Gambetta - Where's Gambetta ?

It was sod’s law. We’d finished every night at 5pm, but on this particular day the client had wanted to finalise the latest draft of the contract and so we’d worked much later than I’d hoped we would. J and the kids would be at the Disneyland Paris hotel waiting for me. Will they have had dinner yet, I wondered. I was only an hour away.

The metro from Levallois wasn’t that busy despite it being a Friday night in one of the world’s most vibrant cities but as the train didn’t go anywhere remotely interesting it was probably normal. Line 3 obviously wasn’t a metro you took to one of Paris’s hotspots. Gambetta ? Where the hell was Gambetta? I needed to change at Villiers to get Line 2 which, in turn would allow me to get the RER to Disneyland. It was a bit of a treck but it would be worth it.

The station before Villiers, the train stopped at somewhere called Malesherbes and I noticed a black guy who got on because he kept looking at me. I’d also spotted two other black guys getting on at the other end of the carriage. They were obviously mates and yet they’d entered the train by two different doors. Something told me to place my foot on my PC bag. It was sitting on top of my holdall which held my clothes for the weekend and making sure it was secure with my foot on it wasn’t a comfortable way to sit but that PC held not only the result of 3 months work with the client but all my personal files – several years worth of data and pictures which were irreplaceable. Why hadn’t I bought that back-up drive last week?

Sure enough, within seconds of the train leaving the station, the black guy who was on his own started asking me a question about something on the metro map. I told him I didn’t speak French but he was insistent. He wanted me to stand up and look at the map and that would have meant taking my foot off of my PC bag. Something was going down here. I glanced in the glass partition which separated my seat from the door and saw one of the other black guys moving down the carriage. The guy at the metro map became more insistent. He was almost begging me to stand and converse with him. As I turned to talk to him, I put my right hand into my coat pocket and left it there. Another glance in the glass showed the second guy starting to lean over the adjoining seat as my attention moved to his pal. I took my foot off of my PC bag and sure enough within a nano-second the black hand had grasped the bag and was lifting it over the seats. As I turned, my right hand left my coat pocket and the razor sharp knife it was holding slashed at the guy’s hand.

Four fingers fell to the floor of the train. The fifth, hanging by a sinewy thread, let go of the PC case. It was just like slow motion. I looked at the bloody stumps on the wooden floor of the train and expected to see them wriggling just like a worm does when you cut it in half, but they were still. Then came the scream. A blood-curdling cry which caused all the other passengers to look round to see what had happened.

Just then the train pulled in to Villiers and I picked up my bags and got off. The guy who had tried to divert my attention with the metro map stood aside as I brushed past him. I continued my journey without incident.

Alas – that’s not the way it happened. I did stand up to talk to the guy at the metro map. I did lose my PC bag and I did spend the whole weekend in Disneyland Police Station making statements and cancelling bank and credit cards and organising new ones. And the client wasn’t very happy either! J and the kids, however, had a ball.

The Cyclists Are Back Again

J nudged me on Sunday morning and said, ‘I’m off to church’. ‘No you’re not – the road’s blocked for the annual cycle-fest’, I replied. And so it came to pass that we couldn’t move from our house on Sunday morning because the main road leading to and from the various villages on the D2210 (road) was being reserved exclusively for the lycra brigade.

It was some race or other allowing the French to indulge in their national passion (other than food) at the expense of all us ex-pats who actually pay for the roads in the first place.

Strangely enough my very first blog was about the race several years ago when I knew nothing about this obsession and managed to cause quite a bit of agro with the police who patrol the D2210 looking for ex-pats they can shoot with the flimsiest of reasons.

Read it at the link below.

http://tomsfrenchblog.blogspot.com/2008/06/another-fabulous-day-in-paradise.html

The Infiltrators

A couple of weekends ago we had lunch up in the mountains with my sons, my brother and some friends. It was there that we met the bikers, one of whom was our friend’s brother. He and his four mates all work for the Metropolitan Police and all of them have really interesting jobs, ranging from the drug squad, the ‘football hooligan’ squad and one guy was a deep undercover agent working for a very secretive group within the Met called SO10.

Unfortunately, I was at the other end of the table from the ‘bikers’ but one of them, Alan, kept nipping outside for a cigarette and my family, all fervent football fans, questioned him incessantly on his work and what it was like following football hooligans around the country, making sure they behaved themselves. His stories were both frightening and hilarious.

J, on the other hand, was seated next to the guy who used to work for SO10 and spent the whole lunch talking to him. At one stage she fired up her iPod Touch, which is always a bad sign cause it means she’s spending again and sure enough when we got home, she said the guy in question had co-written a book about his experiences as a copper inside SO10 and she’d actually ordered it whilst they were chatting – talk about being pretentious!

A week later the book arrived and given that I’m quite interested in that sort of thing (undercover ops) I started reading it immediately and couldn’t put it down. Phillip (his name in the book - not his real name) described how he joined the police and then became involved in SO10 – the deep undercover squad. He went on to relate some of the operations he’d been involved in and their outcomes.

The fascinating thing was that ‘deep undercover’ generally means infiltrating gangs and gaining their trust and this usually takes months to achieve. The book described the various ways and means he became involved with the gangs and the undercover lifestyle he had to adopt to fit in with his ‘targets’. The fancy, fast cars. The pockets full of cash. The days without sleep. The totally nasty characters he had to befriend in order to gain their trust.

The final operation in the book was a Midlands drugs bust which, and you could tell, was going to go horribly wrong, and it did.

If Phillip did not exaggerate in the book, then the Midlands crime squad to which he was seconded for this particular operation, were a bunch of bumbling amateurs, even to the extent that the money they provided him with in order to ‘buy’ the drugs on offer was unbelievably wrapped in plastic with the words, ‘Midland Police’ on it! You couldn’t make it up!

