Url's Wurld is on the move

As of May 1, 2009 all the pieces I write about slices of life here in France, reviews of performances I've seen, trips I've made and all the nonsense "Other Stuff" which I've found hard to catgorise can be found over on my other blog France Today.




That's mainly devoted to news stories here in France, but - should my technophobic skills be up to it - I'll also be including a section entitled Url's Wurld (what else) in which all the pieces I would otherwise have posted here will appear.

So thanks for logging on here, and if you've enjoyed reading what I've written, try scooting over to France Today where you'll find more of the same....and then some.

Johnny

The future still isn't Orange - but here's hoping

In August last year I went through the rigmarole of trying to replace a defunct mobile telephone, after just six months of use.

And what do you know, I've just been through the same experience all over again, and the customer service offered to me by my provider Orange, served as a reminder that the company might be trying but they still haven't managed to live up to the advertising that the future is....Orange.

Let me take you back to Summer 2008 for a moment.

Back then I spent a holiday away from the beck and call of my mobile because it gave up the ghost.

It was bliss - only temporary mind you - but it reminded me of those halcyon days when I had a valid excuse for not being obtainable.

I couldn't make or receive calls or messages, which I'll freely admit a real pleasure.

But all good things must come to an end, and I knew I wouldn't be able to remain happily "out of touch" for too much longer. So I resorted to the good old-fashioned landline to put in that call to "get it sorted."

Here in France there are basically three main mobile operators, SFR, Bouygues and the biggest of the lot Orange - the all-powerful, customer-loving arm of the former state-owned but now private telecommunications company France Telecom.

I, along with millions of others, have the "pleasure" of being a subscriber to the last one.

In Ye Olden Days, the chances were that you when you wanted to get something done (about a 'phone) you would hang on the end of someone else's line for hours on end, waiting to talk to someone, and the company might or might not send a man round to "fix it".

At the very least there was a fair chance of talking to a real live human being (eventually) and even perhaps being able to put a face to the company.

Nowadays of course there's the multi-buttoned digital 'phone hotline which initially offers you tinny muzak followed by that belovéd computerised voice telling you to do something resembling the following:

"Press one for customer services, two for technical issues, three for billing, four for queries regarding the internet, five for mobile 'phones and six for other inquiries.

"If you would like to speak to one of our agents, please press nine."

Whatever happened to seven and eight you might well ask. Presumably they're still in the planning phase.

I put in that call to Orange customer services, listened to the lovely muzak, pressed what I thought were all the right buttons and eventually got through to a human voice to explain my predicament.

After asking me innumerable questions and checking through my records, I was informed that in fact my problem (or that of the 'phone) was a technical one and I would have to talk to someone from that department.

"Please hold the line and I'll transfer you," followed by some more muzak.

Moments later up popped another person, to whom I related my story, same questions but different record. Apparently they had no trace of my having changed my 'phone the previous year and as far as they were concerned I still had my old Motorola.

Before proceeding with my problem I would "have to contact customer services for them to update my details."

Ah yes privatisation and modern technology had certainly been compounded by French bureaucracy and simple human error - a lethal cocktail at the best of times.

So another call, more number pressing and of course a different person back at customer services to whom I could tell my story for the third time.

There then followed an interlude - no muzak this time around, just that eery silence that was the prelude to the creeping realisation that even in this modern era it was still possible to be "cut off" in one's prime.

The fourth attempt to an inevitably new voice actually yielded some results. Yes their records said I currently had a Nokia and they would ensure that the technical department was informed. Moreover if I had a problem with the 'phone they (customer services) could send me a replacement and would I like them to do that?

Well yes, that might be the solution I thought, and hastily agreed.

"But in the meantime you might want to check your SIM card in another 'phone (as if I had access to multiple mobiles) just to test whether that's where the problem lies. In which case you would need to contact the technical services to have them issue another one - SIM card that is."

Ah that little devil, the delightfully tripping-off-the-tongue named Subscriber Identity Module aka SIM card was perhaps at the root of my problems.

I thanked voice #4 for her assistance, hung up and called on the generosity of a friend to allow me to try my SIM card in his 'phone. It didn't work, which meant that the problem lay not with my soon-to-be-replaced, in-perfect-working-order 'phone but with my SIM card.

Call number five, a by now automatic explanation which I pretty much had off pat and within minutes a new SIM card ordered which "Would be with me by the end of the week sir."

"So as I don't need the new 'phone, how can I cancel its delivery?" I asked.

"That's no problem sir, we'll do it for you," was the cheerful and helpful response.

Perhaps I should have known better, as this was after all from the same department that had absolutely no record of my having changed my 'phone in the first place.

But still having faith in the spoken word leading to the deed, and that everything would be resolved by others, I waited for my new SIM card.

Next day "You have a new message" pops up on my computer and there's an email telling me that my new 'phone and SIM card are ready for collection at the nearest tobacconist (don't ask) on presentation of proof of identity and in exchange for my old 'phone.

Well that was then, and this is now. Roll the clock forward six months to April 2009, and I'm on a business-pleasure trip for a longish weekend across the Pond when what do you know?

My phone's screen flickers its last breath and disappears entirely.

I could still make calls if I knew the numbers (which because I have that sort of memory I do) but I couldn't access my address book, incoming calls were just not to be recognised (I always have the phone on vibrate and silent, so that wasn't working either) and messages - forget 'em.

Déjà vu in capital letters.

Arriving back in France I hotfooted it down to the nearest Orange shop - once bitten twice shy in terms of using the helpline.

I explained and demonstrated my problem - although how exactly you can show that something isn't there still perplexes me - and guess what!

They told me to ring the customer helpline (free from the shop) and describe what was wrong.

Now that's service for you!

Anyway, that's of course exactly what I did, managing to change my subscription and order a new 'phone, which arrived at that very same tobacconist a few days later, and I'm now the proud owner of an Apple iphone.

Even though I don't really have much of a clue as to how it works or how all the special bells and whistles it seems to have function, all I'm hoping is that it'll last longer than six months.

And should that turn out not to be the case for whatever reason, I'm keeping my fingers crossed that my next encounter with my provider will prove that the future is just a little more Orange than it currently appears to be.

Excuse me one moment, I have a "call waiting".

The Martha Graham Dance Company in Paris

In fact it has been a decade since, what is the oldest and probably without doubt most significant American contemporary dance company has appeared in Paris.

A regular visitor to these shores in the 1980s and 90s, the company was back last week for a special five-day programme at the Théâtre du Châtelet, featuring a selection of works from a choreographer whose impact upon the world of dance was arguably incomparable.

Indeed in the introduction to each performance, the current director of the company, Janet Eilber, herself a former dancer for the company, explained how Graham ranks alongside some of the last century's greatest innovators in terms of the influence she had in her particular field - that of modern dance.

The visit here - all too brief - received rave reviews throughout the national press and anyone lucky enough to have caught any of the performances was treated to just a taste of some of the highlights from a woman whose career - as a dancer and choreographer - spanned most of the last century.

Saturday's matinée selection was performed to a full house and offered up five different movements created from various periods of Graham's life.

That introduction from Eilber before the dancers took to the stage, was more than enlightening in terms of putting what was to follow into perspective.

The performance began with Errand into the Maze, taking as its inspiration the myth of Ariadne and the Minotaur and which was first performed back in 1947 in New York.

Dancers Elizabeth Auclair (Ariadne) and David Martinez (the Minotaur) were both powerful and moving: Auclair as mesmerising in the role as she has been in New York and Martinez (as required) made to dance most of the time with a rod all but immobilising his arms.

Diversion of Angels (from 1948) was altogether much lighter and more flowing "the feeling of dancing without gravity," is how Eilber put it beforehand and indeed it was much more balletic and in a sense more poetic.

Most of the company takes part in a piece which represents three women at different stages of their lives. Or is that one woman at three different stages of her life? Graham always left it to the audience to interpret as they wished.

Lamentation Variations was based on Graham's 1930 Lamentation, only reinterpreted by three other choreographers in 2007 in memory of the September 11 attack.

The opening video sequence (a trend in much modern dance nowadays) was more than a little perplexing as there was no music and the only sound that could be heard was the round of accompanying coughing from the audience.

But the second variation, featuring Katherine Crockett showed just how much strength and power is required in appearing to move very little and remaining virtually still for periods.

The third and final variation featuring the whole company was powerful in a different sense with the haunting music accompanied by dancing that evoked the fear, incomprehension and panic that must have been present on the day in question., and which most of us have only seen in television news broadcasts.

After the break it was back to more Greek tragedy this time in the shape of Cave of the Heart - essentially a woman (Medea) spurned by the man she loves (Jason) for a younger woman (the princess) with the inevitable "Greek tragedy" outcome.

