Disclaimer: Flickfeast would like to make it known that at no point did we commission, or indeed assign, for Chris Wyatt to attend the Cannes Film Festival on our behalf. He makes repeated mentioning to this fact, but he is mistaken. On many levels. All Flickfeast can tell its readers is that two days ago, we received multiple pages of a broken Filofax, upon which was written the following diary entries by Mr. Wyatt. We are publishing these in the hope that it will discourage Mr. Wyatt from ever writing for us again.
Flim Weakly: Cannes Film Festival Diary Part Two
Flickfeast: At this point, notes become fractured, but not in an interesting, Hunter S. Thompson type way, but in the way that one might find a notebook in a serial killer’s house, after they’ve been captured.
Day….I don’t know, 10?, May 23rd
I tried to get into Brad Pitt’s party, but the security don’t accept my press credentials, which I don’t have, and tell me that if I try to get in again, they will put my head up my ass. I don’t think this is physically possible, so I try to get in again and then things go weirdly dark.
I wake up with a sore head. And ass.
Day 12: Final Day
It’s too hot here, and frankly, I’m sick of all these people, so since its my last day, I queue to get into what I think is the new Tarantino film, but which turns out to be a queue for a really expensive toilet.
Since I don’t have any money left, I decide to give it a miss.
Apparently they give out prizes for all this, at the end of the day, but it doesn’t really seem that important, and anyway, Love Island is on tonight on ITV, and I figure if I hurry, I can make it back to London in time to watch it, unless Mum is watching Midsomer Murders on ITV3, which always shows the same episodes over and over and it was probably the posh woman that did it anyway.
I get on a nearby bus and tell the driver I want to go to London. He looks at me like I have something on my face, but tells me to take a seat anyway and I’m pretty sure he knows where he’s going, because drivers know the way to everywhere, otherwise they wouldn’t do it for a living.
I watch Netflix on my phone for about three hours, until my phone runs out of charge. The bus doesn’t have any charging points.
Three Days Later
I didn’t get home in time for Love Island. And Flickfeast hasn’t responded to any of my calls, so I guess I’ll just stick this in the post and hope they know how to put it on the computer net.
If I could sum up Cannes in three words it would be: hot, rude, dogs and flim.
Looking forward to next year.