I won’t go into the details of how the operation went wrong just in case you buy the book but needless to say it did and big time. Phillip was shot twice in cold blood by one of the gangsters, but miraculously he survived (he must have, I had lunch with him) and of course, as the crooks were known, they were caught and tried. The problem is that as with all these ‘crimes against the person’, the crooks will be out of prison long before Phillip has fully recovered from his injuries. They’ll go back to making money from drugs and Phillip will have been pensioned off.

If you’re interested in undercover work then the book is a great read. THE INFILTRATORS can be found on Amazon and was available when I wrote this blog, postage free at the special price of £5.99.

Michael Jackson R.I.P.

I had another post all ready for today but I couldn’t let Jacko’s passing go ‘unblogged’. It seems every blogger has had their say about his demise but I’ll simply say that in my opinion, the guy was a genius, albeit a troubled genius, but nevertheless, probably the greatest entertainer ever (when he was in his prime about 10-15 years ago) and if you think I’m going over-the top a bit, think of his dancing (amazing), his singing (excellent), his songwriting (prodigious) and his acting. His acting?

On Friday and Saturday, MTV were playing Michael Jackson DVDs 24 hours a day as a tribute and I just set our recorder to ‘go’. I ended up with about 10 hours of Jackson videos, much of the material repeats, but in editing it down to a 2-hour compilation, I watched his acting in those videos and I was very, very impressed. Don’t listen to the music or the lyrics and try and get the amazing dance steps out of the way and just look at the guy acting. He was incredibly good.

Of course, like many geniuses, Jackson was a troubled person. The hangers on, the constant media pressure, it all conspired to make the guy a bit of a weirdo and of course his health suffered. I’m afraid as soon as I heard about the 50 concerts in London’s O2 arena, I said it would kill him and I don’t take any satisfaction from being proved right, as it would appear.

A couple of final things to say is that when my youngest son was staying with J and myself in London, J took Timmy to Wembley Stadium to see Jackson perform live. I just wish I’d gone with them - I now feel jealous as I missed the chance to see one of the world's greatest entertainers. Then he was in his prime - it must’ve been about 1990.

And a couple of weeks ago when we had a house full of kids, I went downstairs and there they all were – dancing to Michael Jackson. His music lives on even in today’s kids, whom we normally associate with Rap, House, Garage, Shed, Bungalow etc etc!

Anyway, I think M Jackson is probably in the best place for him now. There’ll be no hangers-on up there. Nobody pushing drugs down his throat. No accountants insisting he does 50 concerts to clear his debts. Just St Peter asking for his autograph.

What a Job

There are good Jobs and then are great jobs. Of course there are crap jobs as well but nobody thinks about those unless, unfortunately, you are locked into one and then you just think of the great jobs …… and dream.

The great jobs? A football writer or even better, a football commentator. A tourist guide in some exotic part of the world possibly, although you might just end up with some horrible tourists to try and keep happy, so maybe not.

I’m frequently reminded of one of the great jobs as I toodle around on my scooter down here on the Côte D’azur. What is it? A motoring correspondent.

As I was coming back from dropping Guy off at a birthday party the other day, I was held up at a particularly narrow part of the road passing through Tourrettes. Car after magnificent car passed me. Firstly, it was the colours. A wonderful metallic purple (yes I know but apparently I have a feminine side), then a gorgeous light silver metallic then a burgundy red metallic and then an orange, yup – metallic.

Then I looked at the car. As something of an anorak when it comes to fancy cars, particularly convertibles, it struck me that this one was new. I’d never seen it before. The marque on the front of the car was very distinctive – it was the ‘L’ for Lexus.

I’d love a Lexus. They’re apparently incredibly quiet and being a Toyota of sorts, they’re also totally reliable but they do cost a few bob. And this one looked stunning.

We often see new cars on the roads down here. The roads going up into the mountains are wonderfully scenic and any roads used for James Bond car race scenes (which they have been) are obviously the sort of roads which car manufacturers love to use to get the world’s motoring press down here to test their cars and then hopefully, write a positive article on their latest piece of work.

To be a motoring journalist and be told, say on the Monday, to get yourself down to Nice to test a brand new, and as yet, not publicly available, luxury car, is the stuff dreams are made of.

You fly down and book into a luxury hotel in one of the world’s most favourite places. All your foreign colleagues are there and you have a great dinner, looking forward to the following morning when you’re given the keys to a wonderful new car and a convertible one at that. On the day of the test you are given a route to follow and off you go. No ties, no strings – just bring the car back in one piece in the evening.

You drive off and head for the mountains. You’ve been down here many times before, testing Renault Clios, Ford Fiestas, Seat Leons but this is the one you’ve been particularly looking forward to, a brand new convertible Lexus IS250c .

You know a great restaurant up in the mountains and so do your colleagues so you all arrange to meet up, have a fantastic lunch and compare notes. What a day out. The only thing is – no booze of course. The 2000 ft sheer drop on the way back down to the airport is quite unforgiving if you stray too far to the side of the road.

The Lexus convertible is due on sale in the UK later this summer. The US, lucky devils, have it already.

Bloggers And Anonymity

If ever a blogger should remain anonymous and work under a pseudonym, it’s me. But I don’t and following some of my blogs where I have a go at the Frenchies, I wake the next day expecting the usual French custom of protest to take its normal form of a ton of rotting fish dumped in my drive (the cats would love it), burning lamb or beef cattle on my terraces (Shadow would love that) or a fisherman’s trawler blockade (pretty difficult that one!). Still – maybe I’ll get lucky and some stroppy French git who’s taken umbrage at something I’ve written will dump a couple of tons of dung, sorry, manure, on my property – it’ll be great for the plants.

