Grayblogs

Camp in the Park

2007-05-06T02:59:00.000-07:00

I was in the middle of an international committee a week or so back and, as lunchtime arrived, I chose to let the representatives of the eight countries who were present indulge in their lunch without my participation. We’d all been stuck in a stiflingly hot meeting room for hours and all I wanted to do was to get outside and breathe a little.

It was so nice to be out of that claustrophobic room and, as it was such a beautiful, sunny day, I decided to walk the 15 minutes or so down to the centre of Roubaix and get myself a bite to eat in the Hypermarket. I found myself a nice ham salad sandwich plus something dangerously close to being a real sausage roll and a carton of apple and blackcurrant juice. So far so good.

Obviously, I wasn’t planning on eating in the shopping centre. No, I knew that I had a choice of several park benches in mind. As seems to be the way of things these days, it took me longer to pay than it took me to shop due to only 1 in 3 of the checkouts being in use.

(Why do we put up with this? The only winners are the profiteers who get to employ 33% of the staff they actually need. The staff get more stressed than their wages warrant, the Customers have to wait longer than Customers should ever have to and the biggest insult of all is the advertising angle. They use all manner of enticement to make us come and shop with them and then, when we do, they never seem to have the staff on duty to cater to the successes of their own advertising. These are people who’ll swear blind to you that they’re intelligent… selfish and greedy fuckwits in my opinion).

I digress (as usual!)

I finally got through the checkout and wandered hungrily towards the target benches. Being the solitary creature I seem to have become, I always seek out the bench which is the furthest away from anyone else who happens to be sitting there, with the notable exception that I’d rather be right on the next bench to someone who is clearly pleasant and normal than even within earshot of someone who clearly is not. On this occasion, the park was completely devoid of people. It’s very much an urban type of park. Not grassy. More of a mixture of gravel and leaves with plenty of nice trees, a church at one end and it’s far enough away from the road to avoid too much intrusive traffic noise. It could only have looked more French if there’d been a group of old bods playing pétanque there, as I’m sure must occasionally happen. I settled onto my bench and unwrapped my sandwich. Peace and quiet…. or so I thought.

A few bites in, a local old codger came into view a little way down one of the paths. He looked at least 70 and the only thing about him that made me fix a quick gaze upon him was that he was wearing bright cropped trousers. It just seemed a bit incongruous to see them on an old geezer like that. I returned to my sandwich, giving him no more thought.

A minute or two later, in my peripheral vision, I saw that he’d come to a stop on the path a few yards away from where I sat and my sixth sense knew that he was waiting for me to look up in his direction. I did. He threw me a kindly “Bon appétit”, for which I thanked him with a mouthful of “Merci, Monsieur” and a briefly-raised sandwich. My inner voice was reciting “Don’t you dare stop”. I just wanted a moment or two of tranquillity between meetings. Inevitably, his inner ear didn’t hear my inner voice and, to the sound of my “inner sigh”, over he came and promptly plonked himself on my bench beside me, saying nothing at all as he did so. Why my bench? There were a dozen others.

I’m British and, as such, I have a bloody great “exclusion zone” around me, rather like the Falkland Islands at certain points in their history. This, of course, renders the Lille Metro in the morning rush hour a veritable ordeal and I certainly don’t want people inviting themselves to sit next to me like that. Even worse, rather than simply to sit beside me and stare outwards in parallel, this old twonk chose to sit sideways on the bench, facing himself straight towards me. I was about to slam my sandwich back into the carrier bag and bugger off but a fleeting and apposite memory of my late Dad made me change my mind and I stayed.

Dad was an undisputed expert at talking to impromptu guests in his life like this. In fact, he actually sought out and encouraged situations like this and, being a rampant Francophile with an unceasing desire to practice speaking in French, he’d have relished the opportunity with which I was currently “blessed”. I, on the other hand, don’t need to seek out chances to speak in French – my life is a never-ending chance to speak French. I have little or no choice in the matter.

In a clearly earthy, Northern French lilt, my guest opened the discourse with “It’s a beautiful day, no?”. “Yes”, said I. I immediately felt the need to explain my accent to him. I reckon the last live Brit this bloke had encountered was possibly Field Marshall Bernard Montgomery and I doubt he’d ever had an Englishman try to speak to him in French. I gave him the précis version of my situation and apologised for the mutilation of his mother tongue. I went on to explain to him the nature of my day. All those people from all those countries around the table. I explained to him that the company, one which everyone in France probably knows of, exists in heaps of other places around the World. Hence the gathering. As with many French, he hadn’t realised this. He listened, seemingly interested, but not really saying much. Running out of ideas, I asked him if he’d ever been to the UK. Predictably enough, he’d been to London.

Suddenly, he took the lead in our conversation. “Did you move to France on your own?” “Yes”, I answered. His next question; “Do you live alone?”. Again, “Yes”. His next question; “Are you single?”…….

I said “Yes” as I gathered my things together and calmly stood up. “Better go”, I said…. “All those people from all those countries will be wondering where I am”. I bid him a good afternoon and walked briskly away, feeling very sure that I’d just been given a pretty clear explanation of his bright cropped trousers and his fixed gaze upon me!

Alas, for him, my tastes extend only as far as the female of the species. If I'm going to share my sausage roll with someone, it certainly isn't going to be someone like that. (I ate it later).

Nice to know that I’ve “still got it”, though ;o)

Handbags in Rihour

2007-04-28T15:49:00.000-07:00

I’m perpetually tired at the moment and, this week, I seem to have taken to getting off the Metro after work, at 7 or 8pm, at Place de Rihour and walking the 20 seconds or so that it takes to get me to one of my favourite terraces in Lille, rather than actually doing anything structured or valuable with my time. If you read “Bars de Lille – Episode 1”, then you’re already slightly familiar with the terrace in question at The Metropole. It’s very well-placed for “people watching” which, in my current low spirits, is a therapeutic thing to do.

It’s a multi-faceted therapy. On the directly-positive and simplistic level, it gives me the opportunity to enjoy the sight, in an innocent and distinctly non-pervy sense, of some of Lille’s very beautiful women as they pass by. As with every other bloke (and, I imagine, lesbian), my own idea of what constitutes a beautiful woman is entirely unique to me. There are often groups of “young bucks” or ageing golf-tourists at adjoining tables and they invariably crane their necks to follow the sight of some mini-skirt-wearing, fake-titted, overly made-up and ostentatious bimbo with a shitsoo (sic) on a string. I don’t know whether women like that are really attractive or, perhaps, blokes think that they ought to find them so and, therefore, the men go through the motions of the neck-craning, the wolf-whistling and the lewd comments and, for their part, the women presume themselves to need to look that way. Either way, seeing women looking that way has far more of a comedy value to me than anything else. Whilst the golfers and bucks are exchanging obscenities over what “they could do” with her, I’m usually looking in the other direction at some demure, natural, dignified-looking and beautifully, femininely-dressed woman who isn’t struggling so much to stay vertical on her shoes. Is she blonde? Brunette? Redhead? Is she pale? Tanned? Is she slim? Large? Somewhere in between? The answer is, quite genuinely, that I don’t care. She’s elegant, dignified and naturally beautiful and she presents her beauty and femininity to the World effortlessly and, one imagines, quite obliviously. Women like that fascinate me and, if I fantasise at all, it’s about what they are, who they are, maybe how amazing it would be to be to enjoy some time with them – certainly not what I could “do with them”, as the golfers would put it.

People-watching also gives me the chance to see what clothes I ought to think about wearing as, having no female advisor in my life, I’m capable of being pretty clueless in that respect. It also gives me the chance to see, male and female alike, the weirdoes of the World who, seemingly lacking any judgment at all, present themselves in the most unfortunate ways. The males amongst the weirdoes help me to gain confidence that I’m normal after all and that, in comparison with them, I can remain invisible each time it is I who am walking in front of a terrace full of people watchers! Without a word of a lie, there are people out there who, ignoring their bizarre dress codes, don’t even know how to walk in a normal way. I’m not talking about disabled bods – just normal people, with no handicaps whatsoever, who never got to grips with how to walk in a normal manner – in a manner which doesn’t make them look bizarre. Maybe I could start a “walking school”, based on a combination of the principles of comportment, which used to be a part of the coming of age of all English young ladies and the principles of dog training, a stiff jerk on the choke chain each time the subject forgot themselves and reverted to their crazy and attention-drawing gait.

The females amongst the weirdoes reassure me that being without a female partner is not necessarily a completely bad thing. If someone said to me, tomorrow, that they’d found a partner for me, someone with a “heart of gold” who I was “bound to like” as she loves forests, rivers, the seashore and intelligent conversation, just like I do, I’d inevitably be excited and interested at the prospect. If, however, on meeting her, she was shaven-headed, wearing a yellow parachute jump-suit and sported a pierced eyebrow and a tattoo of Justin Timberlake was peeping out from somewhere in her cleavage, I’d lose interest in the first second. I’m afraid that, as old-fashioned as it may seem to some, I like dignity and natural beauty in a woman. To my tastes, a yellow jump suit would always lose in a contest with a long, flowing skirt. Feminine locks would always beat a “right-on” shaven head and, if someone thinks that piercings and tattoos make them or their body more attractive, then their body probably never was and never will be attractive.

On the evening in question, I was sitting on the terrace, people-watching. Beside me, occupying two tables, was a group of 8 ageing golfers from, judging by their accents, somewhere in the Midlands of England. As ever, I had nothing on my table to give me away as being English and, as usual, I had nobody there to talk to so they couldn’t identify me as being a countryman. I’d like to think that they imagined me to be “just another French bloke”, an idea reinforced by the fact that, in the summer, I carry a “very French” satchel-style bag……….. ok, it’s a cocking handbag! Are you happy now? Lacking enough pockets when it’s too hot for a coat, I use a bag like a big gay. Ok? Lots of blokes here in France use a gay bag like I do. I'm assimilating!

After an hour or so of witnessing these has-beens, (probably with wives waiting for them at home), telling excruciatingly boring “golfing trips of yesteryear” stories to each other and making lewd comments about each tart they saw pass in front of the terrace, I was extremely pleased to see that they were ready to leave, never having sussed me out as being English. They stood up, stretched and were about to head for their hotels when, suddenly, there was some noise in the square which drew their attention. Mine too.

There’s a glass pyramid water feature in Place de Rihour. It’s nowhere near on the scale of the Louvre pyramid but it’s a nice little feature all the same. The noise came from that direction. Two thugs, one French and the other clearly an immigrant, had started to fight. They were trying to punch each other but it was clear that, whilst they both had the desire, neither had the skill so not one single punch seemed to be landed. Being unskilled, they tried to kick each other but, even there, their intent outstripped their efficacy. Their plight of ineptitude was exacerbated by some knob who kept trying to keep them apart. He spoilt what could have been a very entertaining moment.

I need to explain something. I’m completely pacifistic and the whole idea of people attacking one another makes me sick to my core. However, there’s a big difference between an attack and a fight. It’s a big difference but it’s a very simple one. In an attack, which I despise, there’s an unwilling party – a victim to the attack. In a fight, there are two protagonists, each as worthless as the other and, to an onlooker like me, there’s a real desire to see the fight develop into whatever extreme it can. Why, as a pacifist, would I want to see a fight get as violent and as definitive as possible? Simple. There’s no contradiction involved. I have nothing but contempt for people who decide that fighting is an appropriate course of action and, as a pacifist, I love the idea that, when two people, each of whom likes the idea of fighting, decide to fight, one or both of them might either be killed, seriously injured or, of course, simply hurt enough to make them unwilling to engage themselves in such savagery in the future. It’s totally pragmatic.

On this particular evening, I was left disappointed. On the one hand, there was a violent French guy, looking like some kind of puny, quiff-sporting, rockabilly relic from some trend which was never anything to do with France and, on the other hand, there was an angry-looking, non-assimilated immigrant with a whole bag of chips on each shoulder. He looked very pissed off to be in France. Even as a pacifist, I’d have been delighted to see either of these vermin hospitalised or, even better, killed in a hail of fists, boots or even bullets. My pacifism and my desires to protect myself and other decent humans from bestiality don’t extend to dross like these savages. The more people like that evening’s "fighters" who are either killed or re-educated as a consequence of their own savagery, the better.

If someone said to me, tomorrow, that there was to be a monthly tournament on the planet whereby all of the countries of the Earth would be invited to submit all of their violent people as challengers on a “fight to the death” basis, I’d be all for it. If there were 300,000 entrants from around the World, then 299,999 would, rightly, be obliterated from our midst during the contest. That would be an excellent gain for humanity. So much less hate, aggression and violence on the planet. Always “to the death”. No rules. Anyone who entered would, by definition, be no loss to decent people. Win-Win. Even the winner would, almost inevitably, be killed in the following month’s contest.

Vaccination for society. Remove the violent dross on a monthly basis and no decent people are even involved in this massively-beneficial development at all. Flawless!

I just need a name for it.

How about “I’m violent; eradicate me (out of here)”?

Ok. Maybe that’s too complicated. Let’s just call it “Scum Cull”.

That has a nice ring to it.

