Famous Last Words

History is littered with famous last words. Nelson’s “Kiss me Hardy” earned him a place in the history books under the ‘eh?’ category, for example, or Milligan’s desire to breathe ‘I told you I was ill’.

Not that I’m intending to crash or anything, but driving along the motorway I couldn’t help reflecting on the topic of last words. Should God’s great Wilder beast deputise for the Reaper of Grim and step out in front of me, I’d hope to spout forth something meaningful, lasting, poignant and witty. Of course it’s unlikely anyone would hear them, and even more unlikely that they’d have the foresight to write them down and email or text them to my Facebook Status bar before we’re both splattered across the carriageway.

To be honest, it’s more likely the content would be something along the lines of, “Opps”, or “Bugger”, or worse still “Oooh, look! A wilder beast with an axe and Scream mask”.

To that end, I am intending to train my brain. I’m putting the words in my head with indelible thoughts…

“That was unexpected…” seems to fit just about any situation…

An air of indifference

I love funny signs. For some reason they seem to just beg to be photographed.

Like this one, found on the Eurotunnel. In order to move between carriages, in this age of immediacy, you have to press the button, then wait in the style of an extra in Grease before pressing hard on the door. A typical French pose?

Pop Pundit

There are times when an almost overly obsessive desire for knowledge in a specific subject can be useful. Being on TV’s Mastermind, for instance. In fact, that’s pretty much it. In just about every other situation, be it as a BBC News ‘Expert’ or Column Journalist, you’ll probably have time to pop to the library or use Google.

I’m beginning to get worried that my quest for pop culture trivia (specialist area: Rock and 70’s TV) is getting a little over the top. There’s only so many times having info about Mork and Mindy or The Sweeney, or knowing lyrics to Marillion songs is going to be handy.

At the moment I’m watching Coogan’s latest incarnation, Saxondale, and am worried I’m morphing into some kind of Radliffe and Marconie Radio 2 cross-over. For a time, this seemed good. When I was thinking of some kind of PhD in pop culture (possible topics included comparing Beatles melodies to Mozart, and a discussion of whether Dylan’s place in history was duly deserved).

I’m just wondering whether, just perhaps, pop trivia’s a little Allen Freeman and not quite enough Justin Timberlake.

A Night at the Opera

Overheard from a British tourist whilst walking around the Paris Opera:

1) “I don’t like those flood lights they’ve put up there” [pointing at the stage spotlights mounted in the circle], “they completely wreck it. It looks like a football pitch”.

2) “You’d have thought they’d have crammed loads more seats in here. Afterall, it is the Paris Opera. The main one, like…”

And they say some Britains are lacking class…

Parlez vous Francais?

I don’t really speak many languages. Frankly there are moments when even English escapes me. I didn’t do a GCSE in languages, unless you count the one in War poetry and Willy Russell plays. But being a musician and travelophile I do always try to learn the basics. Generally, said basics revolve around coffee, chocolate, nut allergies and asking where the toilet is, but I like to think it’s a start.

Until today, I’d never have believed anyone would travel abroad and not be able to at least make the effort in the native language. Yes, I know at one time Britannia ruled the waves, and as such English, itself a mixture of German and French anyway, spread like the contents of Tetley’s finest across the fine waves of the wedgewood-bordered oceans, but that’s not really the point now, is it?

So the lovely Sarah and I are enjoying lunch. As is becoming customary, we are surrounded by the world’s finest travellers with, to our left, an Australian couple clearly on the last enforced trip before a messy divorce dine of salad and sandwiches.

Then the British arrive. Let’s call them Dierdre and Bill. Now Dierdre and Bill have clearly arrived on some kind of Daily Mail free-be trip to the continent. Clearly they are here to experience French life in its most natural form. They read the menu, which has English translations underneath, and are straight on to the egg-and-chips, ham-and-cheese options. Although cultured compared to the Americans who, whilst gazing at Notre Dame cathedral ealier had said, ‘Oh good. There’s a Subway over there. We can get some proper food for once’, they’re clearly the types trying to be cultural ambassadors for England with one eye on those Brussel bureaucrats (‘keep your Euro hands off our bent bananas’ types), and one on potential asylum seekers.

