France – Can We Join The Club Again Please?

France is re-joining NATO, the military alliance of countries made up of Canada, the USA and most of Europe.

They pulled out in a fit of gallic pique forty years ago because Charles de Gaulle thought that America would dominate proceedings, and although France provide troops for the various conflicts blighting today’s world, they do not participate in the military leadership of the alliance.

In one of Sarkozy’s better moves, probably because he is fascinated, nay, obsessed by the USA, he has agreed that France will, once again, enter the fray and take their turn at commanding the troops. It's a move obviously designed to ingratiate the French President with Obama but there's no denying that the US have long lobbied France to rejoin. When all of NATO's missiles were pointing at Russia, the good old French kept their plans under wraps - they probably pointed theirs at London!

France’s exit from NATO was objected to by the majority of French people who expressed an opinion but it was forced through in 1969 by a French government who were in fear of becoming a puppet to the USA (where have we heard that before?) and was just another example of the parochial outlook of not just this country but also Germany. Whenever these two colossal countries, in terms of population and fiscal strength join a ‘club’, whatever the club might be, they immediately aim to secure not only the majority of the voting rights but the majority of the financial and social benefits associated with the venture. What happened to the joint benefit ideal? The ability to help other less fortunate nations? 

Take the Concorde joint venture. Why the ‘e’ at the end of the name? French init? Where was the plane assembled? Toulouse! Who made the first flight? France! Nuff said.

Then there is the Organisation for Economic Co-operation and Development (OECD), based on an alliance of 30 countries to promote economic stability and raise living standards. So we have a club of 30 countries. Where is the HQ – Paris!

Then we have CERN (Centre for Nuclear Research – see blog of 2^nd Sept 08), made up of 20 European member states and funded by all of them. Where is the HQ? On the French Swiss border!

We also have the International Bank for Reconstruction and Development (IBRD), founded in 1946 and made up of 185 countries. OK, the HQ of this subsidiary of the World Bank is in London but the French only, and very reluctantly, agreed to that after forcing a deal where they would supply the President who was later forced from office after spending around £80 million refurbing what was already a very plush HQ building.

I suppose the EEC is like a ‘big boys’ club but it’s clear who tries to run it – the French and the Germans. I don’t have any pre-conceived notion that the UK should be involved any more than they are. After all we’re only ‘associate’ members but when there’s a group photo, who’s at the front, in the middle? Sarkozy and Merkel. Will we ever see the Cyprus or Irish delegates taking centre stage? I think not.

Enough of this xenophobia but not before I say that ..... if the French can’t run France properly (there are 36,000 local councils and more civil servants, and corupt mayors, than you can shake a stick at), what chance has NATO got?

Slough and Afghanistan – Wars on TV

I am consideration personified. When I start sneezing at night, I invariably get up, no matter the time and head for the lounge. Better this than have J’s hands round my throat trying to ‘throttle’ me back to sleep!

The other night, I could feel the mimosa sneezes coming on so I grabbed my PC from the side of the bed and headed for the lounge. Just in case there was something watchable on TV, I switched it on. Normally it’s some pathetic programme where a family are sitting side by side in a studio trying to explain why the daughter isn’t really a daughter but the mother’s sister or why the son isn’t really a son but was ‘found’ in a shopping mall and taken in by the family. If you’re really ‘lucky’ you’ll get DNA Stories, a programme which takes DNA of people who think they are related, or hope they are, to another person and then to a drum roll, tells them that in fact they are not related but have the DNA of an obscure South American tribe, known for their cannibalism.

The other night however, two programmes caught my eye. The first was by Ross Kemp, he of the rough, tough, mean, Mitchell brother from the soap Eastenders. I wouldn’t say he’s typecast but I’ve never seen him in anything other than documentaries about violence of some sort. I never watched his programme about ‘Gangs’ as I don’t think the reprobates who pose and preen in front of the camera with guns and swords should be given a platform to promote their violent lifestyles and the thought that the programme makers might actually pay them, makes it even worse.