Monk Fight!

2007-04-20T14:17:00.000-07:00

I haven't yet taken the trouble to find the story behind this picture because, half an hour after seeing the picture on the BBC News website, I was still laughing too much to be able to type. It said that he'd been injured in a fight with "rival monks"! Rival Monks!? What next? Bloodied "rival nuns" with a tyre-mark across the forehead and one scratched mammary hanging out? Religion and hypocrisy seem to be heading, ever faster, towards the status of being synonyms, assuming that they've ever been anything else. Is it just me? He wouldn't just have had a bleeding eyebrow if David Carradine (aka Kwai Chang "Kung Fu" Caine) had been about.... he'd have had his fucking arm off ;o)

Café Méert in Vieux Lille

2007-04-19T13:43:00.000-07:00

I practically never use the canteen at the office. I prefer to have a sandwich and see what’s new in the World, courtesy of the BBC News website or, perhaps, I look in on the blog to see what the level, location and sources of interest have been. Other reasons for my not particularly liking the canteen at work include the fact that, were I to fancy something hot to eat, the service system would see me standing in line for up to 10 minutes, waiting to pay whilst my food went tepid in my hands and then, once at a table eating, the buzz of several hundred French voices all around me would leave me needing to ask my tablemates to repeat just about everything they tried to say to me as their French would just get lost in amongst all the rest.

In the outside World, to me, a café of any kind holds very limited appeal. Cups of tea, sugary waffles, big lumps of fancy-looking cake and little chocolate “tourist treats” don’t really amount to “my kinds of things” and the clientele of such places would probably, albeit inadvertently, make me feel uneasy and out of place. Bars and brasseries are much more my kinds of places. Lille, of course, offers plenty of bars and plenty of cafés but, even to a non-café-frequenter like me, it seems clear that there are cafés…… and then there’s Café Méert.

Architecturally, the fascia of the building is impressive and, judging by what I’ve seen of the interior, the incredibly ornate décor continues throughout. My Mum invariably passes an hour or so there each time she’s over here…. usually when I’m safely out of the way at work. She assures me that the quality of the fare is every bit as good as it should be in a café as attractive as this one. Apparently, the patisserie, the chocolates, the coffee, the service and everything else are all a noticeable cut above the rest. I’ll content myself with her word for that and the evidence offered by the photos I took of the Easter window displays a couple of weeks ago.

Café Méert is on Rue Esquermoise in Vieux Lille, 5 minutes’ walk from the Grande Place and 5 minutes’ walk from where I’m typing this.

Business Going Up

2007-04-19T10:59:00.000-07:00

I happened to look out of the window whilst on the phone at the office in Roubaix yesterday and, as you see, the building was on fire. Even as I first noticed it, there was already many a siren approaching from various directions and, as much as the second image clearly displays that the fire was really taking hold, they had it under control within about 15 minutes and, despite a bit of damage, nobody was injured and only the specific block concerned was evacuated. I understand that the seat of the blaze was in the Marketing Department but that’s somewhere I don’t think I’ve ever knowingly ventured into so whatever excitement there was happened without changing my day (apart from making me glad that, since I started this blog, I always take my digital camera with me wherever I go).

It made me think of a detail relating to the time I spent in the UK subsidiary. In the UK, every Wednesday, without fail, the fire alarm was tested. Not a good time to be in the smoking room with no carpets and curtains to dampen the noise. Then, every once in a while, the UK fire alarm would sound and seeing everyone climbing out of the window usually signalled the fact that it wasn’t Wednesday and so, out we’d all trot, have a fag and a shiver and then trot back in again, fire drill “successfully executed” – except that nobody EVER did a head count, either as we exited or as we re-entered so I don’t quite know how valid the exercise was. All I think it achieved was to make people totally blasé to the sound of the alarm and get them used to trudging out from time to time with no sense of urgency whatsoever.

Might I suggest some concealed smoke machines for the next UK fire drill?

In contrast, here in France, in the 14 months I’ve worked at that office, I’ve yet to hear the sound of the fire alarm a single time! ….. including, of course, yesterday. :o(

Nicolas & the "R" Word

2007-04-16T14:34:00.000-07:00

Nicolas Paul Stéphane Sarközy de Nagy-Bocsa, as Minister of the Interior, made himself very unpopular with all manner of incongruous, 3^rd World, free-loading dross and their ill-informed apologists here in France in late 2005. Offending thick people is never too difficult for an intelligent person and, undoubtedly, he is an extremely intelligent person. How did he perpetrate this “offence” of our “hard of thinking” sub-species’? In the usual way, I’m frustrated to admit. He dared to speak truthfully and, what’s more, he dared to use straight talk. How audacious. His straight talk related to an incident in Clichy, Paris. A notorious shit-hole.

To be fair to our once-lovely planet, I have to qualify this by acknowledging the fact that, in the inhabitable regions of the World, there is no such place as a “shit-hole”, just places frequented or inhabited by “shit-holes” and these places, as a result of the existence and activities of said shit-holes, become deemed, geographically speaking, to be worthy of the shit-hole epithet in that secondary sense – I just thought I’d clarify. If you’re still uncertain, imagine how idyllic a walk in the country can be and then remember when your walk was marred as a result of your having stumbled across a scene where some pea-brained twat-head had dumped his old kitchen units on the edge of a gorgeous forest or, after spending an hour hearing only the voice of your walking-talking, country-loving partner and the odd welcome twitter of birdsong, you hear a distant thudding which grows ever-louder until you realise that some utter, cane-worthy, brain-dead little shite has parked his car in an otherwise wonderful location and, windows open, is playing his brain-dead, ranting, moronic beats as loudly as his speakers can muster.

So Clichy, in respect of my qualification, is not (and never was) a shit-hole in itself. It’s in Paris, a once unquestionably-beautiful and romantic city. No, Clichy just seems that way, like many a quarter in the North of England and all over the (otherwise) civilised parts of the World, as a result of “human” shit-holes being all-too-plentiful there.

Back in late 2005 in Clichy, two criminals had been fleeing from police officers who needed to talk to the criminals about alleged offences with which the criminals were thought, by the police officers, to be implicated. Obviously, not being the least bit interested in so-called Political Correctness myself, I justify my use of the word “criminals” (to those out there who need it to be explained) by the uncontested fact that the criminals were fleeing police officers. Non-criminals have no need whatsoever to flee from European police officers, whatever the colour or creed of those police officers might be. Colour is irrelevant. Criminality is the issue.

So, in their plight, these two aspiring brain surgeons looked for a “safe hide-out”. The establishment their “brains” led them to enter was an electricity sub-station. You know the kind of place. Usually a dull, insignificant little concrete edifice with nothing to distinguish it from any other shed whatsoever….. oh, apart from the fact that they’re invariably protected (or, rather, we are) by tall barbed wire fences, firmly-locked doors, often no windows and, then, their “trump card”. They tend to sport gaily-coloured signs displaying happy slogans like “Danger of Death” and such like. A minor detail? Not to me.

But, then, I’m not a fleeing criminal. I haven’t studied the minutiae of the incident so well that I know whether or not these criminals were sufficiently adept in written French to allow them to understand a phrase like “Danger de Mort!” but, if they weren’t, then they embodied the folly of allowing people to reside in Europe who don’t even possess the rudimentary building blocks required to “make a go of it” as an immigrant anywhere – mastery, to a reasonable level, of the language being one of the more crucial of those rudimentary blocks. At the same time, I have to wonder if language was even an issue in their “slight error of judgment” in their flight as I can’t help remembering, from my albeit infrequent sights of them, that “Danger of Death” signs seem invariably to feature a graphical representation of some kind, usually anything from a zigzag zap deal, to a skull & crossbones to a picture of a man holding a wire whilst his testicles explode. No, I suspect that, if these criminals were illiterate, then they may have compounded their woes by being as dumb as dumb ever gets too, just for good measure.

So the police finally caught up with them, presumably guided to their haven by the curious smell of broiled liver in the air. To the “hard of thinking”, this whole episode was a manifestation of police brutality and intransigence. Even racism. Obviously, when the story is explored with a brain or two added into the mix, the conclusions are much more realistic. Two very thick and possibly illiterate criminals lost their lives as a result of their own criminality, combined with their own stupidity. I can’t help adding a quick “So what?” to the end of the story. If we already live in a World where the demise of thick criminals is a bad thing, then the World is in a hopeless mess.

The reaction of the “less than bright” peers of these two critters, (or should that be "fritters"?), was not sombre reflection and a stark realisation that there must be a better way to live their lives than their persisting in being ill-educated and lawless no-hopers as their smouldering friends had been. No. The decision of these people was that an appropriate reaction would be to burn cars and attack police officers. Yeah, that’ll fix the whole situation, won’t it? There followed several weeks of savagery of this nature. This seemed particularly relevant to me as it all started at precisely the same time as I was starting the interview process in relation to my proposed move to France. I found it more than a little off-putting but I consoled myself with the fact that, whatever was happening wasn’t, in the main, being perpetrated by French People. Ok, I realised that, as in England, France’s indigenous thickheads tend to see something positive in the emulation of the lifestyles and linguistics of the lowest incoming denominators and, of course, there was many a genuinely French chav involved in the riots but small-minded dross, of all persuasions, is being bred by slightly older small-minded dross all over the World. The worthless shit-heads of France are no better or worse than their counterparts in Britain, America, Russia, Australia, India, Brazil and everywhere else.

Sarkozy’s “crime”, as I mooted, was to talk, as a politician, about this situation of savagery and rioting, in similar parlance to that being used in bars and households by the real French all over France at the time. He used the “V” word, “voyous”, which translates as something near enough to the word “thugs”. The French and the World's media could probably have coped with the “V” word as it was clearly difficult to argue against but then, now famously, he went on to use the “R” word – “racailles”.

To the tenderfeet of Political Correctness, the “R” word took things to a new level. I guess, to the etymologists amongst us, the word “racailles” seems to look like “rascals” and, were that the case, it would have been an alarmingly inadequate way to describe the violent hatred pouring from the shit-holes of France at the time. No, thankfully, the word translates, unequivocally, to “scum”.

How much more reassuringly-realistic do politicians ever get? I don’t have any transcripts of speeches to hand but he let rip. In the bars and homes of decent people up and down France, jaws must have dropped. He went on to say that, in a future France in which he would play a leading part, he would take a Karcher, you know, those pressure hoses you hire when you want to clean your patio and he would sweep clean the streets of a certain area of France which had seen yet more savagery. The Karcher tag still sticks with him, the best part of two years later, as does the thoroughly justified “R” word. He also dared to suggest that our feeble legal systems in Europe should be changed as his opinion was that there was something unpleasant and unacceptable in the fact that a criminal was freed by an inordinately-lenient judge, only to go on to murder a woman. I don’t even feel inclined to offer details of this crime as to do so would be to suggest that it was some kind of an extraordinary occurrence in Europe, where judges long-since lost the plot as regards what they’re there to do. This kind of "murder caused by PC judge” is all too common and any politician who speaks out against “learned idiots” like this can only be good for those of us who live our lives as the potential victims of those judges’ stupidity.

As you may know, Sarkozy is now in a four-horse race for the Elysees and, if common sense and French values prevail, then he seems to be France’s next President and that’s a superb development for France and a much-needed lesson for many other European countries. Europe is in desperate need of realistic politics after a decade or more of self-destructive nonsense.

The other contenders are;

1) Ségolène Royal, an ever-gaffing so-called Socialist whose enduring campaign achievement has been to add to her own image of hopeless naivety with every campaign phrase she’s uttered. Even if she’d been a better politician, she still represents a nightmare scenario for France. At a crucial point when France needs to get really firm in order to protect its identity, a weak and naïve President with soft policies on immigration and crime is “really not too good an idea”. Bye-bye, Baby.

2) François Bayrou. Apparently a Liberal, this guy makes Charles Kennedy and Paddy Ashdown look like they had some policies and, as an encore, he makes Ming Campbell appear to be charismatic. Do me a favour, Frank.

3) Ahh… and then we have the fifty years of political guile of Monsieur Jean-Marie le Pen of the Front National. This guy is so astute and so in tune with real French sentiments that, as much as he’ll probably arrive in 4th place, (as opposed to 2^nd in the last election), his legacy will likely be the cherry on Nicolas Sarkozy’s cake. The reason for this is both sensible and stupid in equal measure. Sensible because I imagine that even le Pen himself realises that, as much as France would like to see many of his policies espoused, it’s impossible to superimpose a FN President over the sorry state of World politics at the moment. Stupid because World politics in 20 years WILL embrace people like le Pen as they will be realised to be the only choice in the face of the scourges of regression that will increasingly face up against our hard-won progressive societies (see London, July 7^th 2005 if you don’t yet get the point) For the moment, people like le Pen and his equivalents abroad are seen as anything between curios and bullies. Sadly, the shaven heads, boots and flag-waving of many parties who seek to defend their countries’ cultures at the moment get in the way of the messages so they are largely viewed as being “too dangerous” to vote for in many countries but that sentiment is brittle here in France.

All of the rest of the candidates are just making up the numbers. Greens, Communists and other such short-sighted idiots.

