Robin is in the Hood

Tonight’s mission: break into the Palace, via the red carpet. You need a glossy ticket, of curse. I’m the outsider, the head-chopped guy, the nobody. I bite and bark but I don’t have any invitation. So here I am, dogging ponies in the line, asking for a miracle. A dwarf holding a Chinese girl bust me: “If I had another invitation I would bring another girl with me!”. Thanks, pal, I’ll join the force with you for bed jumping time, but now on I need to get in. Bubbliness is contagious. The vulture eyes are all over the place, flashes kick me to blindness, I scream: “I’m no star!” and it sounds like “I’m not an animal, I’m a human being!” But they don’t listen. Photographers are the first victims of their hunt.

Finally, a good soul gives me the golden ticket. Everybody’s already inside, so I climb the bloody red stairs alone, as a leprous thief. On the top, thirty people in a grayish yellow uniform are still waiting for me. They smile but I read on their face: “Sorry you’re not famous”. From there, the rest doesn’t count. The red steps is a monument you visit, you photography and boast about. It’s a concept and I just burned it.

As I left the Lumière Theatre, lying on the red carpet there’s an empty can of bear. Damn, every monument ends up soiled. At this speed, there’ll be a spit on the Joconde.