Paris diary: Macron’s dog, testy traffic cops and a damned beautiful show

Monday

4am alarm. Games o’clock. All aboard the Eurostar for my fourth crack as Olympics editor. I sit next to a lovely family surprising their son with a trip to Disneyland Paris. But where are the best thrills and spills? Thunder Mountain or the gut-churning Olympic rollercoaster? We’ll see.

Later, I am at the Élysée Palace for a speech by Monsieur Macron to the arriving global media. There is a buffet. Readers will not be shocked to hear it is a gastronomic delight. I accidentally-on-purpose drop a bit of ham that is snaffled by the Macrons’ elderly dog, Nemo, famous in these parts for once urinating on an ornamental fireplace in a presidential meeting. The ground stays dry today.

Emmanuel and Brigitte do a walkabout. I try to get close for pearls of wisdom but bodyguards fend me off. My colleague Nick Ames bursts past and thrusts out a paw: “Bonjour monsieur, le président!” Eyes meet, hands are shaken. Macron utters the immortal words: “The Guardian? Thank you for being here.” Nick has the scoop. I am empty-handed. This is why he is an intrepid war-zone reporter and I eat packed lunches at a desk.

Tuesday

I am Mark Cavendish sprinting to win the final stage of the Tour de France. In truth, I am riding an electric bike up a closed-off Champs-Élysées towards the Arc de Triomphe at dawn. My pretence is shattered when two cops tell me to ride in the Paris 2024 lane, not the cycle lane. I oblige. Then 100m further on two more cops flag me down and tell me to ride in the cycle lane. Bureaucracy, eh? If only the French had a word for that.

I am first in line to validate my accreditation at 7am – a gold medal moment – and return to the hotel to find chief news man Sean Ingle having breakfast. “I know this might not be good timing,” he says, “but we’re only 18 months from the Winter Olympics and we need to start planning.” Mon dieu, Sean. I need more coffee.

Wednesday

Horse whipping, spy plots, pitch invasion chaos. News everywhere to triage, distil, analyse. Just a normal day at the Olympics – and it hasn’t officially started yet. I steal an hour off to get dinner in a local restaurant and ask the chef-owner what he thinks. “ Les Jeux Olympiques?! ” he exclaims. “They’re a sack of shit. It’s a disaster. My takings are down 35%. Businesses are closing. Tourists don’t visit.”

As an Olympics hanger-on I feel a bit to blame. So to atone, next time you’re in the 15th arrondissement please go for dinner at 750g La Table . The poached egg with ratatouille entrée is a belter.

Thursday

I wake up with a throat like sandpaper and confine myself to solitary. Suddenly I am back in Tokyo: a Covid world of hotel quarantine, empty stadiums and daily collection of my colleagues’ saliva. I’m not complaining: we were safe and well. My sympathy was with the people of Japan who bankrolled those Games, had a world of infection thrust on them, and never got to bear witness.

Paris feels different: the Stade de France is full for Antoine Dupont’s spectacular try against Argentina and it’s wonderful to see the colour and noise. “Magnifique! Magnifique!” screams French TV. He’s right. I think again about the chef-owner, the kids of Japan who missed out and the Games’ corporate greed. I feel guilty for loving this damned beautiful show.

Friday

A ring of steel makes the city feel like a military zone. Jangling nerves are worsened by news of sabotage on the train lines in la France profonde . It’s a reminder you can’t guard everything. Good job Céline Dion rocked up early on a supersaver ticket: she knocks it out the park to uplift the end of a soggy ceremony.

Saturday

Après le deluge and a naked man painted blue with a stick-on ginger beard – was that a dream? – it’s on with the actual show. To the hockey in Colombes, the only venue from Paris 1924 – the Chariots of Fire Games – in use this time. Decades ago as a boy I ran around the track at the Bebington Oval on the Wirral they used as a stand-in for filming, pretending I was at the Olympics. Now here I am reporting pitch-side at the real thing. It’s the closest I’ll ever get to being an Olympian, and that’s fine with me. On y va!