A dear friend of mine – a film critic of international repute whom I will not name and shame for obvious reasons – feels that Cannes deserves to be A-bombed. I’m sure he has no hard feelings towards the inhabitants of that trendy beach resort (many of whom are only out to fleece a gullible tourist or two), but towards the film festival.

Startling! Here is one of the most passionate lovers of good movies I have ever come across. So why this wish for mega-fallout? “It’s like a cattle market,” he says. “Literally."

Applications for a critic’s ticket for the festival are investigated by a committee. Should the applicant not enjoy international status, they stand a good chance of complete rejection. And even if the authorities are gracious enough to grant you a pass, your troubles could be just beginning. This is because you are not informed of the colour of your pass until you arrive and, at Cannes, colour is everything. It reflects your status and which holding pen you will be packed into like so many cattle. And if you are unfortunate enough to possess a bog-standard blue pass, you’d better join the box-office queue at the crack of dawn or you’ll have to fight your way in. Should the screening in question be a hot ticket, you could get your shirt torn off your back, as was the case in 1995 in the frenzied scramble to see Larry Clark’s controversial teenage romp Kids.

While on the subject of art, let us not forget the prizes. In addition to movies being screened strictly for the prestigious Palme d’Or, a multitude of other awards are dangled before the eager films in competition. These range from those of Un Certain Regard down to the Technical Grand Prix, which I received for Mahler in 1974 – an award so lowly that the producer did not think it worth the expense of flying me out to receive it.

More recently another movie of mine – The Fall of the Louse of Usher (2002) – was being screened. When my wife Elize and I arrived, bang on time, the film had already started and we were surprised to see the place packed to the rafters . . . until ten minutes into the movie – just after the orgy of dinosaurs and sex dolls – when there was a mass exodus (coinciding with my screen appearance as the Mad Doctor).

Afterwards we made our way dolefully along the Croisette, mingling with the crowds looking for a free drink. We ended up at our own publicity party thrown by our distributors, one of hundreds going on in hotel suites along the front (guess who foots the bill – in my case, the poor filmmaker).

What you will not see at these parties are the stars. They will have already endured their publicity stint, sitting for much of the day at a table with six chairs around it in a posh hotel, being grilled by a hungry bunch of international journalists hoping to snap up a titillating morsel or two. Germans, Scandinavians, Japanese, Russians, Brits and Yanks, all trying to drown each other out in broken and unbroken English, a veritable Tower of Babble, bombarding the stars with banal questions they can barely be bothered to answer. Then: “Sorry, gentlemen, your six minutes are up,” beams the PR. “Next group, please.”

Yes, the stars have earned their brief reprieve. Now they are sipping cocktails and nibbling canapés out in the bay or on the terrace of a château high above Cannes, mingling with the world of high finance.

OK, lighten up, Ken, show us the fun side of Cannes – the sexy starlets on the beach, the professional pickpockets on the prom, or the famous “cat ladies”, a mother and daughter duo howling along the Croisette, clothed from head to toe in leopard skin.

And if you can, Ken, feel free to make fun of the snobbish social scene that seems to be the raison d’être of the haute couture festival. Films? Forget it – it’s the impression you make that matters, sashaying up the red carpet at the Grand Palais. I know this from personal experience.

A few years ago my daughter Victoria managed to get three hot tickets for the prestigious first night of Spirit: Stallion of the Cimarron. And so it was that on a balmy Mediterranean evening our stretch limo joined the train of stretch limos making their way sedately towards the hallowed red carpet.

The limo stopped and out we tripped – literally in my case, as I was wearing slip-on sandals. To the sound of fulsome fanfares we started to progress – until I was manhandled out of sight by a couple of minders. My wife and daughter, stunning in their Stella McCartney finery, stood stock still in shock.

Apparently my unorthodox mode of dress had failed to meet the required sartorial standard. I offered to buy from one of the minders a bow tie (from the bundle he had in his bulging pocket) for 100 francs – standard practice in such cases. Politely he pointed out that a black tie would not enhance my grubby T-shirt. Politely I pointed out that many of the divas slinking up the red carpet were also wearing T-shirts. “From Christian Dior,” he purred, “not FCUK.”

By now my wife Elize had intervened, informing the guardians of respectability that the airline had lost my luggage (true), compelling me to wear the casual gear in which I had arrived. Alas, this failed to move their hearts. So Victoria stepped in. She did not argue or plead. She simply dialled a number on her mobile phone and said: “Sweetie, can you pop down here a minute? They’ve kicked Dad off the red carpet.”

A few minutes later a slight, blond-haired figure dressed in jeans ran out of the Palais and bounded down the red stairs towards us. It was the rock star Bryan Adams, who had composed songs for Spirit and was just about to play it with his group onstage. “Leave it to me,” he said after I’d explained, and ran back into the theatre.

Our procession up the red carpet was a triumph. For the first time in the festival’s illustrious 66 years, a down-at-heel old bum (escorted by two glamorous girls) had been permitted to publicly defile that red stairway to Paradise.

I asked my daughter how on earth Bryan had managed it. “Simple,” she said. “He threatened not to perform unless he saw you sitting in the front row with us.”

“Really?” I said, incredulously.

“Sure,” she replied with a laugh. “What are friends for?”

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