A Right Cannes Do!

AFTER SEVEN back-breaking years working in the film industry and not a Cannes-worthy film to show for it, I am finally Cannes-bound, albeit in somewhat less than high style.
I am easyjetting to the neighbouring airport of Nice. From there, I will travel by train each day to Cannes to rub shoulders with the stars, party with champagne - or at least get invited to one party.
Having filmed the low-budget Human Traffic in January and February this year, it's now time to sell it, on the back of a 15-minute long promo, to the distributors at Cannes. Because of rising interest in the film and its subject matter, Fabarje (Fusion) have sponsored an enormous party on the Sunday night, at which Carl Cox, who played a cameo in the film will be playing or, should I say, spinning his decks. He is here to promote and enjoy, at Fabarje's expense - which is more than I can say for me.
I'm not being subsidised in anyway. I'm on a self-promotion trip. I've budgeted for two frocks and one pair of silver high-heels, but will it be enough?
The first task ahead of me is one of enormity and great importance. I must have "accreditation". Accreditation is photo ID which gets you into films and, most importantly, receptions free of charge. It's offered to international artistes to encourage them to visit - but was this artiste worthy?
Human Traffic is the story of five friends who go clubbing over a weekend. It explores drugs, insecurities, love, paranoia and pure hedonism. It truly gives an insight into clubland culture in the '90s and gives an honest depiction of what goes on there today.
The writer/director is Justin Kerrigan (24) and the film stars John Simon (The Lakes), myself, Shaun Parkes, Danny Dyers and Nicola Reynolds. It should be out later this year.

Day 1 - Friday
The plane journey proves very useful. Meet several journos and producers. Invite them to party. Basically schmooze. Arrive at accommodation and I'm just settling into a well-earned glass of wine when my mobile phone rings. It's Shaun and Danny (my co-stars) with nowhere to stay. This is unplanned, but hell, I can't say no. Shaun is tall, black and handsome, but on crutches, while Danny, my favourite east-end Cockney lad, is taller, much harder and has the ability to frighten. Sleeping tops and tails with Danny is difficult, but I had to give a bed to Hop-along Cassidy.

Day 2 - Saturday
My two newly-adopted children follow me everywhere. At the train station I buy the tickets (they can't speak French). We arrive in Cannes. "Where to now, Lorraine?" I'm thinking maybe now isn't the best time for accreditation searching. They are of the belief that if I can get one, they can too. The glamour! I can't stand it! We go into a couple of terraced cafés but have to leave - too pricey. Finally, we settle on an English pub which has an unlocatable smell of sewage or, perhaps sulphur (insist the boys). I have arranged to meet somebody at the Majestic Terrace at seven. Think Shelbourne x 10. There is a look of horror on the manager's face as he greets me and my entourage. Shaun is now wearing an Oasis hat and a waistcoat, but no shirt. Danny is "hard" from the ankles up but his look crumples with a pair of yellow canvas plimsoles.
I beg my friends for ten minutes to enjoy my new dress. Actually, it is even difficult for me to get in, but the manager finally gives his consent. One minute on the Majestic Terrace, and it's clear there is definitely another half and this is definitely how they live. I take a deep breath and pick my way around the tables where the people sit and crane their necks just in case you're somebody. Is that Angelica Huston? Oh my God, it's definitely Johnny Depp. I can't take it. I turn on my brand new heels and hurry to my awaiting entourage.
Now for plan B. The only other smart place I know is the Soho House yacht, where I intend delivering tickets to one of the managers and then sit and drink afterwards. The Soho House is a members club in London (which I'm almost a member of!) and they take a boat out here in Cannes every year. Plan works. We have drinks but just like Cinderellas we have to run for the last train back to Nice. Still no accreditation!

Day 3 - Sunday (party day)
There is a screening of the 15-minute promo in Cannes at 2.30pm which means leaving here at 1.00pm, which means I don't have enough time. I have to bring my party dress and shoes in a bag along with make-up etc. We arrive at the screening - and it seems at first that we can't get in! I'm at the end of my tether at this stage and just throw a hissy fit. Needless to say, we do get in: we're all in high spirits at this stage and it's time for me to do a press conference - I'm interviewed by MTV, Big Breakfast Company, The Face, Sky magazine, Elle and many more. I'm happy but tired and there's still the party to go to and I haven't eaten.
Nicola Reynolds has arrived out from Cardiff and looks a little shaken. I pile her into a taxi and it's off again to Soho House boat (my second home) to change frocks, eat salads and down champagne. Spot John Hurt! After that, we travel by taxi back to the club: the place is heaving outside.
A bigger party than I expected, it's like a mirror image of what the film was about. Ravers everywhere, but this time all mixed with producers, directors and journalists. At 7.00am it's down to the first terrace on "Le Croissette" to drink Kahlua coffees and eat croissants. I'm really beginning to feel like a part of the festival at this stage. And it's especially good to be Irish in Cannes - the buzz about The General is enormous and their party, if not the biggest, is definitely the best of the whole festival. PS: still no accreditation.

Day 4 - Monday
The boys have missed their Eurostar train. I suddenly remember I'm supposed to be meeting the journalist from Company and her photographer at 6pm on the boat for an after-party photo and chat . . . I'm feeling fragile to say the least. Off I go. They suddenly get a fantastic idea. Why don't I take this ticket they have to the Armageddon party - a real red carpet and snap-flash-snap affair. No, I protest, I can't imagine doing it all over again after last night. But they insist: they are willing to drive me home, wait for me to change and then drive me back. This is all for the feature that they're doing. I suddenly have no choice - it's frock no. 2, hair slicked to my head and into the night I go again. They take pictures of me going up the steps and then disappear.
In the early hours of Tuesday morning I realise I'm supposed to be catching a flight back in seven hours. I call and change it to Thursday for a small fee. I have breakfast on the same terrace with some friends and the waiter can hardly believe his eyes. Me again! All in all, the trip has been a success except for losing my sunglasses.
The next two days are to be spent recovering in comfort by the pool before the laborious Easyjet flight to Luton and then home.