But his programmes, when he follows the British Forces on some of their military exercises, is certainly worth watching, especially the other night when he joined a platoon fighting the Taliban in Afghanistan. Most probably because my youngest son, Timothy is heading there soon, I found the programme a fascinating insight into the guys and gals who are trying to give that country back its democracy.

On one sortie, Kemp and the platoon came under some serious fire from the Taliban with bullets flying all over the place. As they scrambled for cover they had to remember to stay within certain areas, otherwise landmines would take their toll. Unfortunately, the ambush was fierce enough for one soldier to lose his life and the reaction of his comrades told you everything you needed to know about war. He died doing what he wanted to do, they said. No, they couldn’t think about his death because they needed to concentrate 24/7. They would grieve for him when they got home to the UK.

Profound as this was, it was the soldier who said that he was in Afghanistan because he wanted to be there that depressed me. Not because he wanted to be out there fighting but because he said his wife was a Call Centre operator in Glasgow and she earned more than he did!  

The second programme was also about ‘wars’ – Road Wars. Shot in Slough, Berkshire, it followed some traffic police chasing motorists for offences ranging from not having a valid tax certificate to those who shoot off at 100 mph when they see the blue flashing light behind them.

What I found depressing about this programme was that having careered through the streets of Slough at unbelievable speeds and having no licence, tax or insurance and having stolen the car in the first place, the offenders, normally kids, get a ticking off and a paltry fine of some £200. Twenty odd years ago I got snapped by a camera in Slough when my front wheels crossed a line at a red traffic light. I didn’t actually go through the lights, I stopped with my tyres across the line – but I got fined £300 and three points put on my licence. Where’s the justice? 

 

Two Days In The Merde

How many of you have read the novel, ‘A Year In The Merde’, by the author Stephen Clarke? It’s about an English guy who spends a year living and working in Paris and is a very funny book, especially for ex-pats like us because he portrays the French as we have grown to know and ‘love’ them. The ‘merde’ bit is a reference to the copious amounts of dog poo he steps in during his 12 months in Paris. Merde is ‘shit’. Sorry but there’s no escaping it. Paris is full of it. It’s everywhere. Everbody seems to have a poodle and how such small dogs can crap so much is beyond me, but they do, in bucketloads.

Not a very savoury subject is it and I hope you’re not reading this at breakfast!

I woke up last Friday full of the joys of spring. My hay fever which had virtually kept me housebound had nearly gone, the sun was shining after three days of rain and the kids were going off to their father’s for the weekend. My Alfa had just passed its Controle Technique (MOT) and was legal to drive again and I planned to take J and Kitty to the Midi for lunch (Guy had already left for the weekend). And then it would be Saturday and the FA Cup games on the telly. But the first thing I had to do was to refill next door’s swimming pool which I had stupidly half emptied two weeks previously.

As I walked through the garage to get some tools, I smelled a rather unpleasant stink. It couldn’t be Guy’s dirty clothes basket because his bedroom door was closed. Kitty’s bedroom door was also closed – it couldn’t be her or her pals who sleep over and never seem to shower. Nope – it was coming from the laundry room. I opened the door and there was a flood of biblical proportions with ‘merde’ everywhere.

Several hours and a missed lunch later (how could I have eaten anyway?), J and I had cleaned up the mess. I’d spent a couple of those hours in the claustrophobic, 18 inch space under the house tracing pipes and trying to work out why, when the toilet pipes are separate from the waste water pipes, merde was pouring from the leaking pipe in the laundry.

Having started at 10am on Friday, I had to call it a halt at 6pm, completely knackered and covered in merde. I headed straight for the shower and had a long, hot dousing. Changed into clean clothes and covered in after shave to try and rid myself of the now imaginary stink, I wandered back down to the laundry room just to check and was met by an even bigger flood of merde. I closed the door and headed for the wine box.

