Breaking the hostile rules of breakfast start times, yet I’m not even in pole position for the pancake batter or the electric waffle maker.
In a rush to get to the island for the main event at the race track and a seat in the shade, next to my newfound friends from New Jersey, and all I can think is … you trip me up.
Once I’ve set out my stall in the park, under the palm tree, I figure the only way to live through this is by drinking beer and eating carbohydrates, continuously – an endurance test, as always.
The obligatory flypast takes place late morning, followed by an emotional national anthem – that’s just sunscreen in my eyes, damn it!
And I wonder why I’m now seeing Mexican wrestlers directly in front of me … suddenly I’m transported right back to that most surreal gig: Monotonix, De Montfort Hall, Sunday afternoon … masked wrestlers and frenzied performers and thrown-around dustbins; scattered drinks, folk jumping from balconies. This is what passes for a normal Sunday in Leicester, is what I thought at the time.
Back now in Montreal where, when the course of events goes a little off-piste, the crowd aren’t shy in laying out their displeaure.
Suddenly it all goes a bit pantomime horse. If anyone had any fruit, I figure they’d be throwing it; but we all arrived here fully loaded up with alcoholic beverages and bread rolls and pasta salads, all long since disappeared.
Rational thoughts and common sense were left behind on the subway hours ago, to the point where I have no idea if my eyes are deceving me, or whether I should take any of this as gospel.
Undecided, I pop open a cold one, and drift along the long straight to the pits, where life itself is being taken apart, piece by piece, and packed up.
As uncouth as we are, we all loiter around shouting out famous people’s names, a bit like on ‘Hot Topic’ but with slightly less of a feminist stance.
Eventually, a jockey deigns to turn and wave to us, the great unwashed on the wrong side of the fence, at which point most of the assembled throng breaks down into shallow pieces of dignity.
In a bid to break free, I walk in a straight line over the shaky bridge by the Japanese garden, to acquaint myself with an energy drink, and to sit still under a shady tree, close to the poison ivy … a development which I quickly realise makes little sense.
It takes less than an hour to get back to the shack, where – as yesterday – I take myself to one side for a debrief and a cold shower.
Refreshed, out onto the dark desolate streets, where it’s clear the festivities are over. Everyone in this goddamn city has thrown away a whole lot of money.
My disappointing meal of a halfhearted sandwich and some cold frites is ready for me at the dark bar upstairs in the Bier Markt. I sit between my mute friends, next to my milkshake IPA.
I’m on a gradual fall after a heavy weekend in the city. Prost, no-one says.
Because we’re all thinking … jusqu’ici tout va bien.
An Outside World 