As the U.K. fills up with migrant Polish workers (prompting some towns to put up road signs in Polish to prevent lost lorry drivers reversing into their cabbage patches - and my cousin to consider changing her name to Vandorski to improve her chances of finding a job), France is planning to crack the door a little further open to the newest members of the EU.
Les Echos reported the government is extending the list of professions seeking Eastern European workers, stressing that the jobs are not only 'non qualified and unattractive.' Engine mechanics, electricians, chefs and computer professionals figure on the new list of jobs where demand is greater than supply. Plumbers, despite the shocking prices demanded in Paris, were not on the list for obvious reasons, given the election is only days away.
A latent admission perhaps, that given its aging population France will rely on immigrant labour to pay the future pensions of its workforce? Not likely. Restrictions won't be fully removed until 2011 when everyone will be used to the exotic sound of Eastern European accents on the street. Curious timing though, this annoucement...
Monday 30 April 2007
Sunday 29 April 2007
Sarkozy Blames the Students
Sarkozy, who seems to have developed a penchant for grabbing his heart these days, wouldn't have been much of a laugh as a student I imagine. Films of him as a young UMP activist have been widely broadcast, but the question today must be asked. Did he leave any time for having fun?
Much as I disagreed with the CPE protestors, had I been a student I would surely have joined them. Because marching when you are a student is fun. And you can tell your children about it when you are older and your youthful ideals have gone a bit hazy. When I was at university, the overwhelming consensus was that the time of great causes and strong beliefs (the 1970s) was over. People didn't care anymore. They just watched Eastenders and smoked dope instead. Still, I jumped at the chance of waving a banner at the then Education Minister Harriet Harman, even if I didn't give a toss about why.
We forget that it was also a little like that in 1968, when French students riots provoked by the refusal to let men into women's dormitories escalated into a full scale social movement that forced De Gaulle to dissolve parliament and call new elections. Still, the gloss of history should mean any self-respecting once-upon-a-time student pay respect to the 68ards and their glory days.
Not Sarkozy. He attacked them today in a star-studded Paris rally, blaming the 'moral crisis' in France on the social protests over 40 years ago. 'The heirs of '68 have imposed the idea that anything goes,' he told a 20,000-strong crowd. They led France to the false belief 'that a hierarchy of values doesn't exist.'
Oo-er. He IS beginning to sound a little scary....
What should you do if your friend votes Sarkozy?
This was the question posed to me on Saturday night: If a friend trusted you with his or her procuration to vote, but you disagreed with their choice, should you follow their instructions?
Pressed a little further, and it was revealed that the person in question had been asked to vote Sarkozy, which they felt was like unleashing a plague of locusts on France. A moral dilema. Respect the trust of a friend, or contribute to the downfall of your country.
For me there was no question. If your friend trusted you with a task which you agreed with, there is no other option but to carry it out. You can try to persuade them otherwise, but ultimately, the choice is not yours. Not everyone felt the same, however. And I realised that not being French means my passions don't run quite as high.
Pressed a little further, and it was revealed that the person in question had been asked to vote Sarkozy, which they felt was like unleashing a plague of locusts on France. A moral dilema. Respect the trust of a friend, or contribute to the downfall of your country.
For me there was no question. If your friend trusted you with a task which you agreed with, there is no other option but to carry it out. You can try to persuade them otherwise, but ultimately, the choice is not yours. Not everyone felt the same, however. And I realised that not being French means my passions don't run quite as high.
Saturday 28 April 2007
The Sego-Bayrou non debate
In the end, there wasn't much of a debate. The debate about the debate was more heated. Should she? Shouldn't she? Will it break election broadcast rules?
In the end she did, much to the irritation of Sarkozy who thought she should be paying attention to him, and only him. Even election opponents get jealous, it would seem.
Amid bewildered American tourists, Bayrou and Segolene installed themselves in the ballroom of a central Paris hotel and let the BFM cameras roll. They sat down next to each other to underline the fact that this was not a traditional political showdown. The questions were incredibly earnest and serious, revealing disagreements on everything from the 35-hour week to the state's role in the economy. The smiling couple insisted the gaps between them could be bridged.
Yet if Segolene caves in to Bayrou, what does she gain? Most of his 29 MPs have already come out in favour of Sarkozy, and his electorate are volatile and will make up their own minds.
'He's like the a commander in battle whose troops have deserted,' said Stephane Baumont, a professor at the university of Toulouse. 'Bayrou has been inflated by the media.'
Friday 27 April 2007
Sarkozy Gaffes Too
Sarkozy, despite being a man, sometimes gets things wrong. Though being a man, people don't tend to make as much of a fuss as they do when Segolene gaffes. In a televised interview on France 2 last night, Sarkozy said that Gordon Brown likes to meddle with interest rates to boost the economy and keep the pound under control.
'I like England very much,' he told Charles Bremner, the Scottish reporter from the Times about the Bank of England, a Scottish invention, and the Scots-born Brown. 'As soon as growth slows, Chancellor Gordon Brown and the central bank governor meet and decide to cut interest rates to make the pound fall.'
After decades of disastrous boom and bust economics, blamed on government meddling in the economy, Brown made the U.K. central bank independent 10 years ago. It was one of his first acts as chancellor, and is credited for much of the healthiness of the U.K. economy today. Much as he likes to tinker, Brown has largely left the central bank to do its job without interference.