Most remarkable in this performance perhaps was that of Tadej Brdnik, as Jason, who proverbially has muscles in places where most men probably don't have "places" and could possibly have put Arnold Schwarzenegger to shame in his heyday. Except of course Schwarzenegger didn't dance.

Finally to round things off and leave the audience humming a happier tune, there was Maple Leaf Rag - set to the music of Scott Joplin of course.

Some of the moves were breath-taking. You could hear it from the gasps in the audience. And it was performed at times at a fast and furious pace.

Apparently Graham used to ask her musical director, Louis Horst, to play the Maple Leaf Rag to "cheer her up" - and that's exactly the effect that came across to those in the audience.

And then the two hours were up.

The curtain calls were met with the inevitable rapturous applause before the dancers left (to prepare for their final performance in Paris in the evening) and the buzzing auditorium emptied.

There are no more European dates for the Martha Graham dance company scheduled at the moment

So those of you here who want to catch them performing will have to hotfoot it across the Atlantic to New York.

One plea from a confirmed fan though, would be please don't leave it another 10 years before you pop over the Pond.

Next up in July though - the Alvin Ailey dance company.

Ailey just happened to be a former pupil of Graham's.

Now that too promises to be something of a treat.

Any idea as to when England's St George's day falls?

The answer is April 23 - in other words this coming Thursday.

That's the day set aside for the patron saint of England (among other countries around the world), but I won't expect too many people "back home" to be celebrating.

You see it's not a national holiday and barely gets a mention, but even though I'm not especially patriotic and certainly not an English nationalist (heaven forbid) I thought I would bring it up all the same as it rather highlights how nonchalant the English are about the whole thing.

Land of Hope and Glory ?

I don't just own dogs, I'm also a bit of a mutt myself - a British one I mean.

My mother was Irish, my father Welsh and I was born and brought up in London, which of course makes me English as well as British.

As yet I've not managed to trace any Scottish ancestry, although family legend has it that when my grandparents on my mother's side took the boat from Eastern Europe bound for the United States, they were quite literally "sold up the river" and landed in Dundee.

Anyway that's all rather beside the point, except maybe that it means when following rugby and football internationals I can switch allegiances depending on who's winning.

There are of course patron saints for each of the countries making up the UK.

For obvious reasons I have to give Scotland's St Andrew's day a miss (November 30), which I believe is a national holiday there.

But I do remember St David's day for Wales (March 1) although I rather baulk at the idea of wearing a leek, and I could never forget St Patrick's day (do I really need to give the date?) - and yes I realise that Ireland (Eire) isn't part of the UK, but Northern Ireland is, and he's the patron saint of all the Irish.

Like many fellow Englishmen and women however, I invariably forget St George's day.

In fact I would even go as far as to say that I actually had to check before writing this piece as to which day it falls on.

Just for the sake of reminding myself, it's April 23.

All right so I won't be flying the flag of St George (a red cross on a white background) outside my house as a) I live in France and b) I'm not really given to displays of fervent nationalism.

Mind you I doubt whether there'll be many to be seen across the channel either as it's not really the sort of thing the English "do" - well apart perhaps from during international sporting events.

In recent years there have been moves from organisations such as English Heritage and the Royal Society of Saint George to encourage the English to don their glad rags and celebrate, but as always mostly the calls have fallen on deaf ears.

It seems that as a whole the English are predisposed to almost complete indifference about the day and perhaps on reflection that's not too bad a thing.

Isn't their just something a little over the top about all that flag-waving and "pride" in one's nation?

After all do the English need to define themselves by having a national day to remember who they are? And anyway what does being English actually mean especially in what is supposed to be a multi-cultural society?

Cricket, warm beer, roast beef, yorkshire pudding, bangers and mash, fish and chips, scones and tea with a "nuage du lait" (not all at the same time of course)?

Besides didn't I read somewhere recently that the most popular dish in England now is chicken Tika Masala?

And what does it actually say on my passport? English?

No.

I'm British and therefore a citizen of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland.

When all is said and done though, maybe I'll try to find a red rose to stick in my lapel or if I'm not wearing a jacket somewhere equally appropriate.

Just try to annoy my French friends who haven't a clue what I'm on about and anyway think that Britain is England and vice-versa.

Oh yes and maybe I'll break into a rousing rendition of Elgar's "Land of Hope and Glory" or better still Blake's/Parry's "Jerusalem", just to confuse them even further.

"And did those feet in ancient time
Walk upon England's mountains green?
And was the holy Lamb of God
On England's pleasant pastures seen?"

Or maybe I'll simply forget.

Or Jerusalem?

Well at least the Mayor of London was celebrating

Hallelujah für die Fernbedienung...Zap

All right already. The headline's in German.

But if you're at all interested in what that country's telly has to offer on one particular evening - read on.

If not - do as I do and. Zap...

Yep it's part three in this rather off-the-wall look at the silver screen in different countries.

I've already "done" the US and France, now it's time for Germany - because I was all cultured-out after having dragged my 13-year-old Godson around the fabulous chateau de Fontainebleau for the afternoon and because satellite is a wonderful thing.

Actually I was supposed to be "researching" for this Autumn's general election when Germany's chancellor, Angela Merkel, is hoping for an outright win and to wave "bye bye" to the Grand Coalition.

But that's for a future date.

For now, join me while I grab what really is Man's Best Friend (forget all that nonsense about dogs) settle back on the sofa and happily zap my way through an evening's viewing - German style.

Ah satellite TV.

Here in France, I have access to all the national German channels, although for some reason there's no sound on either of the public broadcasters, ARD and ZDF.

Still to make up for that there's a slew of commercial stations offering more-or-less the same sort of thing, RTL, VOX, Sat1, Prosieben and so on and so forth.

Plus there's the all-news N-TV - a sort of German CNN and a dozen or so regional variations of public telly.

First up was Vox's Das Perfekte Dinner, based on the British programme Come Dine With Me.

Each week five "hobby cooks" compete by playing host to one another and serving up their version of what makes the ideal meal.

They don't know each other at the start of the week, but by Friday they've sampled the cooking skills and hospitality of one another and awarded points - in secret of course.

I'm addicted and always try to catch it if I'm home in time, following with almost slavish devotion in the hope that I'll learn something.

This week's "motley crew" are from the northern German city of Bremen and there are only four of them because Friday is of course Karfreitag (Good Friday) and there'll be special holiday programming.

It's not a very inspiring bunch and there seems to be more alcohol flowing than food on the table so. And besides there's about to be a break for commercials, so. Zap...

Over to RTL and the long-running soap Gute Zeiten, Schlechte Zeiten, GZSZ (Good Times, Bad Times).

It's wooden-top acting par excellence blended of course with the most improbable of plots.

It doesn't really matter if you've missed it for a couple of months and don't know who two-thirds of the cast are.

The stalwarts seem to stick around forever even if there's also a huge turnover of characters who have been "killed off" "moved" or disappeared".

Do soap operas have an unusually high mortality rate in comparison with real life? I'm sure someone, somewhere is busy compiling the statistics. Perhaps as part of a University degree course. Zap....

Back to Vox and more cooking this time in the form of Unter Volldampf.

Past winners of Das Perfekte Dinner pit their culinary skills against each other in a professional restaurant environment over the course of the week.

The "guinea pigs" are the clientele, who mark each of the five courses. There's a bottle of bubbly for the winner each day and €3,000 for the overall victor at the end of the week.

Is there no end to cooking on German telly? Zap...

News - well it had to make its appearance in the evening schedule somewhere didn't it?

This time it's on N-TV - a sort of German version of CNN except that the presenters are somewhat "stiffer" and there's little of that fast-paced delivery that characterises US broadcasts.

The big international story of course is still Italy - and the earthquake and the after-tremors.

The number of dead has risen, there's a preview of the state funeral being organised for Friday, and I'm transfixed and wondering what it must be like to lose everything in such as short space of time as I watch the the report of rescue workers still picking through the debris.

It's really where television news and in particular the pictures it can relay come into their own. But sometimes, I have to admit, it just seems a little too voyeuristic.

After 10 minutes I feel in need of the inevitable. Zap...

Over to Sat 1. There should be one of those US imports on. I never really understand them as I don't tune in often enough to keep up with the characters.

Instead it's football and the Uefa Cup quarterfinal first leg between Hamburg and Manchester City.

Oh dear - 90 minutes of teams that aren't quite good enough to make the Champions League. No thank you. Zap...

Now this is more like it. Prosieben. - another commercial station and hey it's Germany's version of America's Next Top Model - only of course it's not called that.

No Tyra Banks though as Germany has its very own supermodel in the shape of Heidi Klum and two rather camp guys who coach the girls how to walk the walk and talk the talk.