In the last elections, Monsieur le Pen came 2^nd and, flying full frontal in the face of the basis of democracy, thousands of young "French" thick people (largely not French, of course) marched the streets in protest. Protest against what? Just as today, many candidates had put themselves and their policies forward and the French people voted. Le Pen came second. This was never something to protest against. It was 2 messages wrapped up together.

The first message was one to be revelled in – in France, the French had the right to vote for someone way off the “normal” path and, like it or not, their votes were of huge significance. Try playing out that scenario in some of the non-European, non-democratic shit-holes of the World. The candidate would simply have been murdered long before getting the chance to come second in any election.

The second message was much more immediately significant. Huge numbers had voted for the specific policies of the Front National. They were not coerced into doing so. They chose to. They didn’t vote for him for his sex appeal. They voted for him because then, as now, he promised (and they are 100% right to believe him) that, were he to be in power, the real French people would be put before all others in terms of jobs, welfare and all manner of things. He would, of course, be being nothing but democratic to follow such a tack. The single, defining essence of democracy is that, if there are more people who want "A" than there are who want "B", then "A" is what everybody gets. It's a philosophy founded on the idea that the majority will rule (which is why South Africa had so many problems in the last few decades as, there, the minority ruled for a short while and some people didn't seem to like that idea.... there). I, as an Englishman, have no right whatsoever to expect France to shape herself to my needs and, if I had bizarre ideas of invisible friends and protectors floating around in the ether above my head all day, I couldn't sensibly expect the French to smile upon my desire to build special places to cater to my "belief needs", let alone to play a part in funding such buildings. I am in the minority and I chose to be by moving here, just as all other first generation immigrants chose to live, for themselves and for all their current and future descendants, as minorities by choosing to move. That they whine about inequalities once they arrive is simply cretinous and completely unjustifiable, whatever inequalities they might think they suffer from. The consequences to me, to them and to their litters are for me and for them to bear - not for France to cater to. Majority rule is the cornerstone of democracy and, if anyone doesn't like the idea of minorities being treated as secondary, then a) they shouldn't move to a foreign democratic country and b) they shouldn't push for democracy back where they belong either unless, of course, they like the idea of it if they, themselves, are in the majority and, therefore, are on the winning team. "Cherry-picking". We immigrants do not have the rights that our hosts have themselves and it's completely correct that we do not, wherever we chose to come from.

As an immigrant myself, I’d correctly and justifiably be excluded from many of the benefits le Pen offers in return for the vote but, even if his policy would be to kick me right back to the UK, I'd take that fate graciously and I’d smile on my way back to Blighty at the thought of all those other immigrants being rightly asked to leave at the same time as me so as to protect French interests and culture. The difference would be that I’d be going back to a country which dragged itself up from the squalor of the Middle Ages, through hard work, ingenuity and leadership, to become a country of some repute (for a time). Many of my fellow deportees would be going back to shit-holes which were, remain and will always be shit-holes. Countries which, through lack of effort and organisation or a ridiculous obsession with one or other type of magic, have consistently made so little progress, have developed so little (their own fault) that the greatest wish of their citizens is, enduringly, to be somewhere else! Great contribution to humanity, losers. You"ve collectively owned a whole country since time immemorial and yet you still can't make anything out of it and need to become a burden on someone else's country just to avoid meeting your own excrement flowing down the "street". Pathetic.

My idea of aid to countries of that nature would be one of two options.

1) Give them loads of illustrated history books to provide them with a headstart by showing them how to find and extract metal from ores, then how to make steam engines, threshing machines and such like - things the more energetic and organised countries had to work out for themselves. I'd say that this type of aid would be a phenomenal gift to give with no major dent to the recipients' pride. Who knows? A couple of hundred years later, the recipients, from that headstart, might have taught themselves how to build canals and bridges and how to educate, how to regulate their populations in relation to their resources. That the World is not flat and how to prove it with a few metres of string and 3 pebbles or, alternatively, how to prove it with two wooden sticks on a sunny day.

2) Simply offer to run those countries for them, for a "small" consideration. That way, they get the infrastructure for next to no effort whatsoever and the people with the skills make lots of money and educate the aborigines along the way.

Win-win (until, as in the past, the huge benefits get taken for granted and the educators begin to be resented by the under-achievers) See my blog "Funny Plus" for more details.

No, Europe can’t cope with radically culturally-defensive politics yet as a result of PC stupidity still doing its sordid and degenerate works and so, whilst the stalwarts will still use their votes on the FN, large numbers of people in France who wish to God they could start the process of retrieving their country at this election, realise that they have to allow the mainstream politicians to continue to allow things to get ever worse, year on year, until, as is amply demonstrated by history, there comes a point where the true people of a country, lacking the power of voices they thought to have been elected to speak for them, have to speak for themselves. Shop windows seem to be the traditional things to break first in these circumstances – it builds from there.

This time, many a heart which votes for le Pen, will, by the time it has a pen in its hand, vote for Sarkozy as a far safer bet for victory. They are, of course, correct. Sarkozy will win. Nobody else can.

I just hope he can live up to what he’s led us, the Europeans, to expect of him and, if he can, I sincerely hope that he breeds many a “do-alike” in other civilised countries.

If you want to avoid seeing thugs being voted into your parliament (if you have one) then you’d better hope the same.

Speak Up, Mr President

2007-04-14T17:00:00.000-07:00

We can't quite make out the message ;o)

Films of the Coen Brothers

2007-04-11T13:21:00.000-07:00

If the Coen Brothers’ films have passed you by unnoticed, then I’m envious of the evenings you have in store for you. You could spend the next couple of months watching a Coen Brothers film every Saturday night and, if you pick the right timing and viewing sequence, you could start off with “extremely good” and, as the weeks pass, you could watch a better and better one each time until you arrive at “out and out masterpiece” and such superlatives.

Just to contextualise what it is that I’m recommending to you, imagine a film in which even the lowliest, non-speaking role has been cast to perfection so that you’re wondering about the story behind the most seemingly-irrelevant of characters. The main players are gentle but biting caricatures whose idiosyncrasies and simultaneous normalness seem an unlikely blend until, after just a few minutes, you find yourself liking each and every player, even the ones occupying the most despicable roles.

Faces and physical quirks play a huge part in the overall imagery and intrigue of the films and the winning characters are usually naïve and yet as sharp as daggers in equal measure. The dialogue is rich, even in scenes which seem out of place and there appears to be an insistence that each and every line is delivered with the precision timing of the best stand-up comedian and with the mannerisms and background detail that only someone who loves the fact that they’re playing the character in question could possibly insert. Music is subtle, relevant and crucial.

The stories are intricate and yet very straightforward and seem to revolve around the “Seven Deadly Sins” of Dante’s Divine Comedy. One or more of Greed, Envy, Sloth, Lust, Gluttony, Wrath and Pride are never too far away from the emotions, actions and reactions of the darker characters and the “good guys” sometimes seem to embody the innocents, untouched by these negatives and vices, possibly implying the antithesis of the “Seven Holy Virtues” but always appearing to be unaware of the depth of value in their own good standards.

If you’re lucky enough never to have seen a Coen Bros film, then I suggest a course of treatment…. to be taken with an open mind. Start with one of the best, just to make sure you get hooked. “Fargo” would be a very good introduction. God, I wish I’d never seen it and had bought it at random from a flea market as “something to watch” tonight. I’d love to be able to hear the introductory music to Fargo tonight without knowing anything about what was to follow. I remember when I was in exactly that situation and I was already deep into the atmosphere of the film before the opening credits stopped. The heroine is outrageously-loveable and the impossible situation into which they thrust her (heavily-pregnant and ridiculously under-resourced small-town police chief, faced with an unprecedented string of local killings) is sheer perfection. She responds to the situation with “everything” and yet the way she polices the film is like nothing any other filmmakers have ever given us. The villains of the piece, the sap, the police officers, the witnesses and, true to form, everyone else in the film, are outstanding. Never have two hideous, psychopathic villains been so enchanting to follow!

After Fargo, maybe The Big Lebowski, The Hudsucker Proxy, The Man Who Wasn’t There, Blood Simple, Barton Fink, Raising Arizona, Miller’s Crossing and many others and then, benefit from some of the by-products of the Coen Brothers’ mastery. On the one hand, actors whose faces you know well but whose names elude you will keep on popping up, time and time again, reinforcing the idea that bloody good actors keep on wanting to appear in the creations of bloody good filmmakers. John Turturro, Steve Buscemi, John Goodman and such like keep on keeping on in Coen Brothers’ films and, each time, you get the head start of remembering how brilliant they were in the last one and you soon bond with the new character. On the other hand, you get the chance to see whether or not people we’re “supposed to recognise” as being A-list superstars are really up to the job.

Holly Hunter and Jeff Bridges were always names known well enough to me but I never saw either of them as being a truly excellent actor until I saw them do it the Coen way. Tom Hanks comes in for a lot of unwarranted stick and many people consider George Clooney to be eye-candy and little else.

For your last two Saturday evenings with the Coens, watch Tom Hanks in The Ladykillers and then watch George Clooney in “O Brother, Where Art Thou?”.

If you ever doubted the skill of these actors before, you won’t afterwards.

2007-04-10T13:16:00.000-07:00

Switzerland & Concrete

2007-03-30T11:14:00.000-07:00

I needed to go to Switzerland this week for work-related purposes. I’d never set foot in Switzerland before and I’d always harboured a chocolate box notion of its beauty so I was very much in a positive frame of mind about the trip. The only inevitable downside to gigs like that are that, if you want to travel, you have to do the travelling yourself. You can’t delegate it and wake up at the destination. You just have to grin and bear it and hope that, at least, the mechanics of the journey function as intended and, as much as it might be a bit draining, there’s a lot be said for an uneventful journey. I’ll take “boring” in preference to “traumatic” any time.

The journey consisted of 20 minutes on the metro into Lille, wait half an hour, spend an hour on the TGV to Paris, wait an hour, spend an hour on a plane from Paris to Geneva, wait half an hour, spend an hour on the train from Geneva to Montreux, wait half an hour in hotel room, walk for 20 minutes to Harry’s Bar, close to the lakeside, wait 10 minutes to be served and, eventually, beer arrives on table and the journey is completed.

I’m a smoker but I try to be considerate wherever possible and whenever appropriate. I was delighted to see that Switzerland hasn’t succumbed to the Euro-American bullshit when it comes to the relaxation which used to be embodied in an evening out. In a bar or restaurant in Switzerland, it seems to be the case that they still treat adults like adults. There’s a rightful assumption that the Swiss public can think and decide for themselves, unlike the European and American models wherein common sense and decency have been deemed no longer to be of any importance and have been replaced by legislation and nonsense. In the UK, America and large chunks of Europe, all bars will soon be required to be non-smoking spaces, even if those bars are privately-owned. This is, of course, bullshit. Even more so in capitalist societies. Capitalism is supposed to revolve around supply and demand. In the smoking debate, that should equate to “if I, the proprietor, decide to allow smoking in my bar, then I realise who will and who will not frequent it as a result of my decision”. In other words, there may well be non-smokers, nuns and semi-professional protestors who might decide never to frequent that particular bar but their numbers are likely to be low in comparison with the adults who normally frequent the place. On the other hand, a proprietor might, of his own volition, decide that he won’t allow smoking in his bar and, in doing so, as has been proven in Ireland, Scotland and elsewhere, he must resign himself to a greatly-reduced patronage. He might even be killing his business off completely by taking such a decision. Obviously, this deadly prognosis doesn’t necessarily follow through if ALL the pubs and bars are compelled to make the same changes at the same time. In those circumstances, no single pub needs to die but, of course, much of the relaxation and freedom of the traditional night out is killed, along, of course, with freedom of choice and the principles of supply and demand and, thus, the futures of many thousands of pubs and bars will be jeopardised through the many decisions to have a tinny and a smoke in front of the telly on Saturday night rather than to spend half the evening outside like a leper in a tent in a pub garden or on the pavement. Who wins? I can’t see anyone who wins from this PC daftness. Even the people who choose to go to pubs (places they’ve been to enough times to know what to expect) and then moan about smoke as if they weren’t expecting it, will lose out if their "favourite" bar (the one they whine about after every visit) has to close through reduced takings. My feeling is that these people should stay in or find a non-smoking bar but, either way, they should stay the fuck away from places they know full well they aren’t going to like and leave the adults to their traditional enjoyment.

It should be the owner’s choice and, as far as the debate over employees’ welfare is concerned, if the people who suggest that we all want non-smoking bars are correct, then there’ll never be any need for a barperson to be compelled to take a position in a smoky bar as most of the proprietors of bars will, of their own free will, have declared their bars non-smoking. Yeah, right. I suffer from hay fever in the summer and, of course, that means it’s not a good idea for me to take a job cutting grass. If I was someone who had some problem or other with smoke, then I wouldn’t pursue a career as a Guy Fawkes or a barman. Common sense. Over the years, I’ve been in bars which smelt or looked dirty or where the glasses or toilets or staff were disgusting to behold – but I only ever go into a place like that once – I don’t keep on going there, moaning every single time about issues I could have avoided completely just by going somewhere else. I’d love to be around when PC finally gets seen through and we can all get back to making our own minds up.