I lay awake all night wondering what it could be and eventually came to the conclusion that it was the kitchen waste pipe which had blocked. Next morning I was back under the house with renewed enthusiasm. Drilled a few holes, poked my unblocking tube down them, poured a couple of litres of unblocking fluid down the holes and had lunch. An hour later, we switched on the kitchen taps and within seconds the water, and not much ‘merde’ was pouring out into the laundry room (buanderie in French). Rather than clear up the mess, I tried a few more ‘tricks’ of the (plumbing) trade. I put a tube down the pipe and blew and blew until I was wheezing. Suddenly there was a gurgling sound and then a scream. J just happened to be in the boiler room which had exploded in a sea of ‘merde’. My blowing, and the build up of pressure had sought the weakest point and that was a valve in the small room which houses the boilers and a loo.

I was on the point of cutting my wrists, but never one to shirk a challenge I headed back into the DIY store for the second time that day and noticed that they had some caustic soda.

One litre poured down various points in the pipes and J and I called it a day. The soda could do its worst overnight.

Sunday morning arrived and I tentatively looked down a few holes which I had drilled. No sign of anything horrible. I switched on the kitchen water and waited for the inevitable…..but nothing! I headed for the septic tank to see if any water was coming out and there was – this could be it! I switched the water on full, started the dishwasher and nothing – it was clear at last!

I spent the rest of Sunday morning cleaning up, filling in the various holes I’d drilled (which will always be useful in future) and then started to relax.

I always think that out of adversity comes opportunity and so it proved. I now know the complete layout of the house’s waste pipes. I discovered that the waste water septic tank (as opposed to the other ‘nasty’ one) has a trap which needs emptying occasionally and the flood caused us to clear out the storage area and throw out a whole load of stuff which we didn’t need.

Finally, I’m pleased to say that the ‘merde’ wasn’t actually ‘merde’. It smelled like ‘merde’. It looked like ‘merde’ and even tasted like ‘merde’ but all it was, was rotten vegetable matter from the waste disposal mixed in a horrible cocktail with fat and gunge.

 

Etrangers & Nouveaux Arrivants

It means ‘Foreigners and New Arrivals’ and the local association in Tourrettes Sur Loup  held an evening soireé for them last week.

I have to admit to shunning most of these events in the past. The school ‘spectacle’ where the kids are somewhere on stage for a couple of hours, jostling with their chums to get to the front to see maman and papa, does my head in. The violet festival in the village where flowers are thrown about with wild abandon just makes me sneeze. I gave up the annual school fete after I won the first prize in the tombola two years in a row and started, unwillingly to become something of a local celebrity! The first year I was awarded a DVD player – with no instructions and no remote control! The second year I won a ham. Yup – a whole leg of pig which had been hanging somewhere for a couple of years, just curing. I took it home, but trying to cut wafer thin slices was impossible so I gave it to my French pal.

Fortunately now the kids are at secondary school (it's called college here) we don’t have to attend these 'events' anymore but there are always things happening in the village hall,  my last memory of which was the communal nosh-up following the village violet festival (which just happenes to be next week) when, because of the local French organisation, there was an interminable wait for rather average food, wine which I wouldn’t have washed my car with and an unseemly rush by the Frenchies for the few desserts on offer. After the last one of these I decided that I’d rather stay at home and stick red hot needles in my eyeballs!

But there’s no escaping Facebook. Register with an address of Tourrettes and you suddenly have millions of friends all inviting you to something or other. Normally, the delete button is quickly pressed (that’s a split infinitive !!) and I  move on, but the invite a couple of weeks ago caught my attention. Or rather the venue did.

It was being held in the Auberge (garden pictured), our favourite eating place, although after the bill last weekend, I was promising to give it a miss for a couple of months – I mean £130 for dinner for two in France with food which hardly covers a quarter of the plate and a half a bottle of wine between two, is just a bit much. And they don’t even have a Michelin star! But I have to admit, the Scotsman in me came to the fore. I worked it out. You pay €6 in the Auberge for a glass of wine so a ticket with unlimited buffet food and unlimited wine for €15 was the bargain of the century.