There are still 10 girls left in the competition (one will be kicked out tonight) so it looks set to drag on for a while yet, and of course the talons are out and there's the one "everyone loves to hate" being given more than her fair share of airtime - or so it seems - as the show hopes to push up the ratings with some wannabe-supermodel bitchiness.

Tonight's challenge is to look "glamourous" while POLE DANCING in a studio in New York's Meatpacking district.

Sheesh.

Ah Reality TV - dontcha just love it? Zap...

It's getting late but I'm convinced there must be something requiring the use of the odd neurone or two to watch and sure enough there it is on Arte.

This is a Franco-German station, available on good old terrestrial TV in both countries and of course in both languages.

It's very worthy, often highbrow and bills itself as a European culture channel and aiming to promote quality programming.

In other words as it's not in the battle for ratings, its schedule isn't dominated by what might be described as the "lowest common denominator".

The only downside of that concept it that very few people in either Germany or France actually watch.

Tonight it's offering an interesting debate on malnutrition in Europe, and apparently 10 per cent of the continent's population suffers from it.

Although it's a compelling programme, it's already a little late when it starts (almost 10;30 pm) and it'll last for an hour.

Why, I wonder, aren't these things scheduled when people are still awake enough to watch and listen properly.

Rhetorical question really I guess as then they would have to go head-to-head with more popular programmes on the other channels.

It's fast approaching 11 pm and I'm clearly not going to make it to the end.

Plus I have an early start tomorrow (Good Friday isn't a public holiday here in France) so one final. Zap...

And the box is off.

Have to admit an evening's viewing of German telly isn't nearly as entertaining even with the remote control as it is in the US.

But for the moment, that's your lot.

Gute Nacht.

Can you name all the countries at the G20

My 13-year-old Godson is visiting at the moment and like all children he managed to ask a question to which I should have known the answer but I have to admit I didn't.

It was a simple one really, something that's making the headlines everywhere and hard to get away from.

"Who are the G20?" Or put another way, "Which countries have sent their head of state or government to the meeting in London?"

Go ahead. If you have time, grab a pen and a piece of paper and try answering that without cheating or Googling.

That's what I did, and this is how far I got.

"Well to begin with," I told him there are the members of the G8. That's easy. It includes the UK, the US, France, Germany, Italy, Canada, Japan and Russia."

Then I thought for a while.

"China and India naturally. They should have been part of the club a long time ago," I wisely informed him.

"In fact at the last G8 meeting in Hokkaido, Japan, that's exactly what the French president, Nicolas Sarkozy wanted. But nobody listened to him then."

Yes the poor boy was getting a mini politics lesson as I was just warming up.

"Brazil," I said confidently. "And Saudi Arabia."

I was beginning to crack though, I could feel it.

"Um South Africa and A r g e n t i n a," I rather dragged the last name out as horror of horrors, I was quickly running out of steam.

Now this is the point at which I could have changed the conversation or simply huffed and puffed my way through an answer.

But that wouldn't have been fair to him, and besides it's not really my style.

"You know what?" I said. "I don't know the names of the other countries. I should. But I don't. Shame on me."

So we did what we should have done right at the beginning and Googled, coming up with the five missing pieces of the puzzle. Mexico, Turkey, South Korea, Indonesia and Australia.

And of course we discovered (as you either already knew of have since found out yourselves) that there aren't actually 20 countries that are "members" of the G20, but 19.

Oh yes and we also saw that there are "non-members" present in London from the Netherlands, Spain and Thailand, which of course raised two more questions from that teenager.

"What's a non-member?" and "Do they get to eat at the dinners?"

Thank goodness he didn't ask me to name all the leaders.

A Mother's day reminder

A timely reminder to fellow Brits that this coming weekend sees Mother's Day or Mothering Sunday.

It's a bit confusing really because apparently the two terms don't quite mean the same thing, although the former has come to replace the latter - and let's face it, they both fall on the same day (in the UK) - the fourth Sunday in Lent.

Those of you in other parts of the world may well be scratching your heads at the moment, thinking that I've got my dates mixed up.

The problem is of course that there's no one single day set aside internationally to pay tribute to what's often described as one of the most thankless and least appreciated jobs on the planet.

Just looking at when different countries "celebrate" or "remember" or "pay tribute" shows maybe how out of step we are with one another.

This year for example in Norway apparently it fell on February 8.

A whole chunk of Europe - including Germany, Finland, Denmark, the Netherlands and Austria, along with many other countries throughout the world such as Australia, Canada, Pakistan and the United States to name but a few, set aside the second Sunday in May - this year May 10.

In France it falls on the last Sunday in May - this year May 31 - as is the case in Sweden and Tunisia.

In fact rather than list every single place in the world, I would be better off providing a link to wikipedia - so here you are.

When my mother was alive and I lived in Germany, I got into a right pickle trying to remember the date back "home".

She insisted that it didn't matter if I forgot, but deep down I knew she was dead chuffed when I remembered.

Mind you, she had to put up with some of the most horrendous gifts down the years, especially when I was a nipper.

Encouraged by teachers I would put a rather dubious artistic bent to full use and pitch up with a painting resembling.....well very little really apart from colour splattered on paper.

Or, if I had been allowed to watch Blue Peter (a long-running BBC television programme for children), she was presented with a useless piece of nothing made from plastic bottles, egg cartons and sticky-backed plastic.

Eventually I moved on from "art" and one year - I must have been around 10 years old - I put what I thought were burgeoning culinary skills to use and my poor mother's tastebuds to the test when I decided to tackle a 10-egg (yep you read correctly) pancake complete with several tablespoons full of.....salt (rather than sugar - far too high a quantity of anything in any case).

I realised my mistake before the monstrosity made its way to the table, and in an effort to compensate emptied the best part of a container of pepper into the mixture. My childlike logic told me that pepper would cancel out the effect of salt - I clearly wasn't the brightest spark.

My ma, when she finally made it down to the smoke-filled kitchen (which of course she would later have to clear up) showed stoicism, patience and the utmost love as well as a huge amount of courage in both praising my gastronomic stomach-turner and even attempting to eat (some of it).

Teenage years saw a return to "art" of sorts (I clearly never learnt from my earlier efforts) with a selection of wooden "thises" and metal "thats" from craft classes, ranging from a chopping board, a cheese grater (she proudly kept it until she died, although I never saw her use it) and a blunt knife. Oh yes, I was full of thoughtful presents.

With hindsight it must have come as something of a relief (to her) when I started earning and actually bought presents - although unimaginatively perhaps I stuck to chocolates and flowers - a safe bet.

Anyway this post - and just as importantly the accompanying video (the former is also an excuse to share the latter with you) is to tell my ma, wherever she might be, "Thank you" and to pass on a gentle reminder to fellow Brits whose mothers are still around, not to forget them this coming weekend.

And hey, even in those countries where it's not officially Mother's day, how about turning around and telling them just how much you love 'em.


The accompanying (probably timeless) video is a rendition of a song with lyrics written and originally performed by the US comedian Anita Renfroe set to the music of the finale of Rossini's William Tell Overture.

It's fast, furious and has something of a ring of truth to it.

YouTube Video

Remembering Karen Carpenter - a voice of "chilling perfection" *

I'm sad to say I missed it - and perhaps you did too - the anniversary this week of the death of Karen Carpenter, who died on February 4 back in 1983

She was one half of the brother-and-sister pop duo The Carpenters, who had a string of hits in the 1970s from the remake of the Beatles' "Ticket to ride" through "Sing", "Jambalaya" "Please Mr Postman" and many, many more.

From the outset I'll own up - this is rather a personal post as it takes me back to my dim and distant youth. But what the heck. I'm not proud.

Carpenter was just 32 when she died. She had suffered for several years from anorexia and her death was from heart failure later attributed to complications she had suffered as a consequence of her illness.

Maybe Carpenter didn't have the impact of a Janis Joplin or the King in terms of name recognition and her place in the music's Hall of Fame, but she played a very special part in my teenage years.

"Guilty as charged" and not ashamed, I was a huge fan of the Carpenters in my youth.

Yes I've given away my age and admitted to what some out there might consider rather dubious musical tastes.

While the rest of the boys at my school were strumming their air guitars along to Pink Floyd, waving goodbye to Glam Rock or later pogoing as the decade welcomed Punk and the Sex Pistols, I bucked the trend and listened to what my mother would have called (and in fact did so at the time) "proper" singing.

A mellow voice and a diction that was pure pleasure to the ears. Karen's voice not mine I hasten to add.

And those ears were ones which it has to be said were jammed between the two speakers in the days when 45s were in fashion and C and D were simply two letters next to each other in the alphabet and tapes - cassettes that is - were only just making their mark.