Supply and demand. It’s a concept which seems to have been lost, even to the most capitalistic of regimes. Another example would be the requirement to add ramps as well as steps into practically every privately-owned establishment in the civilised World. Yet again, complete nonsense. Only one person in 1,000 or so is genuinely incapable of getting up steps so why on Earth do we need to tell every single shop, hotel, pub, cinema etc that they need to provide such access facilities as a matter of law? Public buildings, yes. Public buildings are "owned" by the public and that means that all members of the public have a right to be able to enter but absolutely nobody has any right to expect access to privately-owned premises and they have no right to expect private proprietors to cater, at their own cost, to the personal and specific needs of every human being on the planet. Again, supply and demand should be enough. Let’s say that nine out of every ten shop owners said “Balls to them. I’ll keep my steps and risk losing the business of the people who can’t get up them”. To the enterprising businessman, this is a golden goose. He sees that, around him, 9 of 10 merchants are excluding a certain clientele so he decides to put a ramp in front of his shop. This enlightened bod is then fairly assured of most the physically-disabled business available in the locale and lots more sympathetic clients besides, as long as his product and his service are up to scratch and there will be a portion of his clientele which his neighbours with steps might envy but which can never be lost to them. Private businesses and personal, commercially-oriented decisions. Not the government’s business and not the local council’s business.

So, anyway, Swiss bars and restaurants are still proper bars and restaurants where adults get to choose whether or not they want to smoke or whether or not they want to be around people who smoke. I don’t know much about the Swiss psyche but I sincerely hope that they keep this grown-up attitude to their lives and their public. It’s admirable.

With my three colleagues from France, I enjoyed a relaxed evening in good company and a pleasant enough bite to eat. There was nothing particularly “Swiss” about the evening and the final leg of the journey, the train from Geneva to Montreux, had been in darkness so, if there’d been any spectacular views to be seen from the train, they’d been lost to us in the night. We were all pretty weary so we split to our rooms at a reasonable hour. I watched the some TV news in German (of which I speak not a word), then some in French and then some in English and then to bed. Not much danger of insomnia.

I got myself down into the hotel foyer at 8.15ish to meet the others. I had enough time to wander out onto the terrace at the rear of the hotel and the view, as you see, was stunning. My camera was in the safe in my room and I didn’t have time to go and get it but I resolved to get some pictures from there that evening and the following morning. As you can see, I did. Time to go to the office.

From the work point of view, more than adequate preparations had been made on all sides and, to cut a long couple of days’ meetings short, the objective of the trip was attained and so there’s no need to delve into that side of the trip. All of us already delved deeply enough. For lunch, we were treated to a pleasant enough Chinese meal in a local restaurant. Is it just me or is Chinese food “out of place” at lunchtime? I enjoyed it but it felt slightly weird to be using chopsticks at 1pm in Switzerland.

After the first day of debates, I dodged away for 20 minutes to get my sunset photos and then returned to the office and our hosts drove us the 20 minutes or so to a village called Les Paccots, where they knew of a pleasant, chalet-style restaurant which specialised in a form of nourishment very much associated with Switzerland. The Fondue. The smell of melted cheese needed to be opened like a secondary inner door on entry.

There were seven of us and our hosts, knowing the ropes, ordered 2 cauldrons of molten cheese (it’s traditionally prepared with a dash of wine and various seasoning) and, aided by long, slender forks, we communally twirled chunks of bread and new potatoes in this yellow lava on the ends of our forks until thickly-coated and then, what a taste. Incredibly nice. The two cauldrons offered two different tastes, both excellent but the one which was based on Gruyere cheese was by far the nicer. The seven of us took about half an hour to leave two empty pots and very little else on the table. It was superb and all the better for its relevance to our location. It was, however, possibly the “heaviest” thing I’ve ever eaten. In terms of volume, each of us clearly ate an amount of cheese which, in its normal, solid state, would be a block one might buy for a family of four each fortnight. Furthermore, we’d been warned by our hosts that fondue and alcohol, once combined, are synonymous with the word “concrete” but, in the evenings, I’m not really Mr Diet Coke and, one teetotaller apart, everyone had a beer or two and some wine with the meal. The concrete phenomenon began to manifest itself about half an hour after the cheese-twirling had ceased. I still had the pleasant latent enjoyment of the meal on my taste buds but it began to feel like I’d ingested a yellow anvil. If, at some stage in the next five years or so, I finally manage to defecate that meal, I swear it’ll still be yellow and it'll probably arrive in its own iron pot. I joked with someone that we’d all have nightmares that night. For my part, I certainly did. I woke up convinced that I was carving chunks out of someone’s back with a dagger (or was it a long, narrow fork?) at 5am. Realising that neither dagger nor victim was real, I drifted back to sleep.

In the “real” morning, the iron feeling had gone, I descended to the terrace and got a few early morning photos of the view across the lake. I gave a brief presentation in the office and the debating continued for several hours. There wasn’t time to find a “real” lunch so we all just nipped out and grabbed whatever sandwiches, bagels and wraps we could find.

4pm came around and it was time to head off to the station (all of two minutes’ walk away). Only two of us left as the other two from France were bound for England the following day. I wasn’t at all envious that they were staying another evening and then heading for my erstwhile homeland. I was happy enough to be Lille-bound. It was soon clear that we had, indeed, missed some amazing views from the train that first evening. For most of the hour or more of the train journey, we were pretty much skirting the entire North coast of Lake Geneva and we rarely lost sight of it. The mountains were a constant backdrop and, as train journeys for work purposes go, it’s hard to imagine one much more spectacular. (Send me to Canada for research purposes… please!) Lake Geneva (also known as Lake Léman and various other translations) is the shape of a leaping salmon with its “nose” facing due East and, by Western European standards, it’s pretty vast. As we neared Geneva, the famous “Jet d’Eau” fountain became visible from the train. Situated in the lake itself, the Jet d’Eau is one of the largest fountains in the World and throws a plume of water 140 metres into the air at 200kmh. For many a bod of my generation, this landmark evokes memories of a supernatural thriller series in the late 1960s called “The Champions”, the title sequence of which featured the ever-present fountain in the background.

After that train journey, my colleague and I enjoyed a quick drink in a Geneva bar. The rest of the evening was less inspiring. Planes, trains and lots of waiting around. Journeys like that are never fun but at least I was in good conversational company and that always, metaphorically at least, takes an hour off the duration. We finally made it back to Lille at about 11.30pm. My colleague was due to set off at 3am the following morning, to spend her wedding anniversary in Rome. She was about to enjoy 2 hours’ sleep before the trains and planes routine would begin again for her.

Would I like to go to Rome some time? Absolutely. Was I jealous that she was heading there the following morning? Not one bit!

France & the Burberry Cycle

2007-03-25T13:43:00.000-07:00

I work in an environment where the sales of clothing are analysed to the nth degree and sales predictions are made with an eye on the smallest fraction of a percentage point. Obviously, this is intricate work and due heed needs to be taken of the crystal ball gazers who seek to work out (or, perhaps, dictate) what people will deem to be fashionable 18 months into the future.

With all of this educated and finely-tuned prediction going on and with all of the vast quantities of thousands of different items of clothing being ordered by the company to satisfy the predicted demand for them, it’s hard to imagine managing the earthquake which happened under the Burberry company in recent years.

Burberry came into being just over 150 years ago and, once established, became synonymous with high quality, practical and stylish outdoor wear, favoured by the well-to-do, all the way “up” to the monarchy. The now famous check or tartan-style pattern started off as just a lining standard for trench coats in the 1920s but, over the following 40 years or so, it gradually fought its way onto the outside, first onto umbrellas, scarves and luggage and, eventually, onto…. well, pretty much everything. Image and popularity grew hand in hand for well over one hundred years from the company’s founding and I can easily imagine the executives of the 1970s viewing the demand curves of previous years, knowing full well who their clientele were and ordering yarns, dyes, treatments, machinery, manpower and whatnot with a certain air of certainty that their predictions for “next year” would turn out to be very close to the eventual reality. Possibly 1 or 2 percent out, one way or the other.

Then, of course, the earthquake. People of a certain mentality began, through wheeling and dealing or market trading or football management, to acquire a wealth that people of that ilk could only previously see from a distance in the wardrobes and jewellery boxes of the silver spooners and the university-educated, suburb-dwelling financiers and their wives.

These newly-affluent people knew that they could never be high class. They didn’t have anything in their armoury to achieve that status but then, as now, they had the only thing it took to allow them to look high class. Money.

Houses with mock-ancient Greek carriage lamps outside, swimming pools in the shape of a roll of carpet (in recognition of the source of one’s wealth) and pink Cadillacs are all well and good when you want to show the World how high you’ve soared but these things can’t follow you everywhere. Jewellery can. Clothing can.

So, after a short hunt for the right things to be seen wearing, the rules became clear to these ignoramuses. If a small gold ring on a finger demonstrated beauty, class, rarity, delicacy and a sense of one’s being, in some way, “select”, then it stood to reason that 16 gold rings, distributed amongst 10 fingers and thumbs must surely be 16 times as beautiful, classy, rare, delicate and select a manifestation. You and I, of course, see something far removed from “classy” when we see those fingers.

Similarly, if a distinctive, expensive, “upper-class” scarf demonstrated one’s having hauled oneself up the social scale by one or two layers, then dressing oneself from head to toe in such distinctive and expensive garb must surely mean that one is viewed as having raised oneself higher still. Again, of course, you and I see this in what might be described as inverse proportion but, to the “hard of thinking”, there’s no irony, no pathetic cry for acceptance to be heard, no inanely transparent attempts to be something more than is possible are being made.

Clearly, as far as the clothing was concerned, the Burberry range fit the bill perfectly. Expensive and distinctive, it was the perfect choice and, probably after a period of foiled analyses and abject shock, the good people of Burberry, seeing their numbers soar for the unlikeliest of reasons, appear to have opted to swallow their pride and to bask in the figures. This gave rise to little gems like the Burberry baseball cap and such like – items which the founder and the original core clientele would never have recognised and would never have been seen dead wearing. After this, the law of the jungle dictated that those oiks who had the money to "dress posh" began to be emulated by countless hordes of dross who had neither the brains nor the money to make an independent wave on the social seismometer and the inevitable result was that, just as the "I now have money but no brains" team emulated the upper classes, the "I have neither money nor brains" team began to emulate the former and, of course, this World is chock full of people with neither brains nor money. With neither class nor intellect. With neither decorum nor self-awareness. The result? Thousands upon thousands of sales for our friends at Burberry but at the price of the assassination of their hard-won image and, worse, the fact that hordes of under-achievers now wanted to be seen wearing things they couldn't afford led to another group of scum, namely forgers, bridging the price gap in the market so that not even Burberry themselves could take full advantage of this bitter-sweet turn of fortune for their range.

Whatever is happening in the Burberry empire and however they see their future, it’s clearly impossible that things will ever be the same for them again. It would take 100 years for them to shed the image created for them by the dross who hijacked their brand and, of course, they are culpable themselves too. If not, then the Burberry baseball cap would never have existed. Presumably having realised what they’d done to themselves, they discontinued the cap in 2004 but it was too little, too late. The thieves and counterfeiters had already made sure that the product, albeit not the “real” one, remained and remains well and truly available.

Having moved to France, there’s an amusing codicil to be seen. Whereas, these days, in the UK, Burberry, as a brand, is almost 100% associated with the pondlife who appropriated the brand image from its rightful owners, here in France, the cycle is still at a fairly preliminary stage. Yes, the gold-dripping oiks are bedecked in it, as in the UK but, here, decent, normal people are still to be seen sporting it in apparent unawareness of the way the Burberry cycle works.

As the months and, perhaps, years pass, the “nice” girls and boys of France will gradually shun it, like the truly “classy” people long since did and then, as much as it may continue to cause the demand forecasters of Burberry stomach ulcers, in France, just as in the UK, the only people who’d be seen dead wearing that once proud tartan are the people to whom this blog would make no sense whatsoever.

Gray "Does" Mountains

2007-03-24T17:47:00.000-07:00

For what it's worth, I have to spend a few days in Geneva, Switzerland next week so, after Sunday 25 March, there'll be a gap in my blog entries. I will return, a cuckoo clock under one arm and a chocolate cowbell under the other.

Never been to Switzerland so quite looking forward to it. The week after, I have to go to Salzburg, Austria and I've never been there either. I really like the Austrian colleagues I've met and I suspect that'll be an enjoyable stay.

It's a strange life I lead!

Bars de Lille - Episode 2

2007-03-22T14:45:00.000-07:00

It got to about 8:30 this evening and I thought I wanted to go out for a while. The unavoidable “4 walls closing in” syndrome which, I imagine, afflicts everyone who lives alone, at least once in a while. I went out but it was soon pretty clear that whatever I wanted to get away from for a while had been brought with me to the bar and I was no happier there than here so I decided it would be cheaper to come back to the apartment.