I've been told by many French diplomats and politicians that the reason France is so critical of the European Central Bank is because it doesn't have the same tradition of central bank independence as Germany. But neither does Britain. We set the bank free because politicians realised it was better leaving the job to professionals. France's state-centric tendencies makes it difficult for politicians to surrender control, but they would do well to consider it. Given the extent of economic ignorance in France, it is quite incredible they think they could do a better job.
Why is Bayrou still here?
Why is he still here? Bayrou is having a remarkable effect on the second round of the presidential election, despite as Sarkozy pointed out on France 2's A Vous de Juger last night, being a loser. Sure, his 6 million voters will decide the outcome of the second round. But a curious spectacle is set to take place tomorrow: a televised debate between Segolene and the man she defeated in the first round. Either she is making a fantastic gamble given her gap in opinion polls with Sarkozy (who is crowing that more people voted for him in the first round than for General de Gaulle in 1965). Or, as some in the Socialist party are mumbling, she is inflating Bayrou's importance in a desperate bid to woo his traditionally centre-right voters away from Sarkozy.
The problem is that the smell tends to linger when you hang out with losers, and by agreeing to a televised debate with Bayrou, Segolene may well have sullied her stature. The duel is to be held late Saturday morning on BFM television, a time and television station unlikely to attract vast amounts of viewers ahead of a long weekend. The impression is that Segolene has marginalized herself by putting her ideas on par with those of Bayrou. She is not projecting the image of a strong leader that French voters tend to lap up.
Still, Segolene's flirtation with Bayrou was immediate. While Socialist flunkies were insisting there would be no compromise Sunday evening, Le Point magazine reported she delayed her victory speech to the nation in a vain bid to reach him on the telephone. She publicly reached out to Bayrou on Monday, saying she was 'available' for a public dialogue with him during a rally in the eastern town of Valence. Meanwhile, Sarkozy dangled the carrot of ministerial positions to senior UDF figures who back him.
Bayrou's challenge is to suceed in making the most of his first round score and he isn't ready to back either contender and risk a backlash from his new electoral base. The suspense of his decision ensures he continues to exist.. He gave a press conference Wednesday, where he announced that both candidates had left messages on his mobile phone, but he'd been too busy to call them back. He poured scorn over Sarkozy, comparing him with former Italian Prime Minister Silvio Berlusconi. Sarkozy's cosiness with the media, and his 'taste for intimidation and threats,' aggravated by 'his temperament' makes him a megalomaniac, Bayrou said. Royal, on the other hand, is merely misguided 'perpetuating the illusion that the state can take care of everything.' Sarkozy is a danger to democracy, Segolene to the economy, he said.
With the June parliamentary elections in mind, Bayrou announced the creation of a new 'democrat' party. His bet is clearly to unite his current UDF party (whose 29 lawmakers in the outgoing 577-seat parliament owe their poisitions to no-competition deals with the UMP) with disgruntled members of the Socialists. The success of such a bid depends on a strong defeat of Royal in next Sunday's elections. Backing Sarkozy may have made more sense, but either Sarko ain't taking the bait, or there is something about Sarkozy that Bayrou can't stomach. Leaving him to debate common ground with the woman he needs to loose.
Thursday 26 April 2007
Ce soir ou jamais
A truly fabulous television show. Ce soir ou jamais by Frederic Taddei.
The subject:
The French Election seen from abroad.
Why it was fabulous?
I should perhaps been impressed by my illustrious fellow guests - which included Goncourt Prize Winner Tahar Ben Jelloun and popular Cuban writer Zoé Valdès. But, perhaps betraying my inner Anglo-Saxonne, it was the mise-en-scene rather than the quality of debate which excited me. Entering the studio felt like being granted acess to an exclusive club. White fringes hid a mirror-ball interior decorated by impossibly fashionable and skinny people lounging around drinking champagne out of white or black opaque glasses. They spent much of the debate speaking to each other, but their lack of interest didn't bother me too much. I was too busy marvelling the fact that they had come to a television show on which I was speaking. I would occasionally zone out of the serious debate to admire someone's outfit, which only once made my mind race to find something to say when Taddei posed me a question I wasn't expecting.
My press attache had instructed me to speak up as much as possible.
'Every time you do your name and your book appears on the screen,' she told me as we sneaked under the heavy curtain to get my make up done.
I was perhaps a little over-enthusiastic against the largely male guests who were largely bemoaning the lack of intellectualism in the presidential debate.
'The intellectuals are despairing' of Segolene, Ben Jelloun bemoaned.
'So what,' I cried. 'This is not the election of the president of the intellectuals. The next president of France will be elected by all of France and many people have really problems which quite naturally they want their next president to fix.'
I thought I'd done reasonably well, holding my own againt the intellectuals. But when I sought support from my fellow Anglo-Saxon Peter Gumbel, author of French Vertigo and a 'grand reporter' at Time magazine, it was lacking.
'Hello, I know your boss,' I said bouncily after the show had finished, referring to Time magazine's Paris and Brussels bureau chief. Bad start.
'He is not really my boss,' Gumbel said sniffily. 'I work pretty much independently and am now working on several projects.'
'Oh really,' I said. 'What?'
'Secret projects,' he said. 'Excuse me, I've just got to...' and then he high-tailed it away from me.
Friends assured me later that I didn't make too much of an idiot of myself.