What I was listening to as the turntable spun, might well have been dismissed as somewhat cheesy and certainly all-American apple pie stuff at the time (and probably even now) - but at the very least it was definitely something I could wrap my tonsils around as I caterwauled along in unison.

And that's exactly what I did as Karen launched into to "Close to you" accompanied by her brother Richard and then continued with "Goodbye to Love," "Only Yesterday" or "Yesterday Once More."

How sad and how telling perhaps that more than three decades later I can still remember all the lyrics (if not necessarily the melodies) as I hold forth with my party piece, much to the "delight" of friends and family.

Apart from the music - which I think I've probably waffled on about for long enough now - the most important thing about Karen's life, and in particular her death, was the awareness it brought to the problems of those suffering with eating disorders.

Her death focussed media attention on an illness that had received little exposure beforehand.

Anyway, I hunted around YouTube and came up with the accompanying video, which will allow those of you out there who are interested and up for a great voice to take a listen.

YouTube Video

Thanks for taking time out to read this post and allowing me the indulgence of writing it. And of course to Karen wherever you are, thanks for that voice.

Sorry for forgetting.



* "Hers is a voice of fascinating contrasts, combining youth with wisdom; chilling perfection with much warmth."
A quote attributed to Rolling Stone Magazine

Move over Bernstein, Gershwin's in town - Paris that is

There's another show about a very special "American in Paris" currently running in the French capital, and rather appropriately it's called "Good morning, Mr Gershwin."

For those of you still missing the far too clever link (self praise is no praise) the 1951 musical film of that name was of course inspired by the 1928 orchestral composition by the great man himself.

Anyway back to the present day and it's more dance and a review of a show from an already self-confessed possessor of the proverbial two left feet.

What a show and what a performance!

In fact it's a great deal more than "dance" as perhaps would be expected from the choreographers José Montalvo et Dominique Hervieu.

Quite simply put the pair are magicians who give new meaning to tripping the light fantastic.

What they manage to put together in this (and other productions) breaks barriers and leaves anyone lucky enough to get to see one of their creations jaw-to-the-floor in open-mouthed admiration.

"Good morning, Mr Gershwin" is of course a tribute to the life and times of the 20th century American composer, and as always with Montalvo-Hervieu it combines modern and classical dance with their trademark visual effects - more on that in a moment.

What is particularly extraordinary about this production is that it blends a variety of dance styles, which would on paper at least, seem incompatible - tap with ballet, hip hop with mime, or jazz with break - all set to the music of Gershwin of course.

But it's a mix that more than works, blurring the lines of rigid categorisation and making anyone watching appreciate that dance is a language in itself.

Actually that's probably one of the real beauties of Montalvo-Hervieu. Their productions break all those linguistic barriers that might make film, theatre or even lyrical music impenetrable or at least leave something lost in translation.

With "Good Morning, Mr Gershwin" - and probably dance in general - there's little fear of that happening, with the interpretation being left entirely "in the eyes of the beholder".

And that's a fact worth remembering given the (minority) reaction of one little ol' lady who clearly felt she had "missed the point" (as if there were one) when she was heard to mutter audibly on leaving "Well that was a waste of an afternoon".

Horses for courses.

"Good Morning, Mr Gershwin" also has of course those visual "effects" - Montalvo-Hervieu's trademark use of video as a backdrop.

Sometimes it's synchronised with what's happening on stage, other times it adds a completely different dimension, which might leave the onlooker wondering what the connection is.

One thing's for sure though, it never detracts from the overall enjoyment of the performance, although it has to be admitted that at times it would be useful to have more than one pair of eyes.

Scene follows scene, but it's not just dance. There are moments of humour that leave the audience grinning from ear-to-ear, such as one performer mockingly gargling along to one of Gershwin's best-known tunes, or the temptations of a chocolate eclair (via video) which is almost made to perform its own dance routine away from the expectant mouth of the woman salivating to enjoy.

A good chunk of the second act is dedicated to "Porgy and Bess" - so it's a bit of a reworking of last year's production by the same company at the Opéra de Lyon.

But something worth seeing once is just as good second time around, so there can be few complaints on that front.

The one down side perhaps is the venue itself.

Le Théâtre national de Chaillot is housed in the Palais of the same name, (re)built in the 1930s and looking every much "of its time" from the outside.

The setting couldn't be more stunning, perched at the edge of arguably the French capital's swankiest arrondissements (XVI) with an impressive view of the Eiffel Tower.

The inside of the building leaves something to be desired though, stark and uninviting, and the auditorium for the performance is somewhat "industrial" in its overall feel, with uneven steps leading down a pretty steep drop with the whole framework juddering as people make their way to their seats.

Maybe Montalvo-Hervieu will breath much-needed new life into the building though as well as the productions performed there as last year they were appointed joint directors with the emphasis being to promote dance.

"Good Morning, Mr Gershwin" continues its runs at Le Théâtre national de Chaillot in Paris until February 7.

YouTube Video - La Bossa Fataka de Rameau

Bharati in Paris - a taste of India with a serving of kitsch

Have you ever had the sensation that even though apparently you're watching or experiencing the same thing as everybody around you, somehow and in some way, what you're feeling isn't exactly in keeping with the overriding sentiment?

You've perhaps missed something or maybe everyone else has got it wrong.

Such was the impression of one particular member of the audience - currently sitting not a million miles from this keyboard - at the Bharati spectacle in Paris this weekend.

YouTube Video

First up it has to be admitted that this certain someone was clearly in the minority if the reaction of the rest of the 3,500 plus people who had packed into the main auditorium at Le Palais des Congrès on Saturday was anything to go by.

Just for the record, Bharati is described variously in reviews elsewhere as a modern day fairy tale bringing to today's audience centuries of Indian history and culture with the colour, verve, and entrancing music, singing and dancing that might be expected from over 100 performers.

Those reviews have been overwhelmingly favourable as the show has been on the road now for over two years entertaining audiences and playing to full houses in Germany, the Netherlands, Switzerland and Austria.

The current run in Paris is the show's second appearance in the French capital. And from the general reception it was given, it has more than struck the right note, riding the wave of interest in all things Indian which seems to be very much à la mode at the moment.

The whole spectacle - because that's what it is - is a multi-coloured marvel combining all the elements of (Indian) dance, acrobatics, costumes and music you could wish for in the very best Bollywood fashion.

There was general whooping at the vigourous dancing, spontaneous clapping as the music ratcheted up a notch and enthusiastic applause after every number and there's no denying that it was all very much a feast for the eyes.

The rhythm and beat are without doubt infectious, the singing wafts you away and of course the highly synchronised dancing is a pure delight. The men are manly and the women.....well womanly.

It has, to say the least, a rather limp narrative, which is almost redundant apart from giving the performers a deserved break from their exertions and time to catch their breath.

The (rather enormous) programme describes the show as "a musical extravaganza, a delectable composite mix of the varied dances, music and folk traditions of India."

And over the course of one and a half hours we're promised "a glimpse...at the hidden treasures of this vast and enchanting land; its regional, linguistic, historical and philosophical diversity; its myriad peoples, life-styles and traditions."

Therein perhaps lies the problem - at least for one obviously grumpy old man - because the show is all very Bollywood (at its best and worst) and leaves you with the sense that there is more, so much more to India than the clichés on offer.

But there again, maybe that's exactly what people want.

Given the number of flashes that seemed to twinkle around the auditorium each time a new number was presented or a costume change made, along with the time many people seemed to be spending watching the show through their camera lens as they recorded huge chunks of the proceedings, maybe Bharati and Bollywood is all they wish to know about India.

Bharati will be at Le Palais des Congrès until February 15 before transferring to Brussels and then going on tour around France.

On March 11 it'll cross the channel for a performance at the Hammersmith Apollo in London, and there are also plans to take it to North America at some point this year.

YouTube Video

Oh to be in London during Carmina Burana – or not! A review

It’s not often that "Carmina Burana" is performed professionally in Europe and last weekend was the chance for British audiences to see a rare staging.

Franz Abraham’s self-proclaimed “Carmina Burana Monumental Opera” swept in from Berlin to make a made a two-day stopover at the O2 Arena in London.

But as anybody knows, not all monuments are in fine fettle and this production was one that rather resembled an infrequently visited, but much-touted ruin.

If you need proof of how seldom Carl Orff’s classic can be seen this side of the Pond, grab a copy of “Musique & Opéra autour du monde” – the handbook and bible for opera and classical music fans worldwide. The 08-09 season has precisely zero performances listed.

I know because every year when it thumps through the letterbox, I scour the pages looking for somewhere close at hand where I might be able to see and hear the work performed.

