nearly started playing the clown music.
Then a harness to Eiffel on the metro as the roads are closed, and a chance to return my media upgrade card to Micheal. I’ve got another one now. I find him in the beach volleyball. He has been quietly insistent over the last few days, using the Australian “eh” for gentle emphasis. “Drop it back when you can eh” It’s a clever little linguistic motif. In two letters it kicks responsibility to the recipient. It’s neat. I know it’s important.
I get myself onto the Champs de Mars. I’ve learnt to ask nothing of the site managers so I’ve switched on my resource management and I’ve arranged my accreditation swatches so that a high numbered media pass is the first thing the average Joe Potato sees. I meet with M and in a bout of boyish enthusiasm that we share he takes me up to the media tower between matches. “I’ll start to get anxious after about ten minutes,” I tell him. We look over the crowds. We take a selfie. We both start to get anxious as we are both here to work. We both tell each other we’ve got shit to do, which we do do, and we shake hands. Good lad that Aussie. Without getting that pass before I sorted my own I’d have been turned away for two deliveries.
“You two look similar,” observes Lou. I’m not posting his picture here as no permission. But he’s a solid geezer. We both use “unthreatening alien” as a way of breaking the rules while people mend them around us, we have both honed it to perfection, we know a fellow grafter when we see one. “I knew you’d need that pass mate. It’s why I let you make off with it.” Good lad. I believe him. “I think this is the best situated stage I’ve ever worked at,” he says. And I get it.
AlBarclay 