'I was just so impressed to see one of my friends on Taddei's show that I can't really be objective,' said one. 'I was too busy looking at what you were wearing. But you looked natural. You were great!'
Wednesday 25 April 2007
Fairness vs Egalite
Fairness versus Egalite: That's how Bill Wells, an expert from the UK Department of Work and Pensions, described the difference between the British and French social security systems. Diplomatic speak during a briefing at the British Embassy in Paris for how the egalite of the French system helps everyone, including a lot of people who don't need it. While the British system focuses help on those who need it most.
'From a UK perspective the French system seems to focus on quite a lot of groups of people who might not need their help,' he said. 'The balance seems towards the advantaged as opposed to the disadvantaged.'
In the English, er uhum, the British system (even civil servants slip up sometimes), he said 'there has been an increasing focus on the most disadvantaged people. There is always a roundabout of jobs. The government sees its role as standing next to the roundabout of jobs and helping people onto it.'
The biggest difference in employment rates between France and the UK is among young people, women, and old people - the most vulnerable groups of the workforce - who find it harder to get a job in France.
The way the welfare system is funded can also have an effect on employment, he said. France, like the U.S., is based on 'social insurance' levying payments from employers and employees. The U.K. funds its benefits from the general tax pool. The OECD says the social insurance model is damaging to employment, Wells said, adding casually that the UK has the highest employment rate of all G7 countries. Insurance payments are regressive, he said. Because they are set at a fixed percentage of income, they punch the biggest hole in the poorest people's pockets. 'This means that people don't go to look for work.'
In response to criticisms that the British employment figures are supported by an abundance of McJobs - low paid, unstable and part-time - Wells said that the British system doesn't make 'value judgements' on different types of jobs. Students, mothers with children, those nearing retirement age, may wish for a job that doesn't come with the restrictive constraints that come from a standard contract. One size doesn't fit all. And less regulation can even lead to better jobs.
'The rules regarding temporary work are the most liberal in the world, yet there is a low level of temporary work,' he said of the UK system. 'Restrictions on permanant work means employers divert their attention to temporary work.'
'We don't have a code de travail,' he said. 'We have employment legislation which you could probably put on one page.'
Still, young people get more help than in France. And they have more security. Villepin's proposed CPE contract 'was less restrictive than the UK system,' he said because the period you can be fired with no reason is longer.
'From a UK perspective the French system seems to focus on quite a lot of groups of people who might not need their help,' he said. 'The balance seems towards the advantaged as opposed to the disadvantaged.'
In the English, er uhum, the British system (even civil servants slip up sometimes), he said 'there has been an increasing focus on the most disadvantaged people. There is always a roundabout of jobs. The government sees its role as standing next to the roundabout of jobs and helping people onto it.'
The biggest difference in employment rates between France and the UK is among young people, women, and old people - the most vulnerable groups of the workforce - who find it harder to get a job in France.
The way the welfare system is funded can also have an effect on employment, he said. France, like the U.S., is based on 'social insurance' levying payments from employers and employees. The U.K. funds its benefits from the general tax pool. The OECD says the social insurance model is damaging to employment, Wells said, adding casually that the UK has the highest employment rate of all G7 countries. Insurance payments are regressive, he said. Because they are set at a fixed percentage of income, they punch the biggest hole in the poorest people's pockets. 'This means that people don't go to look for work.'
In response to criticisms that the British employment figures are supported by an abundance of McJobs - low paid, unstable and part-time - Wells said that the British system doesn't make 'value judgements' on different types of jobs. Students, mothers with children, those nearing retirement age, may wish for a job that doesn't come with the restrictive constraints that come from a standard contract. One size doesn't fit all. And less regulation can even lead to better jobs.
'The rules regarding temporary work are the most liberal in the world, yet there is a low level of temporary work,' he said of the UK system. 'Restrictions on permanant work means employers divert their attention to temporary work.'
'We don't have a code de travail,' he said. 'We have employment legislation which you could probably put on one page.'
Still, young people get more help than in France. And they have more security. Villepin's proposed CPE contract 'was less restrictive than the UK system,' he said because the period you can be fired with no reason is longer.
Editorial Lines
Three news weeklies were published early this week giving their take on the first round. All were of the opinion that the second round is Sarkozy's to loose and Segolene's to win, but their presentation was subtly, and perhaps tellingly, different.
Le Point: 'Sarkozy, Can He Loose?'
L'Express: 'Can he be beaten?' imposed over a picture of a pensive Sarkozy.
Le Nouvel Observateur: 'Can she beat Sarkozy?' next to a picture of a smiling Segolene.
Liberation was more outspoken in its political preference. 'Ten Good Reasons Not to Vote Sarkozy' screamed the front page today.
Le Point: 'Sarkozy, Can He Loose?'
L'Express: 'Can he be beaten?' imposed over a picture of a pensive Sarkozy.
Le Nouvel Observateur: 'Can she beat Sarkozy?' next to a picture of a smiling Segolene.
Liberation was more outspoken in its political preference. 'Ten Good Reasons Not to Vote Sarkozy' screamed the front page today.
Tuesday 24 April 2007
Traitor
Deception totale. Eric Besson, the former economics guru of the Socialist party, yesterday shared a stage with the man he once called a 'neoconservative American with a French passport,' delivering a mea culpa on how he had participated in the diabolisation of Sarkozy. True, his defection shouldn't come as a surprise after he savaged Segolene's competencies in a book 'Who knows Madam Royal,' published a month after he slammed the door shut on the Socialists. Yet colleagues at the Dijon rally said he looked uncomfortable. It must be strange to de fetted by the people you've plotted so long to defeat. Still, he didn't flinch, telling the crowd he believed and hoped that Sarkozy will win.