So there was an appropriate tremor that struck the house when the email popped up from O2 last year autumn informing me of the weekend spectacle.

I was straight on the blower, booked tickets – performance and train, reserved the hotel and pulled out the well-scratched LPs (for those who are too young those would be the pre-pre-cursor of the CD, almost back in Ye Olde days just after electricity had been discovered) and wallowed in anticipation.

Now this is not going to be a critical analysis of Orff’s piece, written in the 1930s and first performed by the Frankfurt Opera in June 1937.

For an understanding of the history behind the music, score, interpretations and where it stands in the great scheme of things – there are plenty of other sources.

This is a simple and very personal review.

“Lose yourself in some gorgeous music with a spectacular show at The O2, London” is what we were promised in a production “performed by the world-renowned Royal Philharmonic Orchestra, with the Brighton Festival Chorus and Youth Choir.

First up then a prelude to the main act was 40 minutes of Verdi’s “Greatest Hits”.

After all what better way to warm up for Orff than the Italian genius – other perhaps than Wagner?

Ah yes and apropos of “warm up” maybe now is the best time to mention something of the O2 arena’s suitability as a classical venue.

Because throughout Verdi and the main feature of "Carmina Burana", the air conditioning in the place seemed to be turned up to maximum.

That might in fact be a (more than) welcome feature when the temperature rises during a heaving rock ‘n pop show from the likes of Tina Turner, Stevie Wonder, Coldplay or Boyzone – all of whom are scheduled to perform there in the coming months.

But for a classical music concert, when everyone remains seated, the continuous blast of cold air was far from necessary and left huge swathes of the audience in their coats, scarves and even gloves for the duration.

Back to Verdi though, although once again maybe the production should think about trying Wagner in the future –because there were a few problems with what was on offer.

Oh yes it was strong stuff, and popular – but the volume levels were just too much for the sound engineers at the O2 obviously, and not enough checks seem to have been made during rehearsals.

Hence, although there was a fair amount of head-bobbing and audible humming from the audience during “Va pensiero” (Nabucco) and “Gloria all Egitto” (Aida), the pleasure was rather ruined by the distortion as the microphoned singers in the chorus reached their climax.

Any notion that the ears would be relieved from the hissing of the loudspeakers during the high and mighty notes of Verdi as the interval was announced, was soon dispelled as the air-conditioning hummed its way into reanimated urgency.

What’s clear about the O2 arena is that it appears to offer all the comfort of an outdoor one with none of the atmosphere of say the Arena di Verona.

Of course it would be more than a little unfair to compare it to any of the great opera houses, although once again, the producers had said of the venue “Why should rock and pop fans have all the fun? Classical fans will love the excitement of this big, explosive gig”

Quite frankly they got it wrong. It’s not suited to holding such an event.

On to the main act though, and that promised “explosive gig”.

Anyone familiar with the work will know it’s a grand, thumping powerful piece. And that’s very much how it started – with a lot of glitz thrown in.

This production, which was first performed in Munich in 1995 and has been lumbering its way around the globe ever since, bills itself as “Carmina Burana Monumental Opera”.

In the programme we’re told that “Mihail Tchernaev’s magnificent stage architecture with its fascinating light projections and enchanting fire effects creates a unique scenery for this spectacle with 30 dancers in 300 different costumes, with choir big orchestra and soloists.”

And therein lie many of the production’s failings

It is from start to finish all very “Las Vegas”. There are fireworks, flames, glitter – in fact all the paraphernalia on which the production prides itself. It’s gloriously – or perhaps not quite so gloriously – over the top.

Oh yes and there are those costume changes – so many of them and seemingly necessitating constant breaks in the action.

Granted that when Orff wrote the piece he insisted that there was no plot – believable or otherwise – in the conventional operatic sense, and that instead there would be a series of vignettes represented musically and dramatically.

Much of the time during the performance it was quite impossible to see what link could be drawn between what was happening on stage as the dancers rather heavily bounced about, and the wonderful music and song booming from the orchestra pit and choir stall.

The choreography was, to put it kindly, rather pedestrian and it added nothing extra to the music other than an often unwelcome, visual distraction.

Just one example which pretty well serves for much of the one hour and 20 minutes was a scene towards the end when one of the dancers was “acting” out the role and miming the lyrics, while the guest tenor (in this case Michal Pavel Vojta) belted out the aria from the side of the stage.

The two just seemed to work independently (well at least the tenor “worked”; the dancing was just something for the eyes to focus on) and so it continued.

The sad fact was that the music and dance seemed so often to run parallel to one another rather than being complementary and in fact the best way to really appreciate what was going on would probably have been to have closed your eyes and just listened.

The reception afforded by the audience at the O2 was polite but lacklustre applause – reflected in the hurry in which many appeared to be to leave the venue – but that could also have been in a desperate attempt to beat the rush to the nearest tube station and make their way back into the night.

Should after all this, you still wish to catch the show, the next staging will be in Qatar at the beginning of March and then a month later it’ll switch continents yet again for open air performances in Brazil and Paraguay before moving on to Chile and Peru.

Europeans will next be able to catch it in Vilnius, Lithuania in June.

Let’s just hope that the acoustics have been sorted by then.

Alternatively you could go out and buy a CD – try the 1979 recording by Riccardo Muti with the Philharmonia Orchestra and Chorus along with solosists Arleen Auger, John van Kesteren and Jonathan Summers.




Turn the volume up to maximum, sit back and relax and get ready for blast off in the comfort of your own sitting room.

Sex on legs again and a billiard cue - Tango Pasion

Hot on the heels - so to speak - of last September's sensual tango spectacle "Tanguera", audiences here in Paris have been treated to another show of pure dance delight in the form of "Tango Pasion".

It has just wrapped up a string of dates at the Théâtre des Champs-Élysées, playing to packed houses every evening, and now moves on to pastures new.

But as the curtain falls here at least, on some fast, furious and fabulous footwork, it's time to share some of the magic that the company has brought to the French capital over the past couple of weeks.

The performance currently on tour is billed as the company's new Ultimo Tango which "traces aspects of the history of Argentina over the decades".

So you know from the start that you're not only in for some of the raunchiest and mind-boggling dancing imaginable - but also a history lesson.

That in itself could leave some wondering why history in schools never seemed to be brought alive to quite the same extent. But that's quite another subject altogether.

The whole performance is highly stylised - almost to the point of possibly being termed "contrived", and the dancers - six couples plus one extra man - are togged up to the nines in the sharpest of costumes and caked with enough make-up that it might be hard at first sight not to mistake them for mannequins.

But this IS theatre, and the lighting can sometimes be a cruel friend.

The setting is Argentina - a club - where else? And as the orchestra strikes up the first chords, the place comes alive.

Oh and a word on that music. Well it's played by an eight-piece orchestra, led by Luis Stazo, who at the age of 78 seems to be having just as much fun as everyone else as he counts the musicians in with a vigourous and audible "Uno, dos tres, quatro" and we're off for a two-hour spin across the dance floor.

Any notion that these are anything other than living, breathing human beings is cast to one side as feet, legs, arms, hands - heck complete bodies take over and the audience is transported.

Some of the fancy legwork leaves you wondering how many bruises must be incurred during practice, and (without wishing to appear sexist) the women really do seem to have the longest legs imaginable - going up to their ears and then some.

The performance is bewitching. Mostly in couples, the dancers twist, twirl, turn and at times offer a display of virtual aerial acrobatics.

It's frenetic, intricate, perfectly timed and above all...sexy.

In separate numbers both the women and the men prove that it doesn't always take two to tango.

One routine sees the women, in formation, strut across the stage from left to right clad in suits, and then right to left in dresses.

While in another the men dispense with their female partners in favour of a cue - go figure - as they dance their way through a game of billiards. It has to be seen.

The show is a masterpiece - and has been described by many critics as such.

In fact drag out all those superlatives you would normally associate with tango, add some more and shake 'em together in a frenzied fashion and you've just about got the mix that is Tango Pasion.

The performance might well leave you feeling as though you've just done 12 rounds with a champion boxer - punch drunk with admiration, hands sore from ecstatic clapping and face-muscles aching from a perma-grin of enjoyment.

Don't believe me? Then go see for yourself.

2009 will see the company continuing its tour through Britain, the Netherlands, Portugal and the United States.

And if you're lucky enough to be in one of the towns or countries where the company is performing - there's really just one two-letter word that's appropriate.

GO!

Tango Pasion

Life in le (French) twilight zone

Life for the past couple of weeks has been a little like living in a parallel universe.

Forced to live without modern technology, I took a journey back to something that could almost be described as a return to the dark ages.

All right so that might appear something of an exaggeration on reflection, but it’s not that far off the mark, as I lost the Internet connection at home.