On the way there, J kept asking me why I wanted to go to this specific event and volunteered the information (she knows me) that the food would be very limited and we’d be lucky to get a couple of glasses of wine. Negative vibes or what?

When we arrived, the place was buzzing. About 40 people all milling about, generally not moving too far away from the tables with the wine. We were presented with a white sparkling wine with violet flowers in it upon arrival and then we started socialising. I met Danish, Italian, French, English, Scottish, American and Ukranian people. I met people who had lived in the village for 20 years and we’d never seen them before. I met a top-ten chick-lit writer, a guy who sold vineyards, an accountant to Holywood stars and a truck driver. I felt guilty being retired.

Then the food arrived. Plates of Alsatian Onion Tart and Foie Gras. Plates of cheeses, made just above us by a farmer who specialises in goat’s cheese, the star of which is suffused with herbs. Bowls of Olives and fresh French bread. This was followed by honeyed tart and small, strawberry flavoured cakes. And the wine was absolutely unlimited despite my permanent presence beside the table with the bottles of red!

It was a great night. We met quite a few new people and exchanged phone numbers with a couple of them. Not bad for €15! Well done to Jean-Pierre Augias and his team for organising it. 

 

Berlusconi – He Makes Gordon Brown Seem Positively Human

A tenuous connection with France this posting, but read on…….

Silvio Berlusconi is the Italian multi-billionaire who also happens to be Italy’s Prime Minister. Perma-tanned and usually dressed in white linen on summer weekends when the cameras have been tipped off, Berlusconi looks like a typical Italian crook.

He owns a third of the country’s TV channels, most of the big magazines as well as AC Milan, one of Italy’s most successful football clubs, which all contribute to making him Italy’s third richest person with wealth of some £7 billion.

He’s been in the news recently for ‘whispering’ in Nicolas Sarkozy’s ear at a function, "Moi, je t'ai donne la tua donna". Basically, ‘me – I gave you your wife’, a reference to the fact that Carla Bruni, France's First Lady was born in Italy and her family lived in Turin before moving to Paris in the 1970s.

Not too undiplomatic ? What about when Berlusconi embarrassed many Italians by twice referring to President-Elect Barack Obama as "sun-tanned".

The previous week he caused a diplomatic row with Argentina after making a joke about political prisoners who were drugged and thrown into the sea from planes during the country's military dictatorship. Berlusconi referred to "that Argentinian dictator who did away with his opponents by taking them up in an aeroplane with a football then opening the door and saying 'it's a nice day outside, go and play'.

Last month he again caused outrage when he said that although he was considering deploying a total of 30,000 troops to Italy's cities, there would never be enough soldiers to protect Italy's many "beautiful girls" from rape.

The guy is a complete dipstick. But of course, in Italy money speaks and he’s got plenty of it. Ask Tony Blair, who was always holidaying with the Mrs at Berlusconi’s various Tuscan retreats. Blair loved the rich and the famous. Indeed, he could have done without the famous. As long as they had oodles of money, he was there getting his freebie holidays and soaking up their lavish hospitality. Talk about prostituting yourself for a few euros.

But of all the odious things this little creep (Berlusconi that is) has done, surely none was worse than what he did when caught up in the David Mills affair. Mills is the lawyer husband (erstwhile that is) of Tessa Jowell, the British MP and member of the government. Mills represented Berlusconi in some dodgy deals and when Berlusconi was being prosecuted for one of them, Mills apparently had the ammunition to ‘send him down’ but gave ‘friendly evidence’ and the case collapsed. Mills was then prosecuted for accepting £400,000 from Berlusconi and was subsequently found guilty and sentenced to four and a half years in prison. And what did Berlusconi do? As Prime Minister he passed a law stating that Prime Ministers cannot be prosecuted! Some friend!  Some leader!