'I am a man of the left who will support and vote for a man who incarnes the right,' he said to cheers. Introducing the UMP champion, he signed off with: 'Forza Nicolas et allez la France.'
'I am a man of the left who will support and vote for a man who incarnes the right,' he said to cheers. Introducing the UMP champion, he signed off with: 'Forza Nicolas et allez la France.'
Little memories
Cycling home tonight up the steep Avenue Simon Bolivar, I got beeped at by a scooter.
'Yes, it's hard work on a bike,' I said, smiling.
'You don't remember me,' said my old cavist from when I lived at the bottom of the hill in the 10th.
'But of course,' I replied to his helmet. 'How are you? I live in the 20th now. That's why I've not been in recently.'
"I saw you on the television,' he said. 'You wrote a book.'
'Yes,' I said delighted.
'Congratulations. It's a tough ride up to the 20th. Good luck.'
'Thanks - and buy the book,' I said to him as he blasted away from me up the hill.
That's just one of the wonderful little memories that make writing a book worthwhile.
'Yes, it's hard work on a bike,' I said, smiling.
'You don't remember me,' said my old cavist from when I lived at the bottom of the hill in the 10th.
'But of course,' I replied to his helmet. 'How are you? I live in the 20th now. That's why I've not been in recently.'
"I saw you on the television,' he said. 'You wrote a book.'
'Yes,' I said delighted.
'Congratulations. It's a tough ride up to the 20th. Good luck.'
'Thanks - and buy the book,' I said to him as he blasted away from me up the hill.
That's just one of the wonderful little memories that make writing a book worthwhile.
Monday 23 April 2007
Sego vs Sarko: The British Choice
Difficult to imagine Segolene or Sarkozy running for election in the U.K. Thankfully, for many British people, they are seeking election in France. Still, here's a sample of Brit voxpops on the French campaign.
The Feminist view?
My money is on Sarkozy. I think a lot of British people are still recovering from Thatcher and there is still a feeling that women can be manipulated whereas Sarkozy seems a bit of a `bully boy,' strong-willed and determined.
Do men fancy having the `soft' option woman to lead them and women want the `strong' man? British people might think France a bit frivolous if they vote in a woman. Don't the French want France to look strong?
Left vs Right:
As a labour voter all my life I now don't know where I stand politically. Blair seems to be a conservative to me and I warm to David Cameron although I have never supported any conservative ever. My husband the Tory and me the Socialist seem to becoming closer in our politics. I'm not sure of the differences any more. We all want to end poverty, stop global warming and live in peace!
Island mentality:
There is an election in France?
Image politics:
We think that the French are more and more imitating Blair's style- all about the personality and not really anything else - it seems a retrograde step - look at Blair!
Sunday's News Bulletin:
I missed the piece on France, but from the news I did see, concern in
Scotland at least was more to do with sewage [in the Firth of Forth] than
Segolene or Sarkozy. Londoners were more up themselves about how they had
organised supplies of water better for the Marathon there than last
weekend's one in Paris.
Factor out Gordon B and the future is all charm - imagine David Cameron and Segolene at the summits ! What a [schmoozy] picture...
Anyhow, thank goodness she's in there for Round 2.
The skeptic:
Here is a nice British view:
I personally couldn't give a shit about any general erection (sic) apart from my own one !!!!!
Nothing against France, same for everywhere. It is just a scramble for power and position and in today's world there is not much anyone can do to make any
changes.
I suppose though it is a necessary mechanism against despotism - important to change the asshole in power for another asshole every five years.
Youth and jobs:
I think it is very exciting to have young, dynamic candidates for a change in the French election and this election appears to be idealogical decision time for france. From our viewpoint here in Dublin, it is time for France to think about employment reform and how to tap into the wasted resource of the unemployed in France. It is not clear to me that the Socialists have any new ideas on this.
From one of the rare Tories in Scotland:
Sarko has all the right, plus half the centre on which to call for the 2ième
tour, whereas Royal has only half the centre in reserve. Ergo Sarko should win.
Big question: why was the 3rd way rejected? Second big question: what can WE do
in UK to achieve a similar turn-out at the polls?
The Feminist view?
My money is on Sarkozy. I think a lot of British people are still recovering from Thatcher and there is still a feeling that women can be manipulated whereas Sarkozy seems a bit of a `bully boy,' strong-willed and determined.
Do men fancy having the `soft' option woman to lead them and women want the `strong' man? British people might think France a bit frivolous if they vote in a woman. Don't the French want France to look strong?
Left vs Right:
As a labour voter all my life I now don't know where I stand politically. Blair seems to be a conservative to me and I warm to David Cameron although I have never supported any conservative ever. My husband the Tory and me the Socialist seem to becoming closer in our politics. I'm not sure of the differences any more. We all want to end poverty, stop global warming and live in peace!
Island mentality:
There is an election in France?
Image politics:
We think that the French are more and more imitating Blair's style- all about the personality and not really anything else - it seems a retrograde step - look at Blair!
Sunday's News Bulletin:
I missed the piece on France, but from the news I did see, concern in
Scotland at least was more to do with sewage [in the Firth of Forth] than
Segolene or Sarkozy. Londoners were more up themselves about how they had
organised supplies of water better for the Marathon there than last
weekend's one in Paris.