Modern technology, or the lack thereof, had me alternately experiencing pain, joy, relief and frustration – sometimes individually, often collectively.

Gone are the days – here in France at least – of clumsy connections.

Wifi (“whiffy” – remember?) means that I can plonk myself down in front of my laptop just about anywhere in the house – et voilà – I’m online.

Great for those elusive moments of (in)frequent inspiration or the rare times when I actually “require” the Internet.

But probably like a great number of fellow addicts, I’m rubbish at restrained use and frequently find myself surfing wantonly just “because I can.”

Until that was, Mother nature – or perhaps more accurately the French utility EDF – stepped in and briefly turned my world upside down, inside out or maybe even the right way around.

Last week there was a sudden surge of power – just a couple of seconds’ worth – and “Poof!” that little miracle of an invention the Livebox (courtesy of Orange/France Telecom, which would have us all believe there were two companies when in fact they are just different facets of the same one) which provides the Wifi connection, blinked what to all intents and purposes appeared to be its last little green light.

Wouldn't you just love to do this sometimes?

Help! How would I check my emails? What about staying in touch with people in far flung places? More to the point, I wouldn’t be able to share news from France with the rest of the world (well no great loss there, you might well be cheering) and much, much more.

I rang France Telecom in desperation, hoping that one of their kindly techies would be able to guide me through the reconnection process, still firmly convinced that the Livebox could be revived.

But “no’ came the response. It was a lost cause, and the only option was to take a trip to the nearest Internet supplier, break open the wallet, and purchase a new box.

That of course would mean happily following the instructions, getting horribly confused as I tried to follow the “simple” (re)installation procedure step by step and then spending hours on the ‘phone to someone in Morocco (which is where France Telecom seems to outsource its services for Apple) in an attempt to connect.

“Been there, done that, seen the movie and bought the T-shirt,” I thought.

“How about taking the radical step and going ‘cold turkey’ – ie; living without a connection (at home) for a while, and rewinding the clock to a time when the Net wasn’t the be all and end all?” I mused.

And that’s exactly what I decided to try – just for a few days at least. A technological “time out”, if you will.

The result? Well getting up in the morning no longer meant logging on and checking my mails or sending them, because I couldn’t.

So I sat down and ran off a couple of letters (how old fashioned) remembering that I could physically “write”, and I worked my way through the Christmas card list – ahead of time.

And here’s something of a scoop. Rather than scanning the French and foreign press online, catching up on everything almost before it had actually happened, I picked up a book or a wrestled with a broadsheet and actually read the things

Instant messaging was impossible, so I made full use of the ‘phone and had a jolly good (albeit probably more costly) natter with friends and family.

I listened to the radio – I mean really listened, not just heard. I watched the television.

The house reverberated to the sound of real conversation, and not just the “tap, tap, tap” of fingers fling across the keyboard. In fact everyone seemed to have rediscovered that not only did they have five fully functioning senses, but social skills to boot.

For me, the initial frustration of being apparently “cut off” was replaced by the gradual realisation that I could actually live without the Net – and vice versa.

Don’t get me wrong, I’ve never been a hermit stuck in a virtual reality. But the two-second electricity surge (and a similar 30-minute power cut a couple of days later) brought home to me just how much I had been dependent on the Net in my private life.

In a way I had been given a much-needed elbow-in-the-ribs revelation of something I had forgotten.

The world didn’t stop because I was offline – either for me or anybody else.

In a sense it was almost like a holiday – Christmas come early – and perhaps a sign as to what I should be including among my New Year’s resolutions.

So with that in mind, from this particular corner of the world to all of you out there who have made it to the end of this and other posts I’ve written, Joyeux Noël et Bonne Année – as they would say here in France.

And until 2009 - perhaps.

Nicolas Canteloup's 2ème Couche - a French impersonator on tour

Have you ever had that feeling that perhaps you're from another planet? You know, when all around you say and believe one thing and all your senses - physical and emotional - tell you that can't be the case.

Such was the sensation on Friday night for some (oh all right then - at least one, although there was a couple in front of me who from all appearances seemed to be on the same wavelength) at one of the last dates of Nicolas Canteloup's show at Olympia in Paris.

Canteloup is probably this country's most talented impersonator, although he has recently come in for some mighty competition from Liane Foly. Earlier this year she added another string to her entertainment bow, by launching her own one woman show based entirely on singing her way through a medley of voices from the French music scene - past and present.

But back to Canteloup. He really is the man of many voices, and he has a proverbially rapier wit to boot.

This guy is immensely popular.

Every morning he can be heard on national radio as he spends around 10 minutes racing through news and current events in France and abroad in a myriad of spot-on imitations.

Of course his (and probably everyone else's) favourites and best received are the French president, Nicolas Sarkozy and his wife Carla - yes he does both. Ségolène Royal (the Socialist party candidate from last year's presidential election) and her former partner, François Hollande, who's about to stand down as leader of the Socialist party, are high on his repertoire, He does a cruelly more than dumb blonde take on a former Miss France and Miss Europe, Alexandra Rosenfeld, a caterwauling French-Canadian version of Mylène Farmer - and many, many more.

You can see a list here - although it's far from being complete.

During the US election campaign, he even added Barack Obama and John McCain to his collection of voices.

The 10 minutes or so every morning are hilarious, and often much more informative and incisive than the real news that follows shortly afterwards.

So it was with all that in mind that I had managed to buy some much sought-after tickets for one of the last performances of his "2ème Couche" (Second coat) at that grand old music hall in Paris, Olympia.

Even as I entered the hallowed foyer of the world famous building from the late 19th century (seriously in need of a spruce up by the way) there were dozens of people outside asking if there were any spare tickets available.

And this was Canteloup's second time around at Olympia (he was there for two weeks in the spring) on a tour that got underway in October 2007 and will continue making its way around the country until June 2009.

After a warm-up act (some wannabe jazzy-woman, who crooned her way through a number of original songs whose English lyrics were a string of meaningless clichés) Canteloup finally came on to the stage - almost one hour after we had sat down, and this is the bit where I began to feel like an alien.

In spite of all my expectations, mainly from the simple enjoyment of listening to him every morning, I was bored. Even though the impersonations were as expected, excellent, the sketches were for the most part overlong and tedious.

Sure I could be forgiven for perhaps not "getting" some of the cultural references, I'm not French after all. But I did, and what's more, for the main part, I didn't find them at all funny.

There seemed to be no flowing script that meant one character segued into another. Instead we were treated to some rather weak lampooning of admittedly silly television programmes, presented by Canteloup's caricatures of the hosts. An overlong satire on the Olympics - actually more the Paralympics was quite bluntly, tasteless and it just never seemed to have an end - although thankfully at some point it did.

The show progressed, my yawns continued, and my tummy rumbled (I hadn't managed to grab something to eat beforehand).

Most of the rest of the audience (apart from that couple in front of me) seemed to be lapping it up. I was clearly in from Planet Zog for the evening, and kept checking my watch.

Only towards the end did the show really gather pace, as within the space of a quarter of an hour (the "ad-lib" encore) he rattled through politicians and singers at breakneck speed.

Finally the ushers moved into place at the exits, the lighting technicians orchestrated their usual circus seal approval from the audience, Canteloup bid farewell and I was released into the Parisian night.

My advice - if you want to listen to some truly excellent impersonations of famous French people and you're in France, tune into Europe 1 on the radio every morning at around 8.40am. Nicolas Canteloup is in his element, and he's very, very funny.

As for his show. Well as you can probably tell, it's not really something I would recommend - go and see Liane Foly instead.

Bon weekend.

French fashion faux pas - a ripping yarn

Sometimes we all take what we write about far too seriously, and occasionally it's surely no bad thing to be able to laugh at ourselves and not be afraid to share with others some of the slightly more embarrassing events in everyday life.

So it's with that in mind that I'm man enough to admit the following and give everyone a jolly good belly laugh at my own expense.

First a little bit of background. Twice a year here in France there are the sales (les soldes) Once in January-February and again in July-August. They last for between four to six weeks and the exact dates vary according to each departement or locality.

It used to be a pretty rigid system, but there has been government talk of extending the periods and frequency to help boost "high street sales" and stretch the money of the average Monsieur et Madame Français(e) just a little bit further.

Now I don't know about you, but I'm not much of a fan of the sales - too many ill-behaved people in too small a space forgetting about manners (never a priority in the Paris, some would say) in the hunt for bargains.

But this year I thought why not? I needed (or rather wanted) a new pair of smart-casual trousers and I had a bit of spare time while the sales were on so I thought I would try my luck.

This was in mid-July towards the end of the sales period.

