On pornstars, health and bars

My head hurts. I’m aching. No coffee yet. There are pornstars sunning themselves by the pool under our kitchen window.

Cannes is beginning to get to me.

The Cannes Crew had a very slow start to Sunday, gradually easing ourselves into consciousness with copious bowls of coffee. Outside, the pool area is crammed with gorgeous girls sunning themselves. The boys drool. Pathetic, I know.

There’s a coach outside, emblazoned with the legend Woodman Entertainment. I have a sudden moment of clarity. Don’t ask me how I know this, but Pierre Woodman makes porn. The girls at the pool have got to be part of his stable. We are sharing our hotel with a bevy of pornstars.

We finally emerge into the light of Cannes at about 3pm. I check emails, and attempt and fail to post (curse you, Blogger) before joining what develops into a long and chaotic queue for Michael Moore’s SICKO. Fiona, who has busted her arm in a roller-disco accident, gets bumped by a nasty old French lady. I put a plaster on her plaster, and she soon feels better.

SICKO is a polemical, biased, utterly unbalanced, sentimental film with a loose interpretation of the facts and an argument that frankly … you can’t argue with. At all. He completely skewers the American healthcare industry. He shows us a medical system that is happy to allow a patient to choose which of the two fingers he’s had severed in a bandsaw accident he can afford to have reattached, and is now beginning to dump patients who can no longer afford treatment on the streets. Compared to that, even the NHS can be held up as a paragon of virtue and care. It’s going to cause a massive stink in the States, and is therefore essential viewing. I loved it.

After Sicko, I hooked up with a friend, one of the Lashers I met in Sweden. We manage to find a cheap place to eat, remarkably for Cannes. No, I’m not telling you where it is. My secret. Mine and Geir’s.

The cheapness ended there, as I hooked back up with the Cannes Crew, and we ended up in a beach bar and The Grand Hotel, before braving the scrum at the Petit Majestic, chasing the rumour of another party that proved not to be. I felt myself relaxing into the role of Cannes veteran. We drove home in a stuffed car, with our mate Cop jammed in the boot. He didn’t seem to mind.

Tomorrow is my last full day in Cannes. Still got to hit that red carpet.