link back to photos page >>>>>>>>> click!

Five days later… the fog is lifting. This is what I think happened during my tromatic experience in cannes. It may not all make sense, I can guarantee it’s not all in the right order… and there seem to still be a few large holes in my story… but some of it happened… probably.

By day we were warped vigilante publicists, either marching cannes croisette tooting for independent cinema or asleep on the floor in a heap of other people and our own dirt. By night one place and one place only was our home – La Petite Magestique! This sprawling street bar was a true social vortex, magically demanding both our patronage and rusty’s pant-less-ness every night of our stay. Every night that is except of course for when our presence was otherwise demanded at one of the hip un-missable parties – you know, the ones with the free bar and countless beautiful people whos only want in life is to party with the troma team… ok so we only went to a couple of those – but when we did, did we make the most of them!

Sometimes we would be working in the troma sales booth – a rampantly green little tromaville amongst the stiff, yawnsome, regular booths of the Palais du Film. I left my heart there after spending the day dancing “amusingly” in the background of lloyd’s interviews, chatting with such noteable types as the potential producer of ‘shlock and shlockability’, but mainly just bigging up troma to anyone who’d listen.

It wasn’t long before we all lost the ability to speak. This was either due to frayed vocal chords finally snapping after yelling at one member of the public too many, or due to our brains being washed to such an extent that all we could utter was one word… ‘troma’. Thankfully by this stage we all shared one mind and so there was no communication difficulty. ‘troma’ became an all purpose word meaning anything from “lets go to La Petite Magestique”, to “please remove toxie’s mop from my anus – my feet hurt and I want to sit down”.

I feel I must once again come back to the magical powers of La Petite Magestique. So sceptical was I that one night I rallied up Gerald to join me in a disillusioned walk out and go-home-early. I think my exact words were “this place is so shit, there isn’t even any music, why do we come here every night, I’m going home”. As the two of us lurched drunkenly down the street it suddenly seemed as though teaching Gerald to perfect an English accent was far more important than taking the right route back to the troma condo. We turned this way, we turned that… we were vaguely aware that we had no clue where we were going, but it was ok because Gerald was sounding just like his daddy was prince charles. Rounding another corner we saw a mass of idiots. La Petite Magestique! As if a concerned mother, La Petite had gently guided our sorrowful footsteps home. So we stayed another two hours just to show how grateful we were. Never again will a La Petite-un-friendly word pass my lips.

I think I'll leave it there. My frazzled memory is proving to be a little unreliable... there are vague images coming to me... burning babies, pirate ships... but i'm sure other people can tell these stories better than me! I must though take this opportunity to say hi to the cannes troma team 2004 - may we reunite soon! and especially to lisa, martijn and lloyd - the jewels in troma's crown of insanity.

troma!