So when the waitress came over I felt forced to listen carefully. They order two coffees. This, as anyone who has ever studied French for one lesson in school, translates as ‘cafe’ which is an espresso. This arrives at their table spectacularly quickly, and they look at each other nervously. It is Dierdre who pipes up first with, ‘No. Bigger than that’. The waitress, who incidentally is reminiscent of Allo Allo, quickly returns with larger cups of coffee. Double espresso this time. Again, there are nervous glances and then Bill asks for ‘white coffee’. I say he asks, he actually points and says bluntly, ‘No, white’ which is either a factual declaration that what he has in front of him in fact has no white in it being a largely brown-based beverage, or he could have meant ‘I’m very sorry madame, but we appear to have made a mistake and ordered the wrong thing. We meant to white filter coffees’.

The interesting thing is that the waitress turns to us as if we could help her understand what these two crazed English tabloid-reading people want. That’s not in itself interesting, but the fact that for the last half-hour we’ve heard her converse in perfect English with other customer adds to our interest in Bil and Dierdre’s plight. So Sarah, who speaks very good French suggests to the Anglophiles that they wanted white coffee and passes this information on in French.

A brief pause and the waitress returns with a jug of milk. Being naturally apologetic, Bill wants to thank the waitress for her patence and apologise for the fact that he has come to her country as a guest without learning the basics of her language. Unfortunately this comes out in a single word, ‘Good’, which the waitress feels duty bound to repeat in her worst English accent.

Bill and Dierdre then go on to mistakenly believe that they needed to ask for ‘caffe creme’ in order to get coffee with milk, and then order their food. Having gone to the effort of writing an English translation on their menu to aid tourists, Bill pluck up his best French skills and pronunciation, and asks for ‘Ham and cheese sandwich’, pointing at the menu.

Bill and Dierdre, ambassadors for England, and surely candidates for a Unicef sponsored tour of the far-flung corners of the world?

Le Petit Dejeuner

One of the greatest benefits of travelling is the amazing blend of characters you can find yourself mixed in with in some of the most mundane situations. It’s a kind of Mecca for those inclined towards people-watching.

This morning at breakfast, at my little round table in my little Parisian Ibis, I found myself in one such situation. To one side a British couple, to the other a French familiar.

The British lady (I presume wife of British chap), had already made her mark on the turn of events in the way she approached breakfast. That’s not to say she came in juggling small fluffy baby bunnies on a unicycle. Having presumably travelled many miles to France, her entire trip was being ruined by a lack of croissants. I’m not sure whether this trip was a once-in-a-lifetime thing for her. Perhaps since a child she had dreamt of eating nothing but croissants in Paris. Perhaps her own dining room is filled with pictures and paintings of the little armadillo-like bread treats. Perhaps her millionaire father built his empire on crumbly bread related products. Certainly she was disappointed.

Lady: ‘Excuse me. [pause, then a little louder with hands on her hips] Excuse me? [Then in an aggrieved manner] EX-Cuse Me?’.
Buffet lady: ‘Oui Madame?’ [The look on her face suggests she’s dealt with ‘The English stroppy lady’ before]
Lady: ‘More croissants?’ [Pause] ‘Are there any more croissants?’
Buffet: ‘Les croissants sont fini, madame’
Lady: ‘Sorry?’
Buffet: ‘Fini, madame’
Lady: ‘Did you hear that?’ [Giving her husband little time to reply], ‘They’ve no more croissants. There’s only ‘pan ‘o chocolate’ (said in a curious mix of French and Northern English accents) left!’

She the proceeded to talk about the lack of croissants on the table next to us, with amazing vigour and gusto, but my attention was drawn to the French family to the left by then. They’d been at dinner the night before. They stuck in the mind then because of the annoying yappy fluff of dog they brought to the dining room, which had clearly been given the brief of keeping diners alert by giving impromptu barks to make everybody jump.