But seriously, there’s been a bit of debate in the UK recently about the anonymity of bloggers. The main case was about a serving police officer who, under the pseudonym of ‘NightJack’, informed his readers of the sorts of things which happened in the murky world of the police and the courts.

The second case was about a lady, under the pseudonym of Abby Lee, who wrote a blog called, ‘Girl With a One Track Mind’ and who described in enormous detail, her sexual experiences, of which there were many!

Both blogs were widely read, indeed Abby Lee actually published a book which I believe was hugely successful and as Abby, she won many blogging awards.

However, the UK press, never one to leave any good thing alone, ‘outed’ both bloggers to their readers and their anonymity was finished.

Both authors worked under pseudonyms for different reasons. Abby just wanted anonymity due to the type of material she wrote and explained that she’d never be left alone, particularly by predatory men, if she blogged under her real name. Nightjack, spilt the beans on quite a few controversial cases, and although he changed the names of those involved and tried, as best he could, to make sure no real cases could be identified from his blogs, as a serving police officer, it was against his contract of employment to write about his work.

Abby (actually Zoe Margolis aged 37) was ‘outed’ three years ago and although she still rails against the junior journalist working for the Times newspaper who tracked her down and published her real name and other details of her upbringing and her life, she has benefited enormously from the publicity, now travelling the world and appearing on a variety of talk shows and sex advice panels.

Nightjack was also outed by the Times a few weeks ago but for Richard Horton, the policeman blogger, the result was rather different. His blog had to be shut down and he was given a written warning by his superiors.

Bloggers and blogging are now a significant area of interest to me and I can sympathise with both Abby and Richard in their quest to remain anonymous. It’s entirely their choice that they did not want their real names to be published for different reasons, whereas from my perspective, whilst I could have worked under a pseudonym, I chose not to.

One family who blog about ‘life in France’ and who live in the next village, remain stubbornly anonymous although they include family pictures and other details which would allow the Times to track them down in a nanosecond. Why do they blog anonymously? It’s not as if they publish really nasty stuff – the most controversial thing they’ve mentioned recently is their dislike of the music played in McDonalds and yet they blog anonymously. Why ? I suppose it’s their decision and I respect it but I’d just like to know why. I’ve even invited them, through a comment on their site, to a ‘bloggers evening’ at my house (how sad is that?) but I never even got a reply. Still – as I say –each to their own.

PS – I forgot that I’ve been blogging for one year now. 243 posts and going strong!

PPS – a showbiz blog has just been sold for $10 million – bet he or she wasn’t blogging anonymously.

Heart Attack Grill – Not In France I Fear

Looks like Hooters have a bit of competition.

Whenever I’m in the US I always try and find a Hooters, not because I’m a ‘dirty old man’ (although J might say otherwise) but because I like the food and the ambience (ha ha !!) but I came across an article on the ‘Heart Attack Grill’, another US burger chain, the other day.

With waitresses dressed as nurses and their range of burgers named after various heart related illnesses, the Heart Attack Grill (HAG) will certainly be getting a visit from me the next time I’m near one.

The home page for HAG is hilarious. It warns you that their waitresses are not real nurses and don’t have any medical training. It also says that people weighing over 350lbs can ‘eat free’. Anything which promotes an unhealthy lifestyle is here for all – even ‘no filter’ cigarettes. They probably even let you smoke inside the restaurant - whatever happened to being politically correct ?

Looking at the size of their burgers (see picture – it’s the quadruple bypass burger), I can’t ever see HAG opening a branch in France. Not that they’d ever get a chance to. For a start, the French don’t eat huge meals like this. All the women are size zero and want to stay that way, whilst the men prefer a leisurely two hour meal with uncooked meat and mouldy cheese. I’ve heard that Hooters enquired about opening a branch in France a couple of years ago and were told politely where to go and I suspect HAG would suffer the same fate.

Trying to get a decent burger down here is a nightmare. MacDonalds burgers are rubbish and taste like mouldy cardboard. Burger Grill burgers are too small and the French chains such as ‘Quick’ serve a poor imitation of the MacDonalds fare.

J once took me to a sort of ‘ladies lunch place’ telling me that they did a great burger and whilst I did not really believe her, I could not pass up the chance and sure enough Les Café Douceurs served a very large, proper, minced beef, burger. The fact that even I struggled to finish it was an indication of its size and so, every couple of months, we head down to Les Café Douceurs for their version of a ‘single bypass burger. It’s great comfort food.

See links for Hooters and Heart Attack Grill below.

http://www.hooters.com/home.aspx

http://www.heartattackgrill.com/

Watching Old Family Videos

Whenever I get the ‘old family videos’ out there are usually cries of derision but last week when my sons and brother were here there was general agreement that we should watch a couple of the holidays I shot, now on DVD, just to have a laugh at ourselves.

There was Timmy at aged 11 (he’s now 29) being a total pain in the ass, sticking his face in front of the camera at every turn. There was Stephen looking every inch the young Tom Cruise and his relatively new step sister embarrassing him by saying, ‘oooh Stephen – you were sooo handsome’. There was my brother Robert looking like Daniel Craig emerging from the water in the James Bond film only Robert was wearing the most ridiculous pair of Speedos you’ve ever seen. And there I was wandering around with a six pack, which now I can only dream of.

There was J looking stunningly gorgeous in every shot and my friends, Alan, and his wife Alison, whose efforts at getting on a lilo in the hotel swimming pool, had everyone in stitches.

There were the long evening meals in restaurants on the beach. The kids jumping from high rocks into the sea and the silly games we all played on the beach, including the ‘egg game’ which generally finished with everyone looking like part of an omelette.