It’s no reflection on the bar I went to. The bar “Autrement Dit” on Rue Royale in Vieux Lille has loads going for it as far as I’m concerned. The first time I was there was in 2003 when, along with 5 others from the UK office, I spent about 4 days here in Lille as part of an International “welcome to the organisation” event. It was the nearest thing I’d had to a foreign holiday in about 8 years so I made the most of it and never spent any more time than necessary in my hotel room.

It wasn’t until several weeks after I’d moved to France and several visits to Autrement Dit later that I realised that this was one of the places I’d been to in 2003. It seems like twenty years ago now and I can’t relate my opinion and usage of the place these days to the wide-eyed, over-romanticised image I had of it back then. In 2003, it was a very different environment from that offered by evenings in Leeds. To a naïve newcomer, it was exotic, strange and very, very French. Now, it’s just the local bar.

Except that it’s more than that. Having struggled out of the womb in ’62, I was still a teenager when punk came along and I was certainly the right age to enjoy all the electronic, new romantic delights of the eighties in England. I was never extraverted enough to dress up and make up etc but I really hooked into the music of the time and I still love it now. Depeche Mode, Yazoo, Tubeway Army, Human League, Ultravox, Japan and all the rest. I loved it. I was an aspiring keyboard player myself and I revelled in all things “synth”. Autrement Dit resounds to those sounds and the more modern music inspired by them and, in there, you'll seldom hear anything else.

There was a trend, in 90s England, for pubs and bars to be lit up like ice cream parlours and I always shunned those places. Lighting plays more of a part in our enjoyment of things than we realise and I’m pleased to say that Autrement Dit is usually very dully-lit, like a bar should be.

The proprietor and staff know me well and I’m always happy not to need to ask for a drink when I enter a bar. They know what I want and, as I walk through the door, someone usually starts pouring it. When it’s quiet, this is just a fun gimmick between staff and regular but, when it’s six-deep at the bar at 11:30 on a Saturday night, it’s an absolute godsend. There are usually 3 people serving at any given time but, in total, there are 5 staff who rotate. When I walk in, whoever is “on shift” that evening will always smile, say “good evening” and shake my hand. It’s a far cry from Leeds. I like being there, they like seeing me there and, behind much of this is the fact that these guys enjoy what they do. They take pride in being good bar staff and the enlightened customer recognises and appreciates this. This is an important difference between the UK and France. In the UK, being a waiter or a barperson is a job and it’s usually a job taken under duress by a student or epidemiologist until “things get sorted”. Here in France, the people who fill these positions are professional, proud and, for the most part, duly respected. A good waiter has an understanding of menu and clientele alike and he or she will take pleasure in advising you and in knowing how to bend the menu to suit your needs. A good barperson will tell you what you want to drink when you can’t decide and he’ll enjoy seeing you enjoy what he’s given you. It’s more or less a lost art and a “non-profession” in the UK but, here, there are experts and they’re worthy of respect.

I’ve been told, by certain residents of Lille, that Autrement Dit is a gay bar. Ok, so some of the bar staff are slim and there’s the odd sequined T-shirt to be seen but the clientele is always very “boy/girl” (apart from me, of course…… I usually tend to be in the “boy/nobody” category). I suspect that this gay bar notion is driven by T-shirts, fairly techno music and the fact that French guys often still greet one another with a kiss on both cheeks (face) and I don’t really buy into it. Admittedly, I’ve seen much more guy-to-guy cheek-kissing there than anywhere else but I went to a party at one of my neighbours’ apartments a few weeks ago and he and his girlfriend both gave me a two-cheek welcome when I arrived so it would be daft to read too much into this greeting etiquette. Besides which, I care far more about how decent, friendly, intelligent and open a person is than I care about where he harbours his boat. Not my concern and certainly not something which could make me alter my opinion of anyone, upwards or downwards.

So we have a nice place, nice welcome, great staff, pleasant clientele, great music, appropriate lighting, they know what I want to drink and then, we have the real “dealmaker”.

If I ever found myself needing to get myself home on all fours (never happened yet) I could crawl home from Autrement Dit in about 10 minutes. In my normal largely vertical orientation, we’re talking about 4 minutes.

Good local amenities and facilities…. You can’t beat ‘em!

Danger in the Optician's Shop

2007-03-20T12:27:00.000-07:00

The next time you inadvertently crap into a Frenchman’s glasses case, please feel free to use the following tiny sample list to help you to explain to him how you came to make such an error. Similarly, the next time you find that you’ve put ink on your meatballs or that you’re being represented in a French court by tropical fruit, this little list of translations from French to English might just get you off the hook.

Lentilles = Lentils
Lentilles = Magnifying glasses
Lentilles = Contact lenses

Lunettes = Spectacles (glasses)
Lunettes = Telescopes
Lunettes = Toilet seats
Lunettes = Car windows
Lunettes = Birds’ breastbones

Abat = torrential downpour
Abats = Offal
Abat-jour = Lampshade

Talons = Talons (bird of prey etc)
Talons = Shoe heels
Talons = Cheque stubs

Pomme = Apple
Pomme = Head of lettuce
Pomme = Potato (even without “de terre”)

Pâté = Pâté
Pâté = Pie
Pâté = Inkblot
Pâté = Sandcastle
Pâte = Pasta
Pâte = Pastry
Pâte = Paste
Pâte = Batter
Pâte = Dough
Patte = Animal’s paw
Patte = Animal’s leg
Pat = Stalemate
Pâté de maisons = A city block
Pâté Impérial = Egg roll

Avocat = Avocado pear
Avocat = Lawyer

Mais = Sweetcorn
Mais = “But….”

No room at all for confusion there, then. Time to add a few new words to the French dictionary, I suspect!

I could do with a new prescription for my eyes but I’m too scared to go to the opticians ;o)

The Only Day it Snowed

2007-03-19T13:01:00.000-07:00

On the evening of 22 February 2006, JC and I went out for a “welcome to France” drink and we also walked the 10 minutes or so to Rue Ste Catherine, my street-to-be, just to have a look. The whole area was made up of narrow, cobbled streets, only wide enough for one vehicle and every single turn or corner was pretty much 90°. I couldn’t help wondering how the Hell the massive lorry I’d seen 2 weeks earlier in Leeds was even going to reach anywhere near the apartment, let alone find a place to stop for a couple of hours so that all my Worldly goods could be hauled manually up two storeys of wiry spiral stairs. It was one of those times when, instead of thinking like that, you just have to believe that, as much as it might be difficult, disruptive, delayed and frustrating, it’s going to happen somehow or other for the simple reason that there isn’t any alternative. It has to happen.

As planned, I was sitting on the windowsill of the property agent on Rue Nationale at 8:15 the following morning, waiting agitatedly for Mademoiselle to arrive there to give me the keys to the apartment as, at 9am, I had an appointment with a large truck. I had a notion that today would be difficult but, at least, the sun was shining and I was on schedule, in the right place at the right time.

Mademoiselle was also timely enough. At about 8:40, she showed up, grinning as always. During my meeting with her in the January, (during that preparatory week I’d spent in Lille), even with my very stumpy French at the time, I’d managed to have her in fits of laughter (and, yes, some of her laughter was at me rather than with me but who cares? She was sympathetic to my needs either way so “job done”). She handed me my new sets of keys and I duly signed on dotted lines. If I didn’t want to be late and, thereby, miss the impossibilities of getting the lorry into place, I had a very brisk 15 minutes’ walk ahead of me.

It started to snow. A sunny morning transformed itself into the only day in the whole of 2006 on which I would see snow in Lille.

Somebody up there obviously loved me.

Mademoiselle then turned my luck a little by offering to drive me to the apartment. Chivalry set aside for the moment, I accepted on the first offer. It wasn’t so much avoiding the walk which appealed to me. It was more the idea of having someone French “on my team” so that, if there was nothing but negativity when I got there, at least she’d be able to use her lingo and local knowledge to work out the best way around the problems.

We arrived at Rue Ste Cat and I was amazed to see that, not only was the lorry already there, but they had also managed to remove, mechanically, some of the ever-present iron bollards from a section of the street and the lorry was neatly tucked away, off the road, in nobody’s way at all. Nice! Ok, so it was abandoned – there was no sign of anybody who belonged to it but, what the Hell? Inside it would be all manner of furniture and bags and boxes and, if my little run of gentle luck was to continue, the stuff inside the lorry might even turn out to be mine as opposed to the Worldly goods of the Von Eddolhofens from an hour or two up the road in Holland.

The crew were quickly tracked down to a nearby purveyor of sausages. A Brit in charge and two local boys. I was still trying to imagine how a fridge-freezer and a washing machine were ever going to make it up those spiral staircases. I put it out of my mind and all 5 of us went up to the flat. If this blog is a soap opera to you, you might recall that I’d only spent about 5 minutes in the apartment in the January before deciding it ticked all the boxes. Here I was again, just over a month later and, this time, I’d brought my real self with me. I still liked it a lot and I was already plotting what would go where.

I decided not to go back downstairs with the three guys and I thanked Mademoiselle and told her I’d take it from here. She left and I took a subtle glance out of the kitchen window, down onto the street below. I wanted to judge the mood of the three guys. They hadn’t seemed phased when they were up here and, as I looked out, the Brit was whistling contentedly and the two French guys were sharing a laugh…. despite the snow.

I decided to do the “pretend you’re busy reading something in one of the bedrooms” routine which is very effective when trying to keep out of removal men’s way and I thought I’d just wait for the “Sorry, mate. There’s no way this is gettin’ up them stairs”……

About 45 minutes passed and I kept wandering out into the living room from time to time to answer those “Where shall we put this?” questions and to have a quick look at which items they’d already managed to get up the stairs. I felt really guilty at the thought that these nice guys were struggling with my stuff whilst I was doing nothing but I still kept well out of it. After just under an hour, the snow had stopped and every last thing had already been brought up here. Fridge-freezer, washing machine, sofa, bed…. the lot. Up a spiral staircase barely wide enough to allow two people to pass on it. Was I more relieved or was I more impressed? About equal, I’d say and, as much as the Brit was a dour sort, the two French guys were still joking away between themselves. That felt bloody good!

I filled in a few “all present and correct” forms and off they went. As much as I knew that they wouldn’t always receive a cent as a “tip” from a client, I still felt like the €20 note I’d made sure the French guys saw me give to the Brit was nothing compared with how pleased I was at what they’d done and the lack of any fuss at all surrounding their job. They were absolutely superb and nobody should ever use any other company for a job like that….. ever!

Naturally, I decided to give myself a “relief gap” before I even thought about any unpacking and bed assembly etc. I did, however, decide to track down the kettle, a tea bag, some milk and a mug……….

You can take the boy out of England but you can’t take England out of the boy

French Visionaries - Volume 1

2007-03-18T04:56:00.000-07:00

A few very brief recognitions of some French bods who have made massive contibutions to the World with their ingenuity and foresight.

Louis Braille – Blinded as a result of an injury he sustained when 3 years old, Braille went on to be a nationally-recognised church organist, a cellist and a teacher at Paris’ Royal Institution for Blind Youth. He redeveloped an idea of raised dots and dashes which had been used in silent communication between soldiers at the front and simplified it into the 6-dot-per-character system of fingertip reading and writing still in use by blind people today, 155 years after his death. The system has been adapted to pretty much all of the sophisticated languages in the World. A French visionary.

Jacques Cousteau – Ex French Navy underwater exploration pioneer who raised popular interest in the biology and ecology of the oceans like nobody before or since through his many decades of spectacular and award-winning films on the subject, usually based on his celebrated boat, Calypso. Later in life, he became director of Monaco’s Oceanographic Museum and was instrumental in the regulation of the disposal of radioactive and otherwise toxic waste at sea. With a partner, he perfected the first truly effective self-contained underwater breathing apparatus (SCUBA). Cousteau won many international prizes for his work and rightly so. He died in 1997 but the Cousteau Society he founded still campaigns tirelessly on marine conservation. A French visionary.

Nicolas-Joseph Cugnot – A steam engine is a simple and efficient mechanism but, in order to use one to get from a to b, you need to convert the up-and-down motion of a piston into a rotary motion to turn an axle or wheel. Cugnot’s significance is disputed but this is entirely understandable as, were he to be recognised as the first inventor to harness this conversion of that motion and to apply it to making a powered vehicle move, then he would have to be credited with being the father of locomotives and automobiles of all kinds and, clearly, a title such as that would always be fought over. Indisputably, in 1769, he made a vehicle move by applying just such technology so, however he’s recognised in comparison with other inventors, what he did was fabulous and innovative. A French visionary.

Joseph Bienaimé Caventou – Among the better-known plant-based substances identified and isolated by Caventou, a professor at Paris’ prestigious School of Pharmacy in the mid-19^th Century, were Chlorophyll, Strychnine, Caffeine and Quinine. Chlorophyll represents no less than an answer to the question “how do plants work and what do they mean to us?” Without Strychnine, a rat would probably be typing this message to you (don’t say it). Could you really get the same hit from your Cappuccino or Coca-Cola if you didn’t know that they were supposed to give you that hit? Had it not been for the identification of the qualities and value of Quinine, then the fight against malaria in the past might have been lost and the fact that insane European policies in relation to immigration have encouraged the reintroduction of diseases like malaria into civilised countries would be even more serious a problem than it already is. A French visionary.