And it was in one of those enormous department stores in the centre of the capital, that I found what I was looking for: A charcoal grey, subtle needle-pinstriped pair - the last on the rack so it appeared and just......only just......the right size.

I checked with one of those rather fierce-looking, snooty assistants (aren't they always?) just in case there was a slightly larger pair lurking in the back somewhere, only to be told, "Sorry sir, those are the last available. This is a sale you know, and we don't carry extra stock."

Well that told me.

"But perhaps sir would like to try them on," he seemed to smirk ever so censoriously.

"Yes I would thank you," I replied, and headed to the changing room.

They were - well snug. But otherwise perfect. I mean the colour, the cut and the length. Plus the added bonus they were a snip, a steal, a bargain. There was a designer label (although thankfully not showing - call me a snob - yes, but not a show off) and exactly what I was looking for.

I threw back the curtains and asked, no challenged the assistant as to whether he thought they were a good fit.

"How do they look" I demanded. You see I was already having my doubts as to whether the material was a little on the "thin" side (unlike my figure).

He stared at me, probably trying to work out the most polite way of telling me that I maybe needed to have my eyes tested and a reality check on indeed how I really looked.

"Is sir absolutely sure he's comfortable in that size?" came the (I thought under the circumstances) rather diplomatic response. Always answer a question with a question. This fellow will go far if he ever decides to enter politics

"Well perhaps they're er.....a little close fitting, but I think I can get away with it," I replied.

"And besides they're exactly what I'm looking for, and you don't have them in another size."

It was probably at this point that Monsieur Snooty gave up on offering me any more advice as it was clear that I had already bought them, and besides he was more than likely working on commission.

"Very well sir. Is there anything else you would like to try on?"

There wasn't. I had found my trousers. I had found a bargain in the sales and that was enough for me. I changed, paid and headed home.

That was all a few months ago. I hadn't worn the trousers since buying them. I hadn't really had the opportunity as work doesn't require me to dress up too smartly and I can normally get away with jeans.

That was until this week when I had an important (Monday) morning meeting and was expected to "look the part".

So I took the trousers from where they had been hanging. Left leg, right leg hitched them up and......Isn't summer supposed to be the time when we eat a little less and lose some weight?

Clearly I hadn't been reading the instruction manual for August and September eating habits, and that previously cosy fit from the sales was now most definitely a "who-needs-a-belt-with-these-trousers?" moment.

All right maybe I'm exaggerating a bit, but they definitely were tighter than I remembered. Either they had magically shrunk or I had - um - grown. But I looked - well all right. So I pulled on the rest of my clothes and rushed downstairs to grab my car keys and head out of the house.

And that's where it happened. One of those dreadful moments all of us of a certain age probably fear, but never think will happen.

The "Culprit"

Just as I was bending down to pat one of my dogs "goodbye" I heard one almighty "riiiiiiip" as my lovely trousers split in two, totally beyond repair.

Somehow I had managed to do what I had only seen happen to others in the movies.

The only saving grace (if there should be one) is that it happened before I had made it out of the door and into the world outside. For such small mercies, I should perhaps be grateful.

I was going to take a photograph of the trousers complete with Eurotunnel-style hole. But you probably don't need the picture, and besides 1001 words plus will have more than told the story.

So instead I'll include an accompanying photo' of the culprit (blame has to be laid somewhere, as I'm clearly not willing to accept it myself) - the dog to whom I was bidding farewell as the mighty tear occurred.

The trousers have since been recycled as dusters.

Bon weekend.

French fashion faux pas - a ripping yarn

November 1, 2008

Sometimes we all take what we write about far too seriously, and occasionally it's surely no bad thing to be able to laugh at ourselves and not be afraid to share with others some of the slightly more embarrassing events in everyday life.

So it's with that in mind that I'm man enough to admit the following and give everyone a jolly good belly laugh at my own expense.

First a little bit of background. Twice a year here in France there are the sales (les soldes) Once in January-February and again in July-August. They last for between four to six weeks and the exact dates vary according to each departement or locality.

It used to be a pretty rigid system, but there has been government talk of extending the periods and frequency to help boost "high street sales" and stretch the money of the average Monsieur et Madame Français(e) just a little bit further.

Now I don't know about you, but I'm not much of a fan of the sales - too many ill-behaved people in too small a space forgetting about manners (never a priority in the Paris, some would say) in the hunt for bargains.

But this year I thought why not? I needed (or rather wanted) a new pair of smart-casual trousers and I had a bit of spare time while the sales were on so I thought I would try my luck.

This was in mid-July towards the end of the sales period.

And it was in one of those enormous department stores in the centre of the capital, that I found what I was looking for: A charcoal grey, subtle needle-pinstriped pair - the last on the rack so it appeared and just......only just......the right size.

I checked with one of those rather fierce-looking, snooty assistants (aren't they always?) just in case there was a slightly larger pair lurking in the back somewhere, only to be told, "Sorry sir, those are the last available. This is a sale you know, and we don't carry extra stock."

Well that told me.

"But perhaps sir would like to try them on," he seemed to smirk ever so censoriously.

"Yes I would thank you," I replied, and headed to the changing room.

They were - well snug. But otherwise perfect. I mean the colour, the cut and the length. Plus the added bonus they were a snip, a steal, a bargain. There was a designer label (although thankfully not showing - call me a snob - yes, but not a show off) and exactly what I was looking for.

I threw back the curtains and asked, no challenged the assistant as to whether he thought they were a good fit.

"How do they look" I demanded. You see I was already having my doubts as to whether the material was a little on the "thin" side (unlike my figure).

He stared at me, probably trying to work out the most polite way of telling me that I maybe needed to have my eyes tested and a reality check on indeed how I really looked.

"Is sir absolutely sure he's comfortable in that size?" came the (I thought under the circumstances) rather diplomatic response. Always answer a question with a question. This fellow will go far if he ever decides to enter politics

"Well perhaps they're er.....a little close fitting, but I think I can get away with it," I replied.

"And besides they're exactly what I'm looking for, and you don't have them in another size."

It was probably at this point that Monsieur Snooty gave up on offering me any more advice as it was clear that I had already bought them, and besides he was more than likely working on commission.

"Very well sir. Is there anything else you would like to try on?"

There wasn't. I had found my trousers. I had found a bargain in the sales and that was enough for me. I changed, paid and headed home.

That was all a few months ago. I hadn't worn the trousers since buying them. I hadn't really had the opportunity as work doesn't require me to dress up too smartly and I can normally get away with jeans.

That was until this week when I had an important (Monday) morning meeting and was expected to "look the part".

So I took the trousers from where they had been hanging. Left leg, right leg hitched them up and......Isn't summer supposed to be the time when we eat a little less and lose some weight?

Clearly I hadn't been reading the instruction manual for August and September eating habits, and that previously cosy fit from the sales was now most definitely a "who-needs-a-belt-with-these-trousers?" moment.

All right maybe I'm exaggerating a bit, but they definitely were tighter than I remembered. Either they had magically shrunk or I had - um - grown. But I looked - well all right. So I pulled on the rest of my clothes and rushed downstairs to grab my car keys and head out of the house.

And that's where it happened. One of those dreadful moments all of us of a certain age probably fear, but never think will happen.

The "Culprit"

Just as I was bending down to pat one of my dogs "goodbye" I heard one almighty "riiiiiiip" as my lovely trousers split in two, totally beyond repair.

Somehow I had managed to do what I had only seen happen to others in the movies.

The only saving grace (if there should be one) is that it happened before I had made it out of the door and into the world outside. For such small mercies, I should perhaps be grateful.

I was going to take a photograph of the trousers complete with Eurotunnel-style hole. But you probably don't need the picture, and besides 1001 words plus will have more than told the story.

So instead I'll include an accompanying photo' of the culprit (blame has to be laid somewhere, as I'm clearly not willing to accept it myself) - the dog to whom I was bidding farewell as the mighty tear occurred.

The trousers have since been recycled as dusters.

Bon weekend.

France-Britain and the whiffy Wifi language divide

A word of warning before you launch into a rapid read of this post. Much of it probably won't make any sense until you've made it to the end. And even then you might need to start all over again.

To begin with, I would like to say that I think I have a pretty good grasp of the English language.

Well I should do. It's my mother tongue and I was born and brought up in Britain, although I've spent the best part of the last couple of decades living and working abroad and alternately murdering and mangling other languages with abandon.

Throw in the fact that I have a teaching qualification (although no longer used) and actually do a fair amount of talking for a living, and I should have a handle on "proper" pronunciation.

As I stress, "I would like to say." Sadly that's not always the case.

All right so I know that Britain and the US are supposed to be two countries divided by a common language (among other things). And I'm well used to be gawped at with almost total incomprehension when I open my mouth in a restaurant on the other side of the Pond and ask where the loo (restroom) is or request the bill (check).