All of this was before Guy and Kitty came along but they watched the DVDs with hilarity, mocking the haircuts of their stepbrothers and the clothes of their mother. The majority of the DVDs were shot in Agios Stefanos in Corfu (Greece) and that’s where we’re returning to in a few weeks but in the 16 years since I was last there, the resort has changed out of all recognition – I’m told they even have streets with lights now! It’ll be fascinating going back there after all this time (J and the kids went there two years ago) and shooting some new family videos which, we’ll undoubtedly show to our grandchildren in a few years time.

The picture is of Agios Stefanos, the north west resort in Corfu which we are heading off to soon. Will the restaurant owner who used to bring my brother back up the hill in a tractor because he couldn’t walk due to his inebriated state, remember me? We’ll see.

Japanese Suitcase ‘Worth’ More Than Singapore

So you’re a border guard working on the trains travelling across the Swiss frontiers and today it’s pretty busy. There are people scurrying everywhere and there’s chaos as the train stops at Geneva. People join and people leave – it’s a real hub on the rail network with thousands taking this particular train so as to be at their desks on time in the multitude of banks which dominate the city’s employment. As the joining commuters settle down into their seats, the train pulls out and you start your checks. Although Switzerland scrapped border controls in 2008, you still have to check for non-EEC citizens who have sneaked into the country and in particular, those carrying large amounts of currency which might indicate a money-laundering operation.

As you wander along the train looking for likely suspects you notice a couple of eastern-looking gentlemen shifting uncomfortably in their seats. You ask to check their passports and they just shrug. You ask them to open the suitcase they have with them and again they are reluctant so you call for a couple of your colleagues on your radio. Once you have the necessary manpower in place you take the suitcase and open it. There are no clothes in it. No shoes or toiletries. Nothing – except $134 billion of US Government bonds hidden in a secret compartment. Note – I said BILLION !

I’ve dressed up the story a bit but last week two Japanese guys were caught with $134 billion of US government bonds in their suitcase. Now $134 billion is more than the total financial output (GDP) of countries like New Zealand and Singapore (i.e. if you add up all the sales and output made in a year the that is GDP) so it was quite a sizeable sum – especially for two diminutive Japanese guys to be wandering about with, secreted in a suitcase.

The story will undoubtedly be hushed up but already there are claims and counterclaims.

The claim is that the Japanese wanted to flog some of their huge pile of American debt (a bond is just a Government issued IOU which pays interest and can be traded like any stock or share) but why they were sneaking into Switzerland to do it is anybody’s guess. I know that Swiss banks are notoriously secretive but an amount of that size would obviously come to the notice of the regulatory authorities pretty quickly.

The Americans have said the bonds were fakes but $134 billion? I could understand a couple of crooks maybe doing say $200million in counterfeit bonds but $134 billion – no way!

The problem behind all this is that America doesn’t like huge tranches of its debt being sold without being consulted. If $134b had hit the markets, the dollar would have plunged, banks would have panicked and then they would have sold their US Government debt and before you know it there’s a full blown financial crisis going on.

We’ll probably never hear the truth behind the story but it makes my brother’s efforts to carry £2000 over to France for me last weekend, pale into total insignificance!

Sarkozy - King of France ?

You all know that France is a republic, the last king being Louis-Philippe I, who reigned from 1830 through to 1848 before fleeing the country as the newest Republic was being formed. The previous monarch, Louis XVI, had been beheaded for having the misfortune to be the king when one of France's many revolutions were taking place, so Louis-Philippe decided hiding in the Alps was a better bet for a longer life and headed to Switzerland.

Since those days, there have been many claims by people to the (non-existant) throne of France. Indeed only a few months ago, several people put their claims forward on the basis that there is always talk of France returning to the situation where they have a figurehead monarch but a President who actually runs the country. The latest claimant is a 48 year old Indian lawyer – how he comes to be descended from Louis-Philippe is anyone’s guess?

So – is this a history lesson? Nope – the link is that whilst France’s old Kings ruled without recourse to anyone and did basically what they liked (which got most of them beheaded), good old Sarky is doing the same today.

I don’t know too much about French politics, but it would appear that what Sarko wants, Sarko gets, unlike the UK, or even the US, where there are elected representatives who can reign in (pun intended) any extreme measures trying to be pushed through by the President or the Prime Minister.

But none of that democracy stuff in France. Oh no - Sarkozy is currently running around like a power-crazed monarch. Last year he sacked a Police official in Corsica because he let demonstrators get too close to the villa of a pal of his. In February 2008, Sarky dismissed the head honcho in Normandy for letting striking school teachers get within earshot of the President and shouting things at him. Aaaaah – poor Sarky! And now – the latest sacking and what a stink it’s caused.

Carla Bruni’s mum and dad, Sarky’s parents-in-law, have a fancy villa down on the Côte D,Azur and are fed up with their septic tank system because occasionally it pongs. They approached the local officials to try and get a proper, mains drainage system installed and arranged a meeting with the other villa owners to discuss the plans which were going to cost quite a bit. The other owners started objecting, so Sarky instructed his lackeys to organize another meeting which he attended unannounced and declared that ‘the state would pay‘.

The poor local official, called the Prefecture, (basically a sort of Governor) who was also in attendance, had to agree as he assumed good old Sarky would come up with the cash but of course, several months down the line, he realizes he was ‘had’. Without the cash, the drains could not be installed and Sarky’s mother-in-law is giving her son-in-law quite a bit of grief.

So Sarky sacks his Prefecture in the Var (next department to Alpes Maritime) and sends him back into the deepest recesses of government where, no doubt, he’ll be form filling for the rest of his life. No industrial tribunals. No written warnings. No appeal system. If Sarky sacks you – you remain sacked. Maybe it’s just as well the guillotine has gone although if it was still around, there’s a chance it would be Sarky’s head on it, not some poor government official who has upset the ‘monarch’!