Georges Claude – The next time you’re out and about in a big city at night and you need something to eat, look out for a bright sign saying something like “kebabs” or “Indian” or whatever. Spare a thought for Claude, who, on a whim, decided to pass currents through inert gases (like helium, argon and neon) just to see what might happen. What happened was that Monsieur Claude had invented the neon light. He died 47 years ago but it’s pretty much impossible to find a street in a city today where his legacy is not visible. A French visionary.

Augustin-Jean Fresnel – If you need a really huge convex glass lens, say 2 metres across or whatever, to focus and project light, then the conventional approach to lens construction would mean that the thickness of glass in the middle of the lens might be so great that it would be difficult to manufacture, to transport, to install and to use. The invention of the Fresnel Lens changed all that and, 180 years after his death, among many uses such as car headlamps, traffic lights, aircraft carrier landing systems and searchlights, they have revolutionised coastal lighthouses, allowing them to project light over far greater distances than had previously been possible and must have averted many a disaster. A Member of the Paris Academy of Science, Fresnel had an understanding of the behaviour of light and other waves and optical issues which was cutting edge. A French visionary.

Jean Bernard Léon Foucault – Without gyroscopes, ships might be thrown around by the waves far more, aircraft navigation would be far more haphazard, lots of things would fall over inconveniently, virtual reality headsets wouldn’t know when you turned to the left, compasses would, perhaps, rely too much on the Earth’s magnetic field and all manner of apparently gravity-defying fun would be lost to us. Foucault invented them and was also at the forefront of studies into the Earth’s rotation and, for an encore, he discovered eddy currents which explain many a motion-related phenomenon. I imagine that he’d have been pretty proud if he could see, 139 years after his death, the mid-air computer mouse which can move a cursor on a screen just by being pointed at the screen – no mouse mat, no desk – as a result of their containing gyroscopes. A French visionary.

Henri Giffard – Whilst the word “dirigible” is, these days, often taken simply as meaning “an airship”, in the adjective sense, it means “capable of being directed, controlled or steered”. People had been dangling from big, Hydrogen-filled bags for some time when Giffard added a steam engine, a propeller and a rudder into the blend and, thus, provided the first dirigible, passenger-carrying airships. He also invented a pressure injection system, greatly reducing the moving parts required in earlier versions and, I imagine, a precursor to many later propulsion devices. A French visionary.

A Bit of a Recap

2007-03-17T14:58:00.000-07:00

Ok, so during this last month, I’ve explained how I came to be here, my particular circumstances, various details about my arrival here and a few cultural and social observations from the aspect of a Brit moving solo, lock, stock and barrel, to a non-Anglophone country.

I’ve also used this Grayblogs experiment as a vehicle for a Gray’s-eye view of various chunks of history, literature, politics and whatever and, when I started it and first began to encourage people to read it, there was precious little here to read. I beavered away to make sure that anyone who found it, by design or by accident, would have all sorts of stuff to read and relevant pictures to accompany and, though I say so myself, I’m happy enough with the start I’ve made.

In terms of my own little story relating to my arrival and adaptation, I’ve fast-forwarded up to the night before I moved into my apartment here in Lille but, as you may have seen, I’ve also “butterflied” around in time a bit when the urge has taken me and so you’ve already read about lots of things which have happened over the past year or so. I’ll pick up on the “moving in” stuff when I get around to it but the general plan is to carry on in much the same vein as that in which I’ve started.

There’ll be a gradual evolution in stories about my installation in France until, one day, we’ll arrive at a point where the blog will be very much “in the here and now” as regards life for me in Lille. There’ll always be miscellaneous historical, political or (hopefully) comedic stuff amongst the France stories and I hope you enjoy those elements too. If I ever appear to be “Frog-bashing”, take my word for the fact that it’s only ever done with tongue-in-cheek affection. If I seriously had anything against the real France or the real French, there is no way that I’d have invested my life in the place.

I’ve been made very aware that I need to cover the subject of “women” in my waffling and I’ll do exactly that in the very near future…. (as soon as I’ve worked out how to do it without offending anyone or painting myself in any unfortunate lights!)

A huge “thank you” for the many responses I get (keep them coming) and, of course, if you have any questions you want answered or if you want an exploration of any specific subject, just say the word and I’ll do my best.

Idiocy for Dummies - Volume 2

2007-03-17T07:58:00.000-07:00

I'd like to think that idiots would have no cause to read many lines of my blog before bailing out but, in case you know one, here are a few more reminders, for them, of how best to ply their trade. If they find this "of value", please encourage them to have a look at Volume 1 too. Thanks again to the "real" "Books for Dummies" publishers for not suing me for changing their artwork and using their idea!

Tattoos

A small, crappy drawing which you wouldn’t want on your living room wall for a week is perfectly good enough to have etched into the skin of your arm or arse, where you will then keep it for the rest of your life
When choosing a tattoo, never imagine yourself as a grandparent, in 30 years’ time, explaining to your grandchild why your neck has a faded picture of Johnny Depp dressed as a pirate on it
Never imagine that your eventual partner will be perturbed by the fact that you have “Stacey” written on your genitals
There are places you can go to have your “Free Nelson” tattoo removed

Punctuality

Always leave the house at 8pm precisely If you are due to meet someone at 8pm
Never calculate the length of time it will take you to get to where you’re meeting
As long as you aren’t kept waiting yourself, there’s no problem

Architecture

When walking across a flimsy bridge or, preferably, a rope bridge, always cause the bridge to shake or sway as much as possible
Always jump into ornamental pools and fountains or, if the temperature isn’t conducive to getting wet in this way, throw someone else in. At the very least, pretend to be planning to push someone in, traditionally a girl. Otherwise, the water feature serves no purpose
If you see a building which is clearly unoccupied, it is your obligation to break several windows

Photography

Always make rabbits’ ears with your fingers behind your friends’ heads
Never allow yourself to be photographed without an inane expression on your face
When abroad, always have yourself photographed pointing at road signs for villages with names like “Fart-hol” but don’t forget the inane expression

Emergency Services

Always consider the police to be the enemy and never feel reassured at their presence
Always remember that firemen are much more effective at their work whilst being pelted with bricks
Always call 999 / 911 etc in a crisis. For example, if you want to know whether or not it’s legal to bury a dog in your garden
If you see, in your rear view mirror, that there’s a large red vehicle behind you with blue lights blazing and you hear a curious wailing sound, brake immediately, blocking its path, so that you can have a think about what “ERIF” means
Always provide useful training for police divers by spending sunny afternoons drinking Carlsberg near lakes and rivers
Always provide useful training for Coastguards by reading The Sun on the beach whilst your children dare each other to jump into the sea from higher and higher rocks

Words

Always swear every fifth word
Always spend every waking hour using your mobile phone, even if you couldn’t hold a meaningful conversation if your life depended on it.
If you’re a talentless yob trying to write one of your violently-ranting songs, always complete each pointless line with a word ending in “…ation” as your brain won’t then struggle too much to find something which rhymes for the next pointless line
If you phone someone and there is no answer, always leave the phone ringing for at least 20 minutes rather than trying again later
Always describe yourself as being "feisty" if you don't like the phrase "impatient, difficult, ill-tempered, selfish and ignorant"

Celebrities & Game shows

Never recognise that the people in soap operas are actors. If you encounter one of these actors in a shoe shop, always interact with them as though they are the character they play
Always shout celebrities’ catchphrases at them
Always assume that a washed-up “singer” must automatically have the brains to address global issues
When appearing as a contestant on game shows, never consider whether or not you have the knowledge or aptitude to succeed
Never contemplate the fact that your appearance on the game show, whilst gaining you £150 and a plastic dustbin, will provide an eternal record of your mental capacities, even after your ultimate demise

Toilets

Always lay a ring of toilet paper on the seat, like your Mum taught you, so as to avoid contracting Ebola etc and always leave this ring of paper in place for the next user of the toilet to attend to
The word “subway” is a synonym for the word “toilet”
Never wash your hands after visiting the toilet as there are no germs up your pristine flue
Always eat the peanuts available in communal bowls on the pub bar

Disputes

In verbal disputes, always shout as the increased volume will counterbalance the lack of content in your argument and will make you “right” and your opponent “wrong” (unless, of course, your opponent can shout more loudly, in which case, he or she will be “right” and you “wrong”)
Always involve yourself in disputes on subjects about which you know nothing
If somebody complains at something you’re doing, deem this to be a success and, where possible, do it even more

Crafts

Always glue wobbly eyes onto sea shells and refer to yourself as a craftsman
Always view ethnically-styled craft items as being 7 times more attractive and special than they actually are

Out on the Street

Always uproot plants which have been installed around the town to make it look more pleasant and scatter them around
Scattered plants with a decent soily root ball make excellent summer alternatives to snowballs
Always destroy or deface anything you possibly can
If you see an attractive shopfront, a sleek train or, in fact, anything without some cretin’s name scribbled or sprayed onto it, always add your own as this will add to the aesthetics and increase the respect you warrant
If you are devoid of all decorum and culture and mix only with thuggish animals, always exchange handshakes with your friends on the street as people who see this will assume you to be respectable human beings and you will also feel very mature
If you see someone carrying a pizza, always approach them unexpectedly and, with an up-turned palm, give the impression that you are about to bat the box out of their hands from beneath. They will find this as funny as you do
If you have access to fireworks, always use them in as dangerous and as pointless a manner as possible, preferably in daylight. Remember – fireworks are not intended to be a simple form of entertainment by bangs and flashes for small children from a distance – they are intended to be antisocial weaponry for you

Maths

Pi = Steak + kidney + pastry

House Parties

Never leave a house party without embedding the host’s bread knife into the outer face of the fridge door

Pets

Always acquire a menacing dog as this increases your status
Always maltreat your dog as it is one of very few ways in which you can demonstrate any authority over anything or anyone whatsoever throughout your life
If your puppy craps in your slippers, always rub his face in the excreta (on reflection, it’s just the same set of rules as you use for your children)
Always assume that your dog will be happy to spend 20 years barking in a coal shed whilst you sell beefburgers. Always look surprised when, eventually, your dog seems happy to have died
Always keep fish in a tank no more than three times the size of the fish and never imagine yourself having to spend your whole life in a phone box. Your fish are perfectly happy to be your replacement for a television during power cuts.
Never keep a bird in an environment where it can fully extend its wings. Never imagine yourself having to spend your whole life standing on a toilet seat with your arms strapped to your sides
Always pick your rabbit up by its ears. They get a real buzz from this

Humour Down the Toilet

2007-03-17T03:34:00.000-07:00

You only have to imagine the face of Burt Reynolds to realise, immediately, that notions of what’s funny (and why) are very dependent upon the era and, of course, upon inter-cultural issues. The French still lap up Benny Hill in 2007 but I suspect that the English sense of humour evolved away from Benny about 30 years ago. There’s a “sitcom” here in France called “Vivement Lundi” (as in “Roll on Monday”) in which I couldn’t find any amusement if I’d breathed nothing but nitrous oxide all day and, as for the way in which a show like Blackadder or Little Britain is played on French TV, well you simply wouldn’t believe your shepherds’ pies. My French is just about good enough that I can watch Blackadder in English whilst understanding the French sub-titles simultaneously and it’s totally incredible. If Blackadder punches Baldrick and Baldrick says “Ow!”, the subtitles read “Ouf!” as though it was something which wouldn’t otherwise have been understood.

If Blackadder says to Baldrick “Baldrick, you wouldn't recognise a subtle plan if it painted itself purple and danced naked on a harpsicord singing 'subtle plans are here again’ “, the French sub-titles would say something like. “Baldrick, you’re unfit to teach in a modern comprehensive school environment” and yet, despite all the hurdles, Blackadder is revered over here in the same way as it was (20 years ago) in England. It’s unfathomable, bizarre, inexplicable.

Humour, therefore, seems to affect all people in similar ways but not in the same timeframe and not for the same reasons. I’m trying to sound like I get the picture but I’m lying. I don’t. This inevitable failure on my part led to a resounding “Gray falls on his arse, bemused” moment a few weeks ago.

I’d helped some people to set up a website. It was going to be like an online “message dump”, laid out like the personals in a paper. If you had something, anything, to say, then leave a message on this site and, if the marketing and networking panned out, the intended recipient of your message would inevitably read it the following day. I’d translated some intricate French terms & conditions of use of the site into English and I’d done a bloody good job of it (if I may say so) and I hadn’t charged a penny (or cent) for what I’d done so I felt, fleetingly at least, nicely involved in the project. I wanted it to succeed and I decided that, my being a “wordy” sort, I’d give them a frequent supply of daft/amusing titbits to publish on their site. I’d help them to “pad it out” until their fledgling site had enough “real” subscribers to keep it filled up.