Factor out Gordon B and the future is all charm - imagine David Cameron and Segolene at the summits ! What a [schmoozy] picture...
Anyhow, thank goodness she's in there for Round 2.
The skeptic:
Here is a nice British view:
I personally couldn't give a shit about any general erection (sic) apart from my own one !!!!!
Nothing against France, same for everywhere. It is just a scramble for power and position and in today's world there is not much anyone can do to make any
changes.
I suppose though it is a necessary mechanism against despotism - important to change the asshole in power for another asshole every five years.
Youth and jobs:
I think it is very exciting to have young, dynamic candidates for a change in the French election and this election appears to be idealogical decision time for france. From our viewpoint here in Dublin, it is time for France to think about employment reform and how to tap into the wasted resource of the unemployed in France. It is not clear to me that the Socialists have any new ideas on this.
From one of the rare Tories in Scotland:
Sarko has all the right, plus half the centre on which to call for the 2ième
tour, whereas Royal has only half the centre in reserve. Ergo Sarko should win.
Big question: why was the 3rd way rejected? Second big question: what can WE do
in UK to achieve a similar turn-out at the polls?
CNBC, LCP
After Segolene's victory rally had petered out, I thought I'd been able to easily grab a cab home. But it was one of those nights. Each time I saw a taxi with its light on, either someone got there before me, or when I said I wanted to go to the 20th, the cab driver shook his head and drove off. Eventually I gave up and called a cab. Waiting my Madeleine for it to arrive, I was offered a lift from a man who obviously thought I was a prostitute.
'Non merci,' I said to him, holding up my computer in an attempt to show him there could be other reasons for girls to hang out alone on street corners at 2 am.
About four hours after I got home, Donato called to get me out of bed for my first appointment of the day. I was booked to talk about my book on CNBC's Squawk Box Europe with Geoff Cutmore at 8h20. Live in front of the Eiffel Tower.
'You were bellisima,' said Donato, who watched from Italy.
Afterwards I walked in beautiful sunshine away from the Champs de Mars across the Esplanade des Invalides to the studios of La Chaine Parliamentaire, right in the heart of the National Assembly. I debated the foreign reaction to last night's results with Ted Stanger, author of Sacres Francais!, a best-selling dissection of French life by a fellow Anglo-Saxon. And more delighted still to hear he'd heard of my book!
A Short Lived Victory Feeling
I spent election night at the Socialist party HQ, next to the Musee d'Orsay on Paris' left bank, waiting to see whether voters would favour Segolene or Bayrou as the second choice to Sarkozy. Victory for Segolene would help her party heal its wounds after their humiliuating defeat in 2002 against Le Pen. Failure could well mean self combustion for the party that still has problems accepting the market economy - or at least admitting that it has.
Luckily for her, and perhaps women politicians in general, she did her party justice, coming second to Sarkozy with around 26 percent of the vote to his 30 percent - a difference of about 2 million voters. With the vote on the far right and left squeezed, the 6.6 million who ticked bayrou's box will determine who becomes France's next president.
By the time I arrived at 6 p.m., polls were already suggesting Segolene had a comfortable lead over Bayrou. Still, at 8 p.m. when the exit polls were announced, crowds engaged in the requisite cheering, screaming and flag waving.
`Victory is possible,' rejoiced Jean-Luc Melenchon, a senator and Fabius supporter, who had briefly flirted with the far-left after Royal's selection last year. He claimed Bayrou supporters would be more inclined to join the anti-Sarkozy movement than vote for the former interior minister's scary ulta-liberal vision for France.
Royal left her supporters to celebrate by themselves for at least 90 minutes, allowing me to chat happily with Mr. X, who made no mention of the relevations in my book of his proposition eight months ago. Had he read the reviews? Or noted my recent absence from the campaign? I didn't ask.
Eventually Madame popped up on television screens to make her victory speech from her rural constituency in Melle. In a stiff white suit, she used her hands to try and squish any jubilation from the crowds which she addressed like a school principal. She called for voters to help her ``make France advance without brutilizing it.''
The immediate question: would she be seeking a deal with Bayrou?
`This is not a Scottish election,' Patrick Menucci, one of her closest aides and a street-savy former car salesman from Marseilles, told me. `There is no proportionality. It's a presidential election. We are not changing our line. We
are not negotiating with anyone.'
For how long I wonder?
Around 10.30 p.m. Hollande and other party grandees began trickling back from the television studios where they'd been defending their vision for France. Outside, Rue Solferino was full of young people, waving flags in line with Segolene's patriotic wishes and being entertained by a DJ. When it began raining around 1 a.m., they transformed the cardboard campaign banners into hats and carried on dancing.
Four hours after her first victory speech, Segolene addressed the Paris crowd in the same white suit, though visibly more relaxed.
`Segolene Presidente,' chanted the beer drinking youngsters.
`Ouiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii, ouiiiiiiiiiiii, ouiiiiiiiiiiii, write it down, ouiiiiiiiiiiiiii,' one screamed behind me as I scribbled on my notepad.
'The battle starts tonight,' she said from the DJ's stage. 'It's time to bring people together, create a dynamic.'
