There are lots of films on. You know that one about the guy who does the thing and the other one featuring what’s his name. Believe it or not some people go to these Festivals because they love cinema and want to sit in a dark room for two hours trying to restrain themselves from viciously beating the woman with the persistent cough two rows back with her own shoes.
If you’ve got legs, walk. If you’ve got one leg, hop and if you’ve got no legs, you have my sympathy. Sure the underground system has it’s uses, but once you get central everything is accessible by foot. You may be tempted to hail a taxi when you fall out of the Groucho club at 4am with your tongue down a Downton Abbey extra’s throat and if so, check that it’s a legal cab and you’re not being driven off to some remote wasteland on the outskirts of Charlton to be robbed and defiled.
If you’ve managed to gain access to a Gala after party you’ll be stuffing yourself with free champagne and miniature hamburgers whilst Helena Bonham Carter break dances in the corner. If not then the wealthy but unlucky straddlers will be at the French House in Soho sipping extortionately expensive half pints and talking about sensible right-wing policies and the new Stella McCartney collection. Should you feel like mixing it up with the London Film critic community, they’ll be at the Blue Posts off Leicester Square chain smoking Camel Lights and squandering money on endless beer whilst complaining they aren’t paid enough. What the other peasants do, who knows? But let’s be honest, who talks to people not in the industry or cares what they are doing? If you wanted to chat about whippet racing and paedophile rings you’d go back home for Christmas.
Make sure you have your business cards at the ready and give them to anyone who is wearing clothes more expensive than yours. If you manage to get some good contact numbers, try not to vomit your tenth free Cosmopolitan on your mobile as you’re typing in the digits or better yet, retire to the bathrooms and crudely tattoo the details on your arm with a cocktail stick dipped in red wine.
It’s all well and good booking into the Dorchester but if you’re planning to return in the early hours of the morning saturated with booze and smelling of your own urine then any flat surface that isn’t scattered with broken glass will feel like heaven. Save yourself some money and grab a cheap hotel with a complimentary breakfast. Do make sure it’s a Full English though because if you crawl into the restaurant in the morning and all they have to soak up last nights alcohol are stale croissants and Rice Krispies, you’re in for a world of hurt.
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