As much as I’m seldom short of something original to say, I chose to turn to an old favourite of mine for an early offering. Something I’d read in a thoroughly British comedy magazine (Viz) many years before but which I’d found so funny that, down the years, it has always raised a quiet smirk on my face whenever it’s shuffled itself back to the front of my thoughts. Obviously, I’d need to translate it into French before submitting it but there was nothing too tough in the translation so off I went.

Remembering that the site is structured like the personal columns or classified ads in a newspaper, what I submitted was a French version of the following.

“Would any of your readers like a Giant Panda cub? I have two Giant Pandas in my apartment and they hump like nobody’s business. I’ve had to dispose of 11 cubs down the toilet these last 6 months.”

Obviously, there’s irony, surrealism, shock value and “the cute and cuddly” factor in this little piece and, personally, I can’t imagine what it would be like to swap my head for a head which didn’t understand these layers and, therefore, didn’t find it funny but, between cultural differences and political correctness, it appeared on the site as…..

“I have two Giant Pandas in my apartment and they never stop making love”.

It’s the equivalent of giving someone an empty chocolate box. You can still smell that there was once something there but all of the important content has been removed, leaving the gift utterly pointless.

Needless to say, I didn’t submit anything else to the site after that and it was around that time that I decided to start this blog. Like many people who enjoy writing, I choose my words very carefully and I resent having what I write tampered with by others, especially if they clearly don’t understand what they’re reading.

Out on a Limb?

2007-03-12T14:53:00.000-07:00

That first evening in France felt pretty strange. I was transient, in between an existence I’d grown to accept as being normality and a future with no certainty attached to it at all. On the other hand, I’d spent 2 ½ months living like a 38-year-old, intrusive “beach bum” in Tenerife (pictured from the only attractive angle and distance for such an ugly place) only six years before so the thoughts of Costa Del Silencio came in very handy in contextualising my current situation in Lille. Lille was always going to be much more structured. Compared with the manner in which I found myself living in Tenerife in 2000, there would probably never be a more "tramp-like" or shitty episode in store for me.

In Tenerife, I’d lived like I had a 100% death wish. I was writing a book at the time and that book became my raison d’être for all the time I was there. I’d use the writing as a tool. A weapon. A vehicle to allow me to see things I’d never otherwise have been shown. I’d sit in known mafia bars and I’d write, as I do, incessantly scribbling on a large pad until, inevitably, some shady-looking lump would come over and ask me “what the fuck I thought I was doing”. When I’m on good form (or when I think my throat might be about to be cut) I suddenly exhibit skills in the spoken word which are usually beneath the surface. The result of these provocations was always free drinks for Gray for the night and “glasses raised to our new English (nutcase) friend”. I seduced them with my bullshit and, let’s face it, nobody but a harmless idiot would sit writing about his observations in mafia bars. Would they?

Out on the streets, I deliberately goaded and irritated the pimps in the later hours of the evenings. Why? Because I hate everything about someone who makes “their living” in a way like that. How did I goad them? Sometimes I’d go and chat to the whores (mainly exploited Senegalese) and I’d spend half an hour rationally explaining to them the truths of their situations and futures. Truths which, strangely, their employers had neglected to mention to them during the interview. Inevitably, there would eventually be some little shit on a moped who would show up and tell me to “move on” in a threatening manner. I inevitably told him to go and screw himself. (Like I said, I was living as though I had a death wish – 2 days before I’d arrived on the island, some bar owner was dying in a lake of blood on his own terrace one night and the police “knew nothing about it" in the morning. Clearly, forensic science hadn’t island-hopped that far yet. Nice place) In fact, I was told, in no uncertain terms, that, if I didn’t move away and let the girls “do their work”, I would be in serious danger. I never did what they told me to do. I always just laughed at them, told them where to go and carried on talking to these poor, thick whores up to the point at which they were put into cars and taken somewhere else.

The pimps never did any more than to threaten me. They never touched me. I found this very strange but, as I’ll maybe tell you another time, I had my suspicions as to why I was treated in that way. Those suspicions proved to be right and their conclusions about me came in extremely handy a little further down the line.

Anyway, you don’t want to know all that nonsense. You just wanted to know that I didn’t feel too “out on a limb” during that first evening In Lille.

Well, I imagine that you now suspect that I didn’t feel too “out on a limb” at all ;o) I was in a nice apartment for the night and, the following day, I’d be moving into my own nice apartment…..

Idiocy for Dummies - Volume 1

2007-03-11T08:47:00.000-07:00

I hope the Dummies people don't mind my having doctored their artwork as a vehicle for displaying a few daft notions of mine on the subject of idiocy! Being an idiot is easy enough but, by definition, an idiot might not always realise or remember how to do it so I thought I'd cook up a few reminders ;o)

Staircases & Escalators

Always walk at least two abreast with your friends or family on staircases and look surprised when someone coming in the other direction expects you to allow them to pass.
Always stop and have lengthy conversations on staircases and half-landings and always look surprised when people look at you in an irritated manner.
On reaching the top or bottom of an escalator, always step off and stand still for several seconds as the people behind you can easily walk backwards on the escalator for a while to hold their position whilst you remember who you are and where you want to go.
Always take the lift to descend by one storey, even if you need to wait for 10 minutes for the lift to arrive and always look surprised when you can no longer get your arse into the jeans you bought six weeks ago.

Queues

Never face in the direction the queue is headed towards.
Never keep up with the movement of the queue.
Always assume that everyone behind you is in agreement with your permitting your friends to join you at the front of the queue.
Always give the impression that waiting in the queue is more of a hardship for you than it is for everyone else.

Pavements

When walking hand in hand with your partner, always look surprised if you are required to separate momentarily to allow someone to pass in the opposite direction without their having to step onto the road and get mown down by an onion seller on a bike.
Never walk in a straight line.
Always stop unexpectedly and never give the impression of knowing where you’re going.
When exiting a shop, never check to see if someone is coming along the pavement and always stand still, central to the pavement, looking back into the shop to see where your grandmother is.
Pause frequently to look at rooftops.
If you meet someone you know, always ensure that the whole group of you occupy the entire width of the pavement during the following 20 minutes’ hilarious conversation.

Shopping

Always spend 20 minutes driving around near the shop entrance so that you can save 25 seconds’ walking time by parking close to the shop.
Always take 4 generations of your family with you into the supermarket.
Never prevent your children from annoying or getting in the way of other shoppers.
Never prevent your children from tampering with products.
Always leave your trolley and prams central to the aisle, ensuring that the gap at either side is less than the width of a person.
Always eat things in the supermarket which don’t yet belong to you and hand the half-eaten product in its wrapper to the cashier.
Always wheel your trolley to a “baskets only” check-out.
Always ensure that every member of your family stands in the queue and passes through the check-out, even though only one of you needs to.
Never expect to be asked for money at the check-out – always wait until the cashier has stated the amount payable before attempting to find your purse or wallet.
Never check in advance to see how much cash you have with you. This way, you can muse over whether or not to pay by cash or card whilst the cashier watches you.
Always bring with you as many “10 cents off” coupons as you can cut out from your magazines but never have them ready to present to the cashier and never check that they’re actually valid against what you’ve put in your trolley or are not date-expired.
Always make a fuss over the slightest discrepancy in pricing, even if it represents less than one tenth of one percent of the overall bill.
If, during the check-out process, you realise that you’ve forgotten the spaghetti sauce, never decide to get it later or eat something else – always push your way backwards through the queue, go back into the store and spend 10 minutes deciding which brand and flavour to choose, leaving the check-out paralysed. Never apologise on your return to the check-out.
Never allow the rest of your family to pack the shopping into bags with or for you. Always do this on your own before considering the payment issues.
Always stop in the exit foyer or, preferably, within the large rotating door for a family meeting and to re-pack all of your shopping.
Always take your children with you into DIY shops.

Banks & Post Offices

If you are retired or otherwise not working, always visit the bank or post office between noon and 2pm when many working people will need to visit them during their lunch breaks.
During this two-hour period, always ensure that you have at least ten different transactions to make and never ensure that you know in advance what you want to achieve in any respect.
After receiving money from a cash dispenser, always remain in front of the cash dispenser whilst you check the statement, count your money, put it into your wallet and decide what to spend it on – if the statement or cash is incorrect, the fact that you found out whilst still standing in front of the screen will make all the difference and nobody behind you needs to use the machine.

Bars

Always ensure that your whole group waits at the bar so that the bar staff can’t tell who needs to be served and who is already catered for.
Always wave bank notes at the bar staff to attract their attention. They love that.
If you smoke, always smoke in non-smoking areas.
Always light a cigarette when someone at your table is still eating.
If you don’t smoke, always sit in smoking areas and make exaggerated coughing noises.

Public Transport

Always make other passengers’ journeys as uncomfortable as possible.
Always block the aisles with bags or children.
When booking a ticket for a journey you wish to make in a couple of weeks’ time, always do this during the morning rush hour and never research your options in advance.
When alighting, always stand still as soon as you step off the train or bus as nobody behind you needs to get off.
When entering a plane, always fart about with coats and overhead lockers for five minutes before sitting down as opposed to sitting down immediately, letting everyone else get past you to their seats and then getting up and farting about with coats and overhead lockers for as long as you like.
Never assume that rules like not using your mobile phone and not standing up during take-off apply to you as well as the other passengers.
Always treat the cabin crew (or anyone else who ever serves you anything throughout your life) like dirt.
Always flop into your seat as heavily as possible so as to avoid any chance that my beer won’t be knocked off the little table on the back of your seat and into my fucking lap.
When your plane lands and taxis to a halt, always stand up immediately, put your coat on, pick up your hand luggage and wonder why the stairs outside weren’t just left attached to the plane door during the flight.

Television

Never watch any educational programmes.
Never leave the television tuned to any one station for longer than 11 seconds.
Always phone in to answer the quiz question. (The answer is B, “a stethoscope”)

Music

Always play music loudly enough to annoy other people.
Always ensure that the music you play too loudly is crap, normally the work of some talentless yob, ranting violently about nothing of any importance over a no-brain backing track.

Art

Never admit to knowing anything about art, including the names of any artists.

Hospitals

Always visit the Emergency department if you so much as sneeze.
Always verbally or physically abuse the nurses and doctors who are trying to help you.
Always assume that you know more than the doctor’s decades of study and experience have taught her/him.
Always limp, whatever your ailment.
Always insist on plenty of pills to take, whether you need them or not, as your family and friends will be very impressed at the implied seriousness of your condition.
Never complain that people from elsewhere are exploiting the medical insurance you’ve paid for all your life.
Never complain that diseases eradicated from civilised countries decades ago are now being imported right back in again.

Fatness

Always say that it’s “glandular” or “water-retention” (but beware as these words can be difficult to say whilst eating a particularly sugary doughnut).
Once you get significantly obese, have yourself pushed around in a wheelchair as this will have a noticeable effect upon your intake to activity ratio.
If you are a hideously fat woman, always grow your hair long and wear lots of eye make-up. People won’t notice that you’re fat any more and will see you as being very attractive.

Food

Always say that you don’t like various foods, even when you’ve never tried them.
Always use phrases like “I don’t like fish”, as all fish are clearly identical to one another in taste and texture.
Always use the phrase “I can’t cook” in place of the phrase “I’m too stupid to understand how to mix different things together in a bowl”.
Never hold a knife and fork properly.
At buffets, always fail to eat half of the food you chose to put on your own plate.

Roads

Insufficient space and time to add details on this subject.

Sport

Always consider sport to be more important than anything else.
Always invent a cretinous name for every imaginable eventuality in your given sport like “the play-the-ball” in rugby league and, for example, “mauls” as opposed to “rucks” in rugby union.
When supporting football, always sing in the deepest voice you can muster as this makes you seem to be very manly.

Society & Politics

Never do anything to add to society – always take as much as possible.
Never vote for anyone who would apply common sense to the needs of the country.
Always view politics as “not something which you’re interested in”.
Always give the impression that you support the idea of democracy and then start crying if lots of people decide to vote for a party they’re “not supposed to”.
Never complain that there are too many people.

History

Always consider history as being boring and irrelevant.
Never learn any lessons from the events of the past, even when the parallels and warnings are glaringly obvious.

Schools

Never ensure that your child understands why he or she goes to school.
Never involve yourself in your child’s studies and progress.
Always say that it’s good to mix children of very different capabilities in schools.
Always blame the teachers if your child never learns anything.
Never complain that your child is often taught illogical nonsense.
Always find new behavioural “disorders” from which to say your child must be suffering so as to avoid facing the truth.

Environment

Always drop litter and, if you see litter that someone else has dropped, always kick it.
Always drive to the bottle bank, even though what you save, in environmental terms, will be less than the impact of your car journey.
Always spit every 6 minutes.
If the temperature is less than 20°C, always complain that it’s too cold.
If the temperature is 21°C or more, always complain that it’s too hot.
Never accept that overpopulation is behind all the environmental problems we face.

Religion

See roads

Jobs & Offices

Always base your opinions of someone on their job title as opposed to who they are, how they conduct themselves or what they can do.
Always dress sharply as it will make people believe that you can think sharply.
Always advocate the purchase of cheap stationery when claiming things are “tight” but never make any significant economies.