Inside, the team that accompanied her from Melle were less enthusiastic. Having studied the numbers (An Ipsos poll conducted five minutes after polls closed gave sarkozy a clear 54-46 lead) they were worried about their ability to attract the traditionally right-leaning Bayrou supporters after Segolene's campaign from the left.
'We've done better than Jospin,' urged Socialist party officials to boost flagging moral of Segolene's staff. `Mitterrand didn't do any better in 1981.' Segolene's people nodded weakly, picked up their suitcases, and wheeled them into the darkness to catch some valuable sleep before the gruelling second-round campaign trail begins.
Saturday 21 April 2007
Radio bo-bo
Tonight, I was Patrick-Leon Emile's guest on Radio Aligre, which friends explained to me as Radio Bo-Bo.
'Everyone listens to it on Canal Saint Martin,' I was told.
Fantastic. My key audience.
Before the interview, Emile told me he'd been in a bookshop an hour before the show when someone asked for a copy of my book. I was delighted. It help ease the pain when I discovered I was going to be talking on my own for an hour, broken only by two songs.
'Help,' I said to myself. 'I haven't got nearly enough anecdotes prepared.'
In fact, the interview turned out to be nothing like I had experienced before - we covered everything from whether I had plans to write another book, to how I found time to write Schzophrenie Francaise.
'I took my inspiration from your prime minister,' I said. 'If he has time to write for an hour before checking in to run the country, I told myself I can do it.'
For the first time, an interviewer was interested in me, rather than what I had to say. It was quite un-nerving as I was totally unprepared. But very pleasant.
Created in 1981, Radio Aligre claims to be one of the last independent FM radio stations in the Paris region. It spurns advertisements, existing on hand outs from cultural benefactors, including, bien sur, the government (via the swocial affairs ministry). The studios were grotty in a kind of underground sort of way, buried in Montreuil, a corner of the 11th I didn't know. If the cafe-concert going on at the metro station when I visited is a regular event, I'll be back.
What France Wants?
With polling day, tomorrow, I thought I'd share the original 'politic-fiction' ending to my book. On a Republique Francaise plane returning from a NATO summit in Riga last November, I mulled what France wants from its next president....
A low rumbling can be heard along rue du Faubourg St Honore. Deep murmurings reach as far as the Elysee palace. The windows of Prada, Chloe and other chic boutiques have been boarded up and the valet of the Hotel Crillon has been given the day off. The road of the super-rich has been re-claimed by a raggle-taggle mob of farmers, hippies and new-age savers of the planet who fill the pavement as the tractors trundle past. The sweet but distinctive smell of marijuana fills the air.
In the courtyard of the Elysee palace, the Republican guard stand motionless, expectant. Plumes of dark horses hair arch over their shined and buffed helmets then hang down their backs. A red carpet stretches between them from the palace steps all the way down to heavy iron gates on the street. Inside, Chirac sits heavily in his favourite arm-chair, toying nervously with the nuclear button which in a few minutes he will entrust to the newly elected President of the Republic. He brushes the dust absent-mindedly off its leather cover, until an aide tugs his arm.
‘Attention Monsieur le President,’ he says.
Chirac, surprised in the middle of a deep thought, looks up and wordlessly puts the button on the table. A heavy cloud of apprehension matches the humidity in the streets outside.
Slowly, the gates of the Elysee palace are heaved open, dragging on the pebbles as if resisting an unwanted intrusion. The noise from the street becomes louder and louder. Then suddenly, it stops. There is a lull, filled only by the sound of a solo tractor manoeuvring round a tight corner into the palace courtyard. The chunky American tractor scratches the gates as it turns, before churning up the red carpet beneath its wheels. Unperturbed, the tractor grinds its way towards the steps of the Elysee palace where it stops. The cortège of tractors on the street outside remains silent and menacing.
A door opens and out from the tractor strides Jose Bove. He takes a moment to light his pipe, his walrus moustache flickering in the wind. He looks up as the Republican guard raise their instruments and launch into a rendition of the Marseillaise. He jumps down from the tractor and starts singing along to the music.
‘Debout, les damnes de la terre,’ he sings in a deep, throaty voice. Bove is not singing the French National anthem, but the Internationale, a combat song of working classes all over the world. The band continues nervously.
‘Then come comrades rally!
And the last fight let us face,’ sings Bove.
There is a long pause after he has finished. Chirac, waiting silently to greet his successor at the doors of the palace, eventually makes his way down the carpeted steps.
‘Bonjour Monsieur le President,’ he says.
Bove says nothing. He looks around at the stupefied Republican guard.
‘Come on Jacques, let’s get this over with,’ he says, taking the older man’s arm and guiding him back up the steps.
‘What do we do now?’ he asks once the two men are inside.
‘There are some things I need to tell you,’ says Chirac. ‘Top secret things. Like where France’s armed forces are active in the world, and where our secret agents are mobilized.’
‘I am against war,’ said Bove. ‘Tell me where there is fighting and I will put a stop to it.’
‘But..’ says Chirac.
‘No buts,’ says Bove. ‘I am President now.’
At the end of the meeting, Chirac hands him a list of his closest collaborators whose next posting the incoming president traditionally approves.
‘What’s this?’ said Bove.
‘It’s a the list of appointments that I would like you to make.’
Bove looks down at the names. He looks up at Chirac and staring him in the eyes, he crushes the note in his hand and throws it on the floor.
‘But,’ starts Chirac.
‘Be careful,’ warns Bove. ‘Or you will be spending your last days in jail.’