Bottle Bank Blues

I have tried to write this posting several times, featuring of course, the visit by my sons Timothy and Stephen, and my brother Robert but I’ve had to do so many trips to the ‘bottle bank’ (recycling) that I’ve had no time to really think about a suitable subject. Writing about what they did during their 6 days would involve the words – drink, smoke, eat, sleep and that’s not very exciting is it?

But here’s a brief list of the activities I remember during the last 6 days.

Friday – on only his second trip unaccompanied on his scooter, Guy decides that the main road needs to be cleaned of gravel by sweeping it with his bare arms and legs as he comes off on a bend not too far from the house. Unfortunately, as he successfully clears the road of gravel he leaves acres of human skin and quite a bit of blood in its place!

Saturday – Guy and J off to hospital while us boys get ready to drive up into the mountains for lunch. We’ve got 5 serious (motor) bikers with us and when we get there we find another group of Harley bikers entering the restaurant. Despite my best efforts at trying to start a bar-room-brawl between the two groups (and then stand well back and watch) they all get on rather well which was quite disappointing. The consolation was that the food, in particular, the roasted quail, was quite delicious. We gathered back at our place after lunch.

Sunday - after finding Timothy sleeping on the terrace thinking the door to his bedroom was locked (not true) we had a quiet start to the day after a late night and then we remember. J, after repeated goading on my part, decided she’d had enough and threw a glass of wine over me. Unfortunately, it went over the guest sitting next to me – I was completely unscathed – ha ha ! Robert then proceeded to show J how it was done by throwing a glass of iced water over me, I retaliated with Rosé wine and the sophisticated dinner we were having went rapidly downhill.

Monday – went into Nice to try and get parts for Guy’s scooter (unsuccessful) and then had a stroll round the Old Town. There were crowds of people wandering around in the 30 degree heat but we managed to get seats at an outdoor bar where we were completely aghast to pay £25 ($40) for four drinks including two Cokes. We were however delighted to find the Socca restaurant where the four of us had lunch for a total of £9 ($14). What a contrast eh? Monday evening was a catch up, watching old family videos and emptying my drinks cabinet. Beds were reached between the hours of 2am and 5am.

Tuesday – off to the village for lunch and then head for the airport. I wont see Timothy before he goes off to Qatar to help the Americans and Brits fight the Taliban. (Qatar is a staging point for aircraft going into Afghanistan) so we have a big hug and then they disappear into the terminal. Tuesday afternoon and evening are strangely quiet and smoke and alcohol free!

Family Out - No Blog

My eldest and youngest son and my brother descend on Nice tonight and we'll be having a good time over the next few days so I'm afraid there'll be no blog ....... unless something extraordinary happens which is always likely when this mob get together.

Have a good few days whilst I enjoy myself with my family.

A Testing Weekend

Last weekend started badly but I’m glad to say improved somewhat. It started on Friday when a rather large, no, a humungous, bill arrived from the UK tax authorities when I was confidently expecting a rebate. I just know that I’ll have hours of useless dialogue on the phone as I try to convince them that they should be paying me instead of the other way round. This will be a real test.

Then J started dropping hints that it was French Mother’s Day on Sunday. I mean we’ve just had UK Mother’s Day and now we’ve got another one – what a rip off! There’s only one Father’s Day. All these Fetes would test anyone’s patience

Saturday saw me taking Guy into to town for his scooter test. We went in early and I made him go through the busy Vence traffic just to get him used to French driving techniques which generally consist of nutters trying to touch your mudflaps and seeing how close they can get to your handlebars without actually knocking you off. After about an hour of absolute chaos we stopped for lunch and then Guy went off to his testing centre.

As he completed the formalities in the office, I had a look in the classroom where the ‘students’ get shown videos on road signs and driving tips and I couldn’t believe my eyes. Under the large video screen there was a painting about 4 feet long and 2 feet deep. It was a painting of a body but it was somewhat abstract. It didn’t have arms as such but fingerless limbs but that wasn’t the disturbing thing. There in the picture was a huge, well, willy! If my French had been better I’d have asked what was going on but as I left Guy with a ‘bon chance’, I thought that the boys sitting in that room probably all felt somewhat inadequate whilst the girls – well, I wouldn’t know what they would think – probably apprehension I guess.

Anyway, I’m pleased to say that the picture did not seem to affect Guy and he passed his scooter test. This will give him some semblance of independence as whenever he wants to see a pal, he’s reliant on either J or me driving him there. Now he can take his scooter.

Saturday evening saw the Scotland cricket team thrashed by South Africa – not an unexpected result but given that Scotland were doing unusually well with only 12 balls to go and then lost it big time, it was quite disappointing. Still, Tan, my neighbor, did his best to raise my spirits by repeatedly pouring glasses of wine for me when I went over to his place looking for some empathy.

All in all then, a varied and somewhat testing weekend.

Picture, is of course, a triumphant Guy on his scooter heading off to school for the first time on two wheels. The girls will be flocking round him!

A Womb With A View

Our neighbour Angie, is expecting her second child. Originally due in early July, the birth is now expected this Wednesday, the 10^th June. Ten days ago Angie started having contractions and headed for hospital where she is under the care of a Dr Michel Sussmann, who is a much sought after surgeon, following his delivery of Angelina Jolie’s twins last year.

Dr Sussmann is taking excellent care of his patient which is what you’d expect given the amount of money Tan is paying him and he even used his influence in the Fondation Lenval (the hospital) to get Angie one of the highly sought after ‘sea view’ rooms. We visited Angie on Sunday and I have to say I was very impressed.