Fashion

Always wear what other people say you ought to wear, irrespective of how stupid or impractical it might be
Always pay six times as much for your clothes as you need to as long as other people will be impressed.

Lille & the Elephants

2007-03-10T04:40:00.000-08:00

In October 2006, Lille went very Indian and stayed so for a couple of months. Walking to the station in the mornings meant passing along a guard of honour of enormous fibre-glass elephants, far larger than life and in 6 opposing pairs with trunks which would have touched one another across the street had they been cast outstretched. Thousands of people were milling around on 14^th October, the day of the launch of this “Lille 3000” Indian-themed festival, also known as “Bombaysers de Lille” (a play on words). It was more than a little oppressive to be amongst this many people during that day. As far as the centre was concerned, everywhere, but everywhere, was packed with people. You can see Lille’s giants amongst the throngs, waiting to be blessed with flower petals in the Grande Place whilst the mayoress gave an impassioned speech to open the event. I was on a second date with a girl that afternoon and we agreed that it was a bit unbearable in the crowds so we dodged away from the Place and found a bar terrace. It was a relief to be away from it all for a while but what we’d already experienced was nothing compared to what was coming later. Some estimates put the crowd, who gathered in front of the railway station, Gare Lille Flandres (interior of station also shown), for that evening’s entertainment, at over 100,000 people. It certainly felt like that many. I had the ground space my feet covered and no more to spare. I was pinned into position by the people around me and I was pinning them right back, seemingly with no chance of moving. As often seems to happen at times like this, someone with a child in a push-chair decided that it would make good sense to traverse from one end of the crowd to the other. I wondered what it must be like to be as unhindered by the baggage of thoughts and ideas as this dolt of a woman so clearly was. A feeling of blissful freedom and invulnerability, I imagine.

Beyond the most distant pair of elephants, you see the façade of the station itself which, as illustrated, was illuminated in a spectacular Taj-Mahal-esque manner and the elephants themselves revealed that their red and gold coats were fringed with discreet, multicoloured glass beads, illuminated from within, creating a subtle and attractive effect. Between each pair of elephants and the next were pairs of large, layered lanterns in the general form of shining, golden wedding cakes and other ethnically-styled lighting was draped and dangling all around. Eventually, the entertainment began. A huge stage had been erected, covering the large, decorative pool which is normally to be seen in front of the station and, onto it, ran dozens of dancers in Indian-inspired costumes. A mix of traditional and modern music boomed out and, along with the rest of the World around me, I raised myself onto my toes to try to get a better view. I was still pinned against everybody else, including my date ;o) and, after 20 minutes of this, we decided to retreat again.

We wrestled our way out and headed off to find something to eat, passing fire artists, stalls, pyrotechnic displays, food stands and street performers along the way. Naturally, as this festival had approached, my focus had been on the food opportunities it might provide. I’d dreamed of finding a food outlet where, on the ground all around, were French people, sitting dazed and trying to pluck out their own tongues after having sampled something with which their oh-so-spice-sensitive taste buds were not cut out to cope. I dreamed of picking my way through and over these people, reaching the deserted counter and saying something like “Greetings, my Asian friend. Whatever you sold that French chap over there, yes, the one with his head in the fountain and his underpants around his ankles, I’ll have twice as much, twice as spicy please”.

Alas, even before the event began that day, I’d realised that this would remain just a dream. Reading my free newspaper on the train one morning, I’d come upon an interview within which the invited “head of nourishment” for the event, a noteworthy Indian chef, explained, presumably through a translator, the changes they’d had to make so as to provide Indian goodies around the town. They’d done their studies and, without going into detail, every prospective food vendor had accepted that, if they were going to sell anything at all during the festival, each of their recipes would need to be taken down to about 10% of its normal spiciness quotient. “Oh, bum”, I recall thinking.

Fairground Dutch Courage

2007-03-09T10:57:00.000-08:00

I’ve re-used the middle one of the aerial photos I posted with the waffle about Lille Citadel to point you at the large, sandy-looking area to the East side of it. This is the Champs de Mars. For most of the year, the big bare bit serves a car park for visitors to the Citadel, the zoo (marked by the lower of the 2 blue markers on the photo and where our white-handed gibbons hang out), the sports facilities, the canals, the Bois de Boulogne (generic name for all the woods around the Citadel), the kids’ playgrounds and anyone who likes doing the park and ride routine to avoid the narrowness of Vieux Lille’s streets and the dearth of street parking. As you can see, the whole thing represents a really top facility to have outside my kitchen window.

As I’ve suggested before, I’m determined to take greater advantage of my position and general situation this year than I did in 2006. I think a bike would be a very good start but I haven’t yet decided whether that bike will be powered or not. Maybe I’ll get one of each. I was in a supermarket one lunchtime this week and saw nice-looking mountain bikes with heaps of gears and front shock absorbers for €75, that's 50 quid, give or take a bit. Pretty Incredible. Chuck in the (very) necessary locks, a pump, a bottle and some groin-protective shorts and the whole thing could easily be up and running for about £90. Practically free when you look at where it could take me from here. As for the motorised version, I’ve done plenty of that sort of thing in the past so no fears there. I can ride up to 125cc machines on my car licence and, as I’m not a speed freak, that’ll do for the moment. I’ve got a back courtyard where either or both could live without their being in anyone’s way so it’s really just up to me what I fancy getting. Financially speaking, I’ve seen brand new Vespa-style scooters, again in the supermarkets, for €950 but I’ve never really been the scooter type. If I buy, I’ll go for a second hand trail bike. I was pointed towards a real beauty that was being sold by someone at work a few months back but it was just a bit too pricy for me at the time.

From time to time, coinciding with certain school holidays and other festivals, the fairground comes along and, depending on which fairground we get, it can be quite fun for an afternoon or an exhilarating midnight addition to a night out.

If it’s the kids’ version, it only covers about a quarter of the Champs de Mars. It’s inevitably a bit tame but, for someone’s who’s as handy with an air rifle as I am, the chances of winning a teddy are disproportionately high ;o). As a non-parent, it’s also fairly nice to see excited little bods enjoying daft little activities. Not something I normally encounter. As a general rule and a veritable bonus, these fairs are too child-oriented to attract the yobs who inevitably hang around in and spoil the more grown-up versions. I hate yobs.

As for the grown up versions of fairs which arrive from time to time, they occupy the whole of the Champs and some of the rides are enormous. I’ve never been a huge fan of being scared shitless in the name of entertainment and, even if I’m occasionally tempted to have a go on a serious-looking ride, I tend to favour the ones which were built some time ago and have since stayed where they were built, proving their structural integrity time and time again (and available for official safety inspection at any time) as opposed to the ones which are thrown together in a day, used for a week or two and are then pulled down, packed away, hauled away and thrown back up somewhere else. When you see a guy with a spanner in his back pocket and his knuckles and bottom lip scrape along the ground as he walks, it hardly inspires confidence that the ride has been assembled to exacting standards by diligent and skilled artisans.

The only times I’ve been on any of these rides (something akin to the one pictured) have been when I’ve been walking home from some bar or other on a Saturday night at midnight or thereabouts and I’ve been attracted, like a moth, to the flashing lights of the fair, more or less visible from my outside my front door so impossible to miss as I approach the apartment. “I’ll just pop along and watch a few people dangling upside down 100m up in the air, doing their best to retain their bodily contents”…… or that’s the idea. Then, of course, Dutch Courage kicks in.

Fairground Dutch Courage is different from the kind that empowers you to cross a bar to talk to some girl you’ve never seen before. In those cases, it stays with you throughout the conversation and beyond, whatever the outcome of the approach. Fairground Dutch Courage is peculiar in that it reacts to the sound of the restraining bar snapping into place over your shoulders to clamp you into your seat. It reacts by leaving your body completely, never to return…… so there I’d be, dangling upside down 100m up in the air, doing my best to retain my bodily contents.

On one occasion, I knew I’d heard a distant clang on the ground, 100m “above my head” but I just imagined it to have been someone’s 50 cents following the traditions of gravity. I was extremely lucky. After I got back down again and was ready to walk away, I decided to hang around and watch the next batch of riders on what I’d just escaped from. About 5 minutes into watching it, wondering what the Hell had possessed me to go on the ride (realising “Stella”, of course), I was tapped on the shoulder and was handed my house keys by one of the “artisans”. The distant clang explained. If I’d walked off straight away after the ride, that would have been a long, cold night and a challenging Sunday, trying to find a way to contact the property agents to get hold of some spare keys. Maybe this particular artisan has as good an eye for detail and diligence in his engineering as he obviously has a good eye for faces.

I hope so as, inevitably, there I’ll be, some weeks or months from now, dangling upside down 100m up in the air, doing my best to retain……

When the large fair is there, as I lie in bed with the window open as usual, all I can hear is screaming in the distance. Just like being back in Leeds ;o)

Beginning to Crave!

2007-03-06T13:10:00.000-08:00

When I first arrived here in France, the very idea of buying anything I actually recognised was against my own personal rules! No. I’d decided to come here and I was intent on walking the walk so, in the Carrefour Supermarket, I would waltz “disgustedly” past the Multi-Cheerios and shun, insulted, the Old El Paso taco kits. Peanut butter? No, Siree, Bob. If I was going to be doing any spreading it was going to be “le spreading” of Nutella choc-o-nut. If I was going to be eating crispy snacks they weren’t going to be crisps (potato chips if you’re the other side of the pond). They would have to be little brie-flavoured Arc de Triomphes or little crispy, jambon General De Gaulles. If I knew what a vegetable was, I avoided it and, if I was going to allow myself to eat potatoes, they were damned well going to be sautéed.

Time is a great mellower. I can honestly and confidently say that, over the last year, I’ve genuinely thrust myself into buying and eating pretty much what everyone else does here. I do admit that I haven’t yet got round to cooking horse (there’s just as big a fridge in Carrefour for “Trigger” as there is for “Babe”) and I haven’t yet let a snail pass my lips (although they’re only mussels without the aqualungs and I love mussels). I’ll try both of these things any many more before I’m done.

However, there’s something going on in my taste buds. In my psyche. You know the old saying “you can take the boy out of Britain but you can’t take Britain out of the boy”. God, it’s true. I’m bloody craving here! All the culinary clichés are swooping over me like the spirits at the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark and my personal Ark of the Covenant is a chill cabinet in Asda (Wal-Mart), somewhere in the North of England.

The spirits are ghostly, shimmering apparitions of tins of baked beans, steak and kidney pies, bags of frozen sweetcorn niblets and a good pint of bitter (without my having to sell body organs to finance its purchase).

These things and many more besides, are currently “eating me”. I walk past bakery windows, packed with the most incredibly nice treats you can imagine and all I really want to see is a Cornish Pasty. They are, however, in Olympic terminology, only in joint bronze medal position.

In silver medal position is the Brit food cliché to end all clichés. There are two fish and chip shops which spring to mind. One, a converted cottage in Shadwell, near Leeds in West Yorkshire, the other, on the harbour-front in Whitby on the East Coast of North Yorkshire. Right now, I’d snog Bette Midler for a portion of fish and chips from either establishment (and there aren’t many things I want enough to make me want to do that).

In gold. What else? A bloody good curry! It’s totally impossible to find an Indian-style restaurant in Lille which serves anything resembling what I’m used to in the UK. (I say “Indian-style” as most such restaurants in the UK are actually Pakistani or Bangladeshi but I imagine the proprietors suspect that they would get far less trade if they advertised that fact). Resistance to spices in France is at a very low level. The French idea of something too spicy to eat is on about the same level as haemorrhoid ointment in the UK. We, more particularly I, eat Indian-style food so hot that it makes your eyes swap sockets. If you don’t need to call in two plumbers, a stonemason and a priest the following morning, then last night’s meal was “bland”.

I think that it’s the factors outlined in this chunk of waffle which are driving me to plan a few days in the UK in April. I haven’t been there for a visit for 9 months, over three times longer than I’d ever been away before and I think I’m ready.

I just hope Wal-mart, the “chippie” and the Indian-style restaurants are ready for what’s coming their way!

Long-Distance Thanks

2007-03-06T11:57:00.000-08:00

I’m not the type who’s aloof and blasé about the fascinating things and achievements in life and I have no difficulty whatsoever in expressing how things affect and impress me. A very “up-front” kind of a bloke, you might say.

I’m absolutely delighted and amazed, every day, to see (courtesy of Google Analytics) that people all over the World stop by at Grayblogs and have a look at a few of my waffles. Today, for example, I’ve had visits from, among other places, Sedalia, South Lyon and Providence, all of which (and I hope you’ll forgive the huge ring-fence!) are generally in the North East of the United States and, a few thousand miles beneath your American boots, visitors in Jinan and Beijing in Eastern China.

I find it humbling to see this happening and spectacular that I can follow the action like following animal tracks on the Earth.

A huge thank you to you all and all to the other visitors from all over the World. I hope you gain some pleasure from my offerings and I hope to see your “animal tracks” many times again (along, of course, with those of everyone you know! ;o) …. The more, the merrier!)

Thank you!