Even though I know Americans "stand in line" the devil in me means that I still cannot resist asking where the "queue" is for tickets at the cinema, and I know that someone, somewhere is going to tell me that my plummy accented way of pronouncing tomato (tommarto) is either "cute" or completely "foreign".

But never, ever in my wildest dreams did I imagine that my fellow Brits would have a problem with the way I talk. Well apart from once in Scotland, when I was told that my accent was too "alienating" to be heard on the local radio station. Harrumph.

Now though, I have to own up that perhaps I no longer have a grip on the language I used to claim to be able to master.

And it's all the fault of modern technology. That's my excuse, and I'm sticking to it.

You see, a couple of months ago I had the local Internet provider here (Orange) install a Livebox in my home. It means that I can log on from my laptop anywhere in the house. Yes that's right Wifi is now available "chez moi".

It's great and means I'm not desk-bound to the study but can use my computer anywhere in the house; perched on my knees while I goggle at the box if I fancy, or (weather permitting) even outside in the garden.

All right, so it's not the hottest of news. I mean, I've been using Wifi all around France at various hotels and airport lounges for quite a while. But to have it within my own four walls has been rather a novelty.

Anyway, on a recent trip "back home" to London, I took my rather overweight laptop along for the journey, and while checking in at the hotel I naturally asked - as I always do here in France - whether they had Wifi available.

The receptionist gave me a rather puzzled look, but asked politely, "Wifi sir? What exactly would that be?"

"Wifi," I replied helpfully. "Wifi. Do you have Wifi available here?" Repetition seemed to be the best way of making myself understood, I thought.

"I'm sorry sir. I don't understand what you mean. What precisely do you want?" She asked.

Even after the shortest of exchanges, the conversation was becoming more than a little tedious for me. I'm not renowned for my excess of patience especially when faced with an idiot.

I mean Wifi is Wifi isn't it? Everyone knows what it is, even a technophobe such as myself. Either the hotel had it or it hadn't. The receptionist really couldn't be as dim as she appeared.

That at least was what was passing through my mind.

Fortunately as it turned out, I held my tongue and rather slowly, but with clinical precision enunciated, "W.I.F.I - you know the thing that allows me to connect to the Internet without those interminable wires and wotnot."

Silence. Then.

"Ah," came the reply. "Wye - Fye (proper English mother-tongue pronunciation of Wifi). Yes of course we have Wye-Fye sir," she added with a smirk.

It was one of those "please-let-the-ground-open-up-to-swallow-me" moments as I realised that too many years in France and the fact that I've only ever used the word here, had led me to believe that the correct pronunciation was "wiffy" as in "whiffy" (meaning smelly) and not wye-fye, as I've since learned much of the rest of the world calls it.

I sheepishly admitted defeat, not daring to look her in the eye as she could clearly see I had arrived from Planet Zog, albeit with an English accent and a seemingly dippy IQ.

So now I know how to pronounce the word, there should be no stopping me - at least not when I'm either in Britain or next visiting the US.

But for the moment there is - something stopping me I mean.

I just can't bring myself to say it.

And even as I double check the spelling and grammar here, I'm mouthing the word "whiffy, whiffy, whiffy" in my head as I read.

Quelle horreur.

Making a mountain out of a mole hill

For the green-fingered brigade among us, autumn is the season when it's time to get our hands well and truly dirty as the great garden clean up begins - if that's not something of a contradiction in terms.

Pruning, uprooting, thinning, replanting, and as the leaves are just about to tumble, the boy-toy joy of leaf-blowing will come into its droning own any weekend now, and of course there's the last mow of the grass before Jack Frost nips in.

In general gardening is supposed to be a rather genteel pastime. All right some heavy lugging is at times required and there's that obstinate flora that still lives by the old aphorism "there's no such thing as a 'weed' just a plant in the wrong place." But nothing really to get the temper-thermometer bubbling to maximum apart that is (in my case) from the Mole.

Now I'm not a violent person. My friends and family will attest to that. I marched in peace demos during my idealistic youth, there's no gun in my home (it's not exactly the fashion here in France unless you're heavily into hunting - I'm not) and I try to avoid physical conflict at all costs. The pen is mightier than the sword and all that.

I'm also as environmentally conscious as is possible to be - within limits. And I love animals - even the boars who come a gruntin' at the gate during the night, scaring me witless and making me rush daringly out with the dustbin twice a week for the overnight collection, half afraid of meeting them face to snout.

May all "sentient beings of the world be blessed to live happy and contented lives" could almost be a family motto.

But sometimes all good and honourable intentions go flying out the window as exasperation threatens to speed up the process of hair loss almost as quickly as advancing years are doing.

And the culprit for those of you who missed it first time around is the Mole - intentionally capitalised.

He's most definitely not that loveable and good-natured creature who graced the pages (with others) of Kenneth Grahame's The Wind in the Willows from my childhood reading.

Instead he just has to be a conniving, forward-thinking, all-round bounder, hell bent on turning the garden into an Alpine landscape.

Oh - perhaps I ought to say here that I'm clearly being very sexist in anthropomorphising the Mole as a "he." Obviously I haven't had a close up look - in fact I've yet to see the blighter in the flesh. But in Grahame's novel "Mole" is most definitely a "he", even if in French interestingly enough the noun is female "la taupe."

But I digress.

The Hills are alive

I know there's a Mole about of course because a couple of days ago "the Hill" appeared.

An innocent little beginning at face value, but the start of my travails in reality.

When that Hill first formed, I asked neighbours what to do about it - prevention being a little late and a cure now required before the problem mountained out of control. And the reply always seemed to be the same (in French) "set up some traps and kill the little critters." But that doesn't really fit into the way things should be done as far as I'm concerned.

"Poison 'em," recommended another equally unhelpful and non-too tender minded person.

I couldn't. I mean apart from the fact that my dogs would probably end up scoffing any bait I laid, it's unethical. No chemicals on my grass, not for fertilizing purposes nor even to drive a “pest” away.

So the solution a couple of Hills later - a few centimes “well spent” at the recommendation of an assistant at the local garden centre, who most clearly read the words “Le Sucker” emblazoned on my forehead when I innocently asked whether there were any “humane” ways of getting rid of "Bert."

Yep, having decided that the Mole had to be male, I had also made the mistake of naming him too. Don't even ask why.

“This is just what you’re looking for sir,” he said pointing to a rather innocuous green plastic toadstool-like thing.

"The new 'virbrasonic' mole deterrent – complete with a sonar signal guaranteed to drive them away.

“You simply stake them into the ground where you spot a fresh molehill, and within a couple of weeks they will be gone.”

He then proceeded to give me all the scientific explanations as to how I would be rid of my problem (Bert) with no pain to the animal.

I was sold. All right so I would just be moving Bert to someone else’s garden, which wasn’t very socially responsible of me I know, but he and friends (I refused to believe there was only one) were severely testing just how neighbourly I was feeling (the Hills were alive), and I would quite happily have them move on to pastures new (the Moles not the neighbours).

So complete with rechargeable batteries(eco-friendly) and planted firmly at strategic positions - (in the centre of the newest Hills) hopes were high.

The high pitched intermittent wailing that both 'toadstools" emitted became all the more noticeable in the still of the night when the bedroom windows were flung open. It was certainly unpleasant enough to give me a pretty restless sleep.

Still at least I had the consolation that the sound must seem equally disturbing to "les taupes" (they're French after all, so let's call them by name), and it was with that expectation that I looked out the next morning to see.....

.....the Hills had spread and multiplied - again

Welcome to Mole paradise

The sonar deterrent seemed to have had no effect on Bert et al, well not the desired one at least. In fact rather the opposite as they appeared to have spent the night busy tunneling and constructing to their hearts' content.

And (as you can tell from the photo) the alarms, far from discouraging them seemed to be rather Attractive.

I've since read up on Moles and discovered to my horror, they don't actually hibernate as I had thought. They just dig deeper for food as the cold sets in.

That in itself might mean fewer mounds appearing over the next few months, but of course the problem will still be there - underground, waiting, lurking and threatening to turn a rather wild and natural looking garden into (in their minds only) a beautifully bumpy topography.

In fact should they not decide to move house and garden and if France as planned, or more specifically la région parisienne (nowadays known as Île-de-France), were to bid for the 2018 Winter Olympics - I know just the spot where the moguls competition could be held.

Suddenly those smoke bombs, poisons and traps are beginning to look like an ugly attractive option.

My only hope for salvation is a few months of torrential downpour as that would flood the burrows and drown Bert.

Somehow though that doesn't exactly make me feel any happier.