Patients have a choice of rooms - sea view, street view and even a suite which we reckon was what Brad Pitt forked out for. There are several types of staff looking after expectant and new mums and the food looked delicious. When we were there on Sunday, Angie was presented with lunch which consisted of Grapefruit, Gnocchi with a meat casserole and vegetables, cheese and dessert.

Unlike when she had little Violet in the UK and she shared a ward with several other patients, Angie has her own room with a TV and space enough for Tan to stay if required. It’s all rather hotel-like but look at the picture – the view of the Boulevard des Anglais and Nice beach. There’s not many hotels in Nice right on the beach and with a view like that.

Here’s hoping everything goes well on Wednesday. Keep your fingers crossed.

A Tale Of Three Haircuts

It just happened that way – not planned, just a coincidence. Me, Guy and Shadow all had haircuts.

In the ten years I’ve been in France I’ve only had five haircuts, each one worse than the one before so I used to wait until I was in the UK and then go round to a place I’ve been going to for years. That wasn’t so difficult when I was travelling to London most weeks, but since I’ve retired it’s been a problem. Do I pluck up the courage and get my hair done by a French ‘hairdresser’ (quotes are deliberate) and look like I’ve fallen under a council grass cutting machine or wait until I look like an ageing hippy and get it done on my twice yearly visits to London?

As I wasn’t due to get to the UK until September, I plucked up courage a couple of months ago and went into a ‘men only’ place in the local town. I checked that he used electric clippers and waited for the worst but amazingly, I got a haircut which was as good as, if not better than I used to get in London.

Buoyed by this apparent success, I dragged Guy round there last week and both him and I got our holiday haircuts (we’re off to Corfu in a few weeks time). Guy refused to let me tell the hairdresser (no quotes and intended) what to do and ended up like he’d just had his hair washed – there was virtually no hair on the floor. When he’d finished with me, there was a mass of silvery grey hair all round the chair, just the way I like it. Nice and short and when I put my crash helmet on for the trip home, it was rattling around on my head!

Next it was Shadow who only gets his hair done once a year, just in time for the summer heat. A few weeks ago when I booked him in, with my poor French causing confusion with the ‘hairdresser ‘, I simply pointed to a poodle who had just been done and said, ‘la meme’ (the same). Poor Shadow. When I picked him up on Friday afternoon after his shampoo and cut, he looked like he’d been close shaved. The problem was that whilst the top and sides were short, he wouldn’t let her near his tummy or his bollocks. I had to hold him as she cut away and he tried to get loose and savage her.

Still, the benefits are there for all to see. He looks several years younger, several kilos lighter and there are no hairs all over the lounge.

The problem was his shampoo and set cost more than twice what I paid for Guy and myself combined. Working it out on an hourly basis, the lady in the poodle parlour is paid rougly the equivalent of a UK Member of Parliament but there’s no doubt she does a better job!

Shadow is pictured with his new hairstyle. He’s not as bad tempered as he looks – he hates having his picture taken.

We're Doomed. We're All Doomed

So, you’ve finally managed to make it to the top job you’ve been working so hard to make your own. It’s taken you a long time – 10 years no less – but you think the wait, although longer than you imagined, will have set you up perfectly as the new captain to ‘run the ship’.

You appoint all your trusted lieutenants and set course (continuing to use the maritime analogy) and for a while things look ship-shape and Bristol fashion.

Having waited so long to be the boss, you waste no time in implementing some of the ideas you’ve been cooking up on the sidelines as the number 2. You’ve no need to consult anyone now – you just do it and sod the flak you might get – you know it’s the right thing to do.

After a few more months of turbulent but manageable waters (more shippy stuff) you’re keeping your head above water – just. And then, there’s a crisis and you come into your own. This is what you’ve been waiting for, a chance to show the rest what you’re made of,  a chance to resurrect all those socialist ideologies which you’ve just been waiting for an opportunity to implement.  It’s a heaven sent opportunity which you are going to grasp with both hands.

So what’s this crisis then? Well, your cruise liner (the one you’ve become master of) is losing all of its on-board boutiques. One by one they are going bust and the passengers are complaining. I mean, there’s only so many meals one can have each day – one just has to shop as well otherwise what’s the point?

So you start to bail the boutiques out, handing over lavish amounts of cash to keep them afloat, in more ways than one! You can’t really afford all this cash but your view, taken in splendid isolation, is that you can’t do without them. The fare-paying passengers need some R&R and everybody knows that shopping is just the best R&R about.

Your purser tries to tell you that you’re spending too much. Indeed, all the financially savvy ship’s passengers tell you also – it’s just not sustainable. Eventually, there'll be no money left to run the ship. Keep this up and the whole thing will go down, not just the boutiques.  But you’ve no long-term strategy to solve the underlying problem other than your socialist belief that if you throw money at a problem, the problem will be solved. Your crew and the passengers are increasingly questioning your direction. But you pay them no heed. You're doing the right thing.

The frequent polls done amongst the passengers tell their own story. You’re not a very popular captain and people don’t like the direction you’re taking. But you don’t listen – 40 knots, straight ahead please! You've waited 10 years to get this job, you're not going to give it up now.

More polls and more dissenting voices. Then one of your crew does an interview for the on-board magazine which is not terribly complimentary and then another appears on the on-board TV programme. Again, the underlying message is that the Captain is steering in the wrong direction.  The body of negative opinion is growing but none of the crew will stand up to the Captain – that would be the start of a mutiny.

Eventually things get so bad that one of the engineers jumps ship at the next port. No problem, we’ll just promote one of the Fillipino waiters. He’s no idea about engines but he’ll learn. Then one of the passenger liaison officers goes – no warning – she’s off. Again, no problem. There’s a cleaner down on deck -15 who could do that job.

