Bedraggled film fans camp out in the street for 24 hours, just to get a glimpse of director Woody Allen as he enters the festival's main venue, the Palais des Festivals, for a screening. Not a chat, mind. Not even an autograph. Just a glimpse.

Stand on the pavement and look on as the costumed freaks from the Troma studio (the people responsible for the cult-classic The Toxic Avenger) fight for attention with the costumely challenged - and silicon savvy - girls from the nearby Dream World bar.

Gaze in wonder as the breast police try valiantly to get sun-worshipping women with skin the texture of Parma ham to hide their assets, running back and forth comically across the sand in their tuxedos, leaping over prostrate drunks as the women roll over and then back again, like stranded seals.

Charles Aznavour pops up time and time again . . . until you realise there comes a time in every Frenchman's life when he actually turns into Charles Aznavour.

And you can also get lost among the masses, terribly lost, feeling terribly out of your depth. You can get pushed aside by enormous, no-necked bouncers whose vocabulary extends no further than 'Non'. You can have salvation - or a pass to see a film or to enter a party - at your fingertips, only to see it disappear under the sheer weight of bureaucracy. And you can find yourself out on the street, lamely peering in with countless other hopefuls.

The haves and the have-nots are easy to spot in Cannes. It's all to do with the passes people wear around their necks. If you have one, you belong somewhere; you can get in. If you don't, you're just like John and Jill Punchclock out on the street. And there are various levels of importance attached to each pass: some get you into films only, some to parties only and some get you absolutely everywhere.

What this does, of course, is create what is known as 'The Cannes Crank'. This is the odd, often violent, neck wrench witnessed as people pass by you. Everyone fixes their eyes on what's hanging around your neck. They want to see who you are and what you can get. And you soon find yourself doing the same, asking yourself who people are, where they have been.

I am first approached by a middle-aged woman whose eyes head straight for my pass, does a quite-remarkable double-take, and then stops me in my tracks. 'Do you have any spare tickets for anything?' she asks.

She says she has been coming to Cannes from London for almost 20 years, almost always stays at the same hotel (about 45 minutes from the Croisette) and spends most of her time badgering people for tickets or queueing, camera in hand, outside the Palais des Festivals. She is one of the many who waited for Allen's first appearance in Cannes and says she's snapped a 'lovely' picture of him turning to the crowd.

She says she's had a bit of luck with tickets this year, although I would debate whether going to an early morning screening of British director Mike Leigh's All Or Nothing has anything to do with good fortune. I can think of maybe a million better ways to start the day. She says her trip taxes her savings, especially with prices at a premium at festival time, but fast food is still reasonable and she still wouldn't miss the event for the world. She likes the glitz and the glamour, even though she readily admits she never really gets a taste of either.

At the opposite end of the scale is the New Zealand couple I first meet as they sip beer in a marquee overlooking a sponsor's beach, right in the heart of the Croisette. Having won a promotion in their homeland, they are enjoying a four-day holiday, no expense spared, courtesy of brewers Stella Artois. They have a pass that gets them into the marquee, parties at the trendy and exclusive Martinez Hotel and - most important - on to an enormous cruise ship where they are staying in luxury in the middle of the harbour. They are dressed to the nines and are just about to head back to their ship for a five-course dinner and party. They are also quite overwhelmed by all the fame and beauty, and I later learn the trip just keeps getting better for them. During their final dinner on board, the woman wins a diamond as a door prize. 'We've been pinching ourselves since we got here,' she says. 'It is everything we expected ? and more.'

I decide to set myself up outside the Palais, in my tuxedo. I manage to squirm my way forward to a place behind an entrance barricade. Among the 800-odd people who are surrounding the Palais' red carpet, there are about 200 press photographers in front of me, looking suave and out of character in their evening wear.

There seems to be a strange silence - the calm before the storm, I am told - then all hell breaks loose. A tall, stunning blonde in a classic black dress emerges from a limo and the crowd surges forward, trapping me against the barricade's metal. 'It's Jerry Hall,' I think to myself as I struggle for breath. 'What the hell will they do when someone important comes by?'

Hall saunters up the stairs, turns and flashes a wide smile and then pouts before she descends for an encore. The crowd goes wild again, the photographers call out her name and she smiles seductively and walks upwards again.

I see my chance and make my escape, taking up a place of relative safety across the road. But soon I realise this is the place inhabited by a stranger breed of fan - the shy, stalking variety who lurks in the shadows. One particularly grubby individual is eyeing me, confused, most probably, by why, with my tux and pass, I should find myself on the other side of the barriers. I think he might be trying to work out if I'm anyone important. And the fact he's standing next to an organ-grinder makes the whole scene utterly surreal. But I am determined to hold my ground until the next celeb emerges.

With the organ music swirling around me, the dodgy looking man comes forward, arms open. I am sweating. He is approaching. But just as I am ready to run, he shows he offers nothing more sinister than knock-off sunglasses. I smile, wave him away and decide enough is enough. Just as I start to leave, a limo pulls up and my escape route is blocked. Director George Lucas appears but the only reaction seems to come from the photographers. It is then that I notice a rather rotund, large figure, smiling to himself, off to one side. It is the maverick director Michael Moore, whose documentary Bowling For Columbine is in the main competition. No one seems to notice him. No one seems to care. He looks around and then disappears into the crowd.

I edge my way past three buxom Playboy blondes who are handing out leaflets and make my way into a streetside cafe to reflect on my first day in town. It has been the one thing I had hoped it would be - totally mad.