Bove accompanies Chirac out on to the steps of the palace. Chirac turns to shake his hand, but Bove is already on his way back inside. Looking up at the cameras, Chirac walks slowly down the steps, across the courtyard and its crumpled red carpet, and out onto the street. There is no official car waiting to take him away. Only tractors housing hostile looking farmers.
Chirac smiles at them. They look coldly back.
‘But I fought so hard for you,’ Chirac said to a weather-hardened soul hanging out of his green wheat-cutting machine. The farmer looked at him, emotionless. ‘In the European Union, with the common agricultural policy,’ pleads Chirac. ‘At the World Trade Organisation.’ Then slowly, faltering. ‘Did none of it matter?’ The farmer looks away.
The former president of the Republic turns back towards the Republican Guard, who he is relieved to see are still standing by the palace gates.
‘Where is my car?’ he enquired. ‘I thought it would be waiting for me here.’
‘I’ll call you a taxi,’ said a sympathetic officer. ‘Your best bet is to go up to rue de la Boetie to avoid the tractors. Shall I get it to pick you up from the UMP headquarters?’
Chirac shuddered. ‘Not from there,’ he said. ‘It is ok. I will find my way.’
And with that, the seventh president of the Fifth Republic walked alone, his head held high, past the tractors. His strides were regular and calm, in contrast with the raging incomprehension buzzing inside his head. He thought his legs would give way, but somehow he made it to the only refuge he could think of. He knocked at the door of the British Embassy.
‘They didn’t even let me have a car,’ he said simply, when the door was cautiously opened a crack. The doorkeeper called the ambassador who immediately left his lodgings to greet the former president. He heaved the door open himself, and Chirac stumbled inside. The ambassador took Chirac in his arms, where the former president immediately broke down.
‘How did this happen,’ he sobbed.
It happened the day that Philippe Douste-Blazy, the joker persuaded by Chirac to run against Sarkozy, insulted the former partner of his wife, ecologist Nicolas Hulot. On the plane back from a rally in Marseilles, Douste made illusions to journalists about Hulot’s ability to satisfy a woman.
‘There are real men and then there are those who get their kicks out of hugging trees,’ Douste was widely reported to have said.
Hulot immediately aligned himself with Bove, bringing Arlette Laguiller with him to form an alternative ecological movement. The remaining candidates on the far left, Marie-George Buffet and Olivier Besancenot, crumpled after a televised slanging match over who was the best communist. Royal lost her leftist credentials after a British tabloid published photos of her locked in an embrace with Blair, supposedly tutoring her on electoral strategy. Laurent Fabius’ belated bid to supplant her failed when it was revealed he paid wealth tax and lived in a castle. On the centre-right, Francois Bayrou scored marginally more than Sarkozy and Douste who destroyed each other by leaking kinky tales of their rivals’ sexual adventures to political bloggers. As voters turned to the internet, the mainstream press was forced to break its vow of silence surrounding politicians’ private lives. National Front Leader Jean-Marie Le Pen lapped up disaffected voters propelling him into a second round run off with Bove.
Bove’s first act as president was to enable high-speed internet access in his Larzac home base, making good a regional inequality that had been driving him crazy for years. His second act was to order his farmer friends into the forests to hunt for wild boar. The animals were served on spits at a giant coronation ceremony in Bove’s village of Montredon a few days later. Bolivian Presiident Evo Morales was invited as guest of honour, together with a delegation of native Indian peasants who presented France’s new Asterix with a platter of guinea pig. Manu Chao and Zebda, the alternative rock band from Toulouse, provided the entertainment while Zapatistas from Mexico kept unwanted urban upper class Bobos out. The event was sponsored by Danone, which supplied unlimited Roquefort cheese. So great were the celebrations that Morales missed his plane home and nothing was heard from Bove for well over a week.
His third act as president was to withdraw France from the World Trade Organisation and revoke all existing trade treaties with every country except for Bolivia. Markets for Roquefort cheese evaporated overnight and even a government edict requiring citizens to consume 50 grams each per day was not enough to keep Bove’s friends in the style to which they had become accustomed. He withdrew France from the euro to allow the national bank to start printing money to keep his mates happy, sending prices spiralling out of control.
Just before everyone in France gave up hope, crackly radio broadcasts began to be picked up from across the Channel. Exiled in England, Chirac urged his citizens to resist in stirring speeches reminding France of a time when it was a great nation.
‘Whatever happens, the flame of French resistance mustn’t be extinguished and will not be extinguished,’ he said on Radio London.
He called upon Gerard Royal, an agent of the French secret services and brother of Segolene who successfully obliterated Greenpeace’s New Zealand operations, to intervene. WTO Director General Pascal Lamy arranged for Bove to be arrested on his arrival in Canada for an environmental conference. Royal led a battalion of soldiers allied with the Republican Guard, and Chirac made a final rousing speech before setting sail for France accompanied by the British navy.
Crowds lined the streets for his triumphal return to Paris, cheering as the presidential carriage made it way to the Hotel de Ville. The old warrior looked around him at the sea of people looking desperately to him for a way out of France’s impasse. He paused for a second, savouring the moment. When he took the microphone, ladies swooned in the hot August sunshine.
‘I promise not to change anything ever again,’ he said to whoops and cheers. ‘France is the greatest nation in the world. Vive la Republique! Vive la France!’