The senior members of the crew start to get twitchy. The passengers are starting to revolt – the tips are getting few and far between. At the next port, the navigator does a runner. Then the chief engineer, then the purser. And all the while, the passenger polls, which the ship does on a weekly basis, tell him that he’s the most unpopular captain ever to sail the seven seas. It’s just a blip, he thinks. We’ll sail through these stormy waters – no problem.

Then one morning your coffee doesn’t arrive in your cabin. You look outside – nobody around. You go up to the bridge and the auto-pilot is on – there’s not a person in sight. No passengers, no crew, no cleaners, no chefs  – nothing!

Then you see that the ship is heading for a notorious reef but there’s nothing you can do. It’s too close. You’ll never stop in time. You should have listened to your crew, some of whom were friends. It’s too late now – we’re doomed, we’re all doomed!  

Things I’ll Never Hear Said To Me

There are things which are said and then there are things which remain unsaid. The following are things which I’ll never hear being said to me:

1.       Guy – will you help me with my PC (he’s a gooooroooo)

2.       Kitty – I’ve cleaned and tidied my bedroom

3.       Julie – let’s roll about on the floor in front of the fire

4.       Julie – what would you like to watch on TV?

5.       Waiters – would you like a drink before you order sir?

6.       French Drivers – after you, please you go first

7.       Neighbour Tan – you don’t want another drink, do you?

8.       Shadow – woof, woof, woof, woof (he only ever barks 3 times)

9.       Kitty – I only need 4 euros for lunch today (usually it’s between 8 and 10)

10.   Julie – you sunbathe today and I’ll do the weeding in the garden

11.   Julie – I just can’t stand going to the shops today

12.   Julie – let me pay for lunch this time darling

13.   French Shopkeeper – of course I’ll change it sir or would you like a refund?

14.   France Telecom – can I help you?

15.   French neighbor – bonjour

16.   Julie – would you like me to help you wash the car?

17.   Lottery Organisation – you’ve won!

18.   French Bank Manager – we’re going to refund all those charges we’ve made on your account

19.   Local Wine Merchant – you buy so much we’re going to give you a discount

20.   UK Inland Revenue – we’re paying back all the extra tax you’ve paid

21.   French woman in car park who bashes your car as she opens her door – oops sorry – let me pay for the damage

22.   Mayor’s Office – Mr Cupples you’ve got such a big garden we’re going to do it for you

23.   Guy – Thomas I’ve written to the TV channel and you have dinner dates with Suzi Perry, Vicky Butler-Henderson and Britney Spears

24.   Google Blog Organiser – you’re blog is sooooo good we’re going to publish it.   

 

They’ll Find You …. Even In The Jungle

Well I’m pleased to say that the jungle is being cleared, slowly but surely and my goal of getting to my neighbour’s lane before the end of June might be achievable. I have a few friends and some family members visiting in June so there’ll be quite a few days when nothing will be done.

Over the last few weeks I’ve actually looked forward to getting down there in the mornings and immersing myself in undergrowth so thick that I am almost invisible. But not so invisible that some passing neighbours don’t shout the occasional ‘bonjour Thomas’.

There’s Daniel, a retired IBM’r who walks his dog every morning and stops to have a chat. He knows that I’m also an ex-IBM’r but our chats normally revolve around my progress that morning, the state of my fire (for burning the rubbish) and motor racing – Daniel is a keen Formula 1 supporter.

Being an ex-IBM’r in an international lab (La Guade), Daniel had to learn English, so each morning the language of our discussion changes between English, French and Franglais. I don’t suppose he gets much chance to use his English a lot these days so sometimes we find that he talks in English and I respond in a mixture of French and Franglais.

After our normal 20 minutes, a break which comes at just the right time for me, he continues on his walk with his dog and I get back to the jungle, trying to find my tools which I’ve laid down somewhere!

Next it’s Patrick or his wife, Anise who pass in their car and shout a greeting. They don’t stop as they’re usually on their way to work (the French seem to start work quite late !) but a cheery wave from me in return and they carry on.

Occasionally Gunter, a German who lives in our lane but further up the mountain, stops and we have a chat. Gunter actually climbs into the cleared bit of the jungle and congratulates me on my progress.  It’s like a ritual. This morning was something of a bonus however, as Gunter noticed that I was cutting and storing wood as I hacked into the jungle and he suggested that I go up to his place as he had loads of mature, already cut, wood for me. 

It’s just about this time of year (i.e. a couple of months after our last fire in the lounge) when I start to have to plan next year’s wood stock but having cut down a couple of trees in the jungle, I should be ok for next year’s fires. But, never one to say no to a freebie, I’ll be up at Gunters asap to load my trailer.

And so yesterday morning, after a longer than usual set of little chats, I was bemoaning my lack of progress and was slashing and burning with gusto when about 5 minutes later a stranger stopped to say ‘bonjour’. This guy was smartly dressed and carried an official looking black leather folder and started talking animatedly in French. I stopped him to say that I spoke only a little French but he carried on as before. I did get something about my fire and the direction of the smoke (I do try to light it when the wind direction is away from the other houses but the wind changes frequently) and I immediately came to the conclusion that he was from the council and was reprimanding me on having a fire during the prohibited period.

I am unsure as to when the ‘prohibited period’ starts but as it rained heavily on Monday I thought I’d be ok but he carried on lecturing me, waving his free arm about. Just occasionally I managed to understand a word or two he was uttering but it all pointed to me receiving an official reprimand. He then started to open his black folder and pulled out a sheaf of papers. This is it I thought. After leaving the jungle to flourish for ten years against local regulations, I start clearing it and then I get into trouble with the council. Bugger !

He handed me the paper and along the top, in bold blue lettering it said, ‘Jehovah Witnesses’.  I nearly fell over. They can get to you – even in the jungle!