This morning they stuck in the mind because they appeared to be wearing the same clothes they had worn the two days previous. There were two old women, a boy and a dog. They appeared to be the embodiment of some Roald Dahl book. They boy sat on the table next to them, and rarely spoke because he was clearly concocting some kind of marvelous medicine for his aunts to drink.

We all then went about our days – The boy to his cleaning duties at the hands of his cruel aunts and their Mutley-esque hound, and the British couple presumably off in their quest to find the ultimate stack of plain croissants.

B’loon Fiesta

Some photos from the Bristol Balloon Fiesta to keep you amused for a few days:

More at Flickr.

Where I belong

It’s been almost a year since we moved here from Cardiff. It took a while to get used to the tractors, the horses, the large fluffy dogs and stuff.

But today it really felt like home – the butcher asked how our cycle ride went.

Let me explain. When we moved in everyone seemed to know everyone. Shop assistants would chat to customers like they’d known them for years. In the bakers. In the butchers. We don’t have a candle-stick maker. We do have a pottery, mind. Yesterday the butcher asked whether we were on holiday for the day, and we explained that we had the whole summer off, and were going off cycling. We were duly warned to ‘make sure you wear plenty of sun-cream’.

And today he asked how it went. And people looked at us as if we were now the locals, and they wanted that familiarity.

So there you have it. We’ve made it.

High Fidelity, technicolour

[It should be noted that I’m currently two-thirds of the way through watching ‘High Fidelity’]

Top five things that alarm me about ‘High Fidelity’:

1. I realise Ireally should stop spouting my knowledge of pop trivia during conversations.
2. I recognise elements of the John Cusack / Jack Black characters in myself.
3. It can surely only be a matter of time before I start narrating my life to camera.
4. I should stop getting angry that too much emphasis is placed on Dylan rather than Lou Reed or Zappa in the history book of pop and rock. **Also, note to self: Pay more attention to point 1.
5. I should seek help if I ever find myself living life using ‘top-fives’.

Oh dear.

Cultual Bazaare

Many people argue how multicultural London is. Some say it’s New York that has the greatest blend of cultures.

On Sunday I found myself in the most culturally diverse location I have ever found myself in. In just a few minutes more cultural backgrounds passed me than you’d find on your average Census form. There was the Penelope Keith-alike upper-class wannabe women with her husband who wears Levi jeans and a faded polo shirt because he secretly likes pretending to be working class. There were the football hooligans emblazoned with pigment-permanent testaments to former loves like ‘Tracy’ and ‘Dawn’ scribed indelibly on their forearms whilst their football heroes are replaced seasonally on their teams colours.There were the Indian family carrying a two small children in their arms. There were the young trendy twenty-something Graphic Designers complete with matching thick plastic-rimmed glasses as if they were a walking Specsavers advertisement, in stark juxtaposition to the soon-to-be Etonians with the starched collars of their rugby shirts turned inside-out.

So where was I? Times Square? Piccadilly Circus?

Hilton Park Services (Southbound) on the M6. Quite possibly the greatest debaser of class on the planet are the motorway services. They reduce us to our basic human needs: toilet necessities and a hunger for crap coffee.

This must leave a tough marketing decision for the people at Muzak central. Supermarket muzak can be ’80s pop aimed at the Shirley Valentine generation, who buy greek yoghurt in the hope it will whisk them off to some far-flung beach. Sports shops play all manner of 120bpm dance ditties to remind them of the gym as they all walk around in time to the music looking like participants in some John Inman-esque ‘mincing’ competition.

So what did we have in Hilton Park? Leaders of the world have spent decades trying to unite the classes, to break down cultural divides and national boundaries, but it appears the one thing that must unite us all at some base, natural, primordial level is a mutual admiration for Canadian Pop Princess Celine Dion.

Marvelous. The Planet Earth: demographically proven to like Celine Dion.