PS – the picture might give you a view of my progress. Just in case you haven’t spotted it – the cleared bit is in the foreground.

I’d Swear It Was Tourettes

Now before we/you ‘re go any further, I have to warn you that this posting has lots of references to sweary words in it so if you’re in any way sensitive or you’re below the age of say, 14, please stop reading. I’d also like to say that the sufferers in the programme I discuss are well aware that their affliction usually causes a certain degree of mirth……. so here we go.

Now where was I? Ah yes, Tourettes Syndrome which has absolutely no link whatsoever with where I live.

When I moved over here I’d never heard of Tourettes Syndrome (note the single ‘R’). I’d go back to London and they’d say, ‘So where is it you live?’  And I’d reply, ‘Tourrettes ….’, and before I could get the, ‘Sur Loup’ bit out, they’d say, ‘F*** off. No f***ing way’. Then they’d collapse into fits of laughter and think it was hilarious.

So it was with a degree of curiosity that I watched a programme on Tourettes Syndrome the other night. The show followed a group of people who were diagnosed with the ailment in 1988 (when Tourettes was virtually unknown and frequently misdiagnosed) and it re-visited them. The unfortunate problem with Tourettes, is that Tourettes does not go away – there’s no known cure.

The primary vehicle for this documentary was Jack, who was first diagnosed at 14 years of age. He lived in a small Scottish Borders town and thankfully people there grew to know his problems and accept them. Jack has a serious case of the syndrome. He has multiple ‘ticks’. A tick being either an involuntary and severe movement  of the hands, arms or head, or an outburst of swearing.

The programme flashed back to 1988, when Jack as a teenager would wander through Galashiels swearing at everyone and everything. Today, I’m afraid he’s no better. Although he has a job (youth centre worker), has his own house and a faithful dog (who doesn’t seem to mind being sworn at every 5 minutes), and his family have virtually deserted him, he’s been ‘adopted’ by a rather more understanding household who don’t seem to mind him smacking them in the face at regular intervals or spitting his food out all over the house.

The programme also showed Jack hosting his annual Tourettes get together where similar sufferers got together to discuss their affliction. The outside leader of the group, who doesn’t suffer from Tourettes, stated that grouping these people together in one room is problematic, as once someone starts a tick, it causes the others to respond (involuntary) with their tick.

So we had the rather proper lady from some society or other talking about symptoms and how to reduce them when Jack said, ‘F*** off you pratt’. This immediately started ‘Chopper’ from Newcastle who replied with a ‘No – you f*** off’. Then the others joined in and within about a minute they were all telling each other to ‘f*** off’. It was both sad and hilarious.

Then it showed Jack fly fishing in a gorgeous borders salmon river. In the most glorious setting, he was serenely casting his fly up river, with all the skill that that art requires. The problem was, that each time he cast his fly, he shouted, ‘f*** off’, at the top of his voice. Now trout and salmon are particularly sensitive to noise, and water just magnifies any disturbance and therefore it came as no surprise that Jack hadn’t caught anything – ever!

My own little story,  and I’m quite ashamed of myself (really I am) was when BT was in the final stages of a huge deal. All the execs had gathered in Milan and we had a big, fancy dinner on the last night. I had been warned that I should pick up the bill but worked out that it was going to be humongous and that I might get some brownie points if I managed to get the client to pay.

As the dinner ended and the bill landed at my place, I sneaked a look. Three thousand euros plus! Directly opposite me I had a senior client (let’s call him Jerome), a really nice, but rather quiet Dutch guy. He looked at me as I picked up the bill, probably thanking his lucky stars that BT was paying,  and I said, ‘It’s ok, I’ll pay the f***ing bill’. ‘What was that’, he said. ‘I’ll pay the f***ing bill’, I replied. He was utterly shocked.

My colleague Steve, tapped him on the shoulder, apologised and said that I suffered from Tourettes Syndrome. He was so taken aback he said, ‘Oh let me (pay the bill)’. ‘Is that right ? Are you going to pay the f***ing bill’, I said. With that he got up and went off to pay the bill.

The next morning as we all left to fly back to our respective homes, we bumped into each other in the airport. You’ve never seen anybody do such a quick about turn and disappear!   

The Difference Between Men and Women

So there I was. I’d been down in the jungle, slashing and burning since about 9.30am. The fire was about 6 feet tall and just added to the ambient temperature which was about 28 degrees. I was covered in scratches, my boots were full of wood chippings from the tree cutting and my face was dripping with sweat. Indeed my polo shirt was soaked through with sweat and my hair was matted with a combination of even more sweat and wood shavings (I was cutting branches above my head). I reeked of a weird combination of smoke, petrol (from the chainsaw), exhaust fumes (also from the chainsaw) and that unmistakably French odour – sweat!

I was so knackered when I got back to the house I could barely take my boots off but I persevered and wandered through to the terrace where I usually disrobed and jumped into the pool to achieve both an instant bath and blessed cooling relief. And there, lying on a sun-lounger, half-naked was my missus.

She was reclining back in the full sun with her Gucci sunglasses protecting her eyes,  a wide-brimmed straw hat perched on her perfectly coiffured blonde hair and no bikini top (aaagh!).   Her latest romantic novel was lying on its side and her perfectly pedicured feet, with  the latest shade of nail varnish were placed in that sort of model pose where they fit perfectly together.

And so I said …… ‘Darling, I’ve worked so, so hard this morning. Look at me – I’m soaked in sweat and smell like a council incinerator. I’m scratched all over and I’m itching like mad. I’m just going to strip off here and jump in the pool’.

‘Oh poor darling’, she said without even looking at me. ‘Before you do, could you just get me another glass of Chardonnay’.

I will refrain from telling you my response.

The photo is one of J I took when she was reclining with her clothes on!