A low rumbling can be heard along rue du Faubourg St Honore. Deep murmurings reach as far as the Elysee palace. The windows of Prada, Chloe and other chic boutiques have been boarded up and the valet of the Hotel Crillon has been given the day off. The road of the super-rich has been re-claimed by a raggle-taggle mob of farmers, hippies and new-age savers of the planet who fill the pavement as the tractors trundle past. The sweet but distinctive smell of marijuana fills the air.
In the courtyard of the Elysee palace, the Republican guard stand motionless, expectant. Plumes of dark horses hair arch over their shined and buffed helmets then hang down their backs. A red carpet stretches between them from the palace steps all the way down to heavy iron gates on the street. Inside, Chirac sits heavily in his favourite arm-chair, toying nervously with the nuclear button which in a few minutes he will entrust to the newly elected President of the Republic. He brushes the dust absent-mindedly off its leather cover, until an aide tugs his arm.
‘Attention Monsieur le President,’ he says.
Chirac, surprised in the middle of a deep thought, looks up and wordlessly puts the button on the table. A heavy cloud of apprehension matches the humidity in the streets outside.
Slowly, the gates of the Elysee palace are heaved open, dragging on the pebbles as if resisting an unwanted intrusion. The noise from the street becomes louder and louder. Then suddenly, it stops. There is a lull, filled only by the sound of a solo tractor manoeuvring round a tight corner into the palace courtyard. The chunky American tractor scratches the gates as it turns, before churning up the red carpet beneath its wheels. Unperturbed, the tractor grinds its way towards the steps of the Elysee palace where it stops. The cortège of tractors on the street outside remains silent and menacing.
A door opens and out from the tractor strides Jose Bove. He takes a moment to light his pipe, his walrus moustache flickering in the wind. He looks up as the Republican guard raise their instruments and launch into a rendition of the Marseillaise. He jumps down from the tractor and starts singing along to the music.
‘Debout, les damnes de la terre,’ he sings in a deep, throaty voice. Bove is not singing the French National anthem, but the Internationale, a combat song of working classes all over the world. The band continues nervously.
‘Then come comrades rally!
And the last fight let us face,’ sings Bove.
There is a long pause after he has finished. Chirac, waiting silently to greet his successor at the doors of the palace, eventually makes his way down the carpeted steps.
‘Bonjour Monsieur le President,’ he says.
Bove says nothing. He looks around at the stupefied Republican guard.
‘Come on Jacques, let’s get this over with,’ he says, taking the older man’s arm and guiding him back up the steps.
‘What do we do now?’ he asks once the two men are inside.
‘There are some things I need to tell you,’ says Chirac. ‘Top secret things. Like where France’s armed forces are active in the world, and where our secret agents are mobilized.’
‘I am against war,’ said Bove. ‘Tell me where there is fighting and I will put a stop to it.’
‘But..’ says Chirac.
‘No buts,’ says Bove. ‘I am President now.’
At the end of the meeting, Chirac hands him a list of his closest collaborators whose next posting the incoming president traditionally approves.
‘What’s this?’ said Bove.
‘It’s a the list of appointments that I would like you to make.’
Bove looks down at the names. He looks up at Chirac and staring him in the eyes, he crushes the note in his hand and throws it on the floor.
‘But,’ starts Chirac.
‘Be careful,’ warns Bove. ‘Or you will be spending your last days in jail.’
Bove accompanies Chirac out on to the steps of the palace. Chirac turns to shake his hand, but Bove is already on his way back inside. Looking up at the cameras, Chirac walks slowly down the steps, across the courtyard and its crumpled red carpet, and out onto the street. There is no official car waiting to take him away. Only tractors housing hostile looking farmers.
Chirac smiles at them. They look coldly back.
‘But I fought so hard for you,’ Chirac said to a weather-hardened soul hanging out of his green wheat-cutting machine. The farmer looked at him, emotionless. ‘In the European Union, with the common agricultural policy,’ pleads Chirac. ‘At the World Trade Organisation.’ Then slowly, faltering. ‘Did none of it matter?’ The farmer looks away.
The former president of the Republic turns back towards the Republican Guard, who he is relieved to see are still standing by the palace gates.
‘Where is my car?’ he enquired. ‘I thought it would be waiting for me here.’
‘I’ll call you a taxi,’ said a sympathetic officer. ‘Your best bet is to go up to rue de la Boetie to avoid the tractors. Shall I get it to pick you up from the UMP headquarters?’
Chirac shuddered. ‘Not from there,’ he said. ‘It is ok. I will find my way.’
And with that, the seventh president of the Fifth Republic walked alone, his head held high, past the tractors. His strides were regular and calm, in contrast with the raging incomprehension buzzing inside his head. He thought his legs would give way, but somehow he made it to the only refuge he could think of. He knocked at the door of the British Embassy.
‘They didn’t even let me have a car,’ he said simply, when the door was cautiously opened a crack. The doorkeeper called the ambassador who immediately left his lodgings to greet the former president. He heaved the door open himself, and Chirac stumbled inside. The ambassador took Chirac in his arms, where the former president immediately broke down.
‘How did this happen,’ he sobbed.
It happened the day that Philippe Douste-Blazy, the joker persuaded by Chirac to run against Sarkozy, insulted the former partner of his wife, ecologist Nicolas Hulot. On the plane back from a rally in Marseilles, Douste made illusions to journalists about Hulot’s ability to satisfy a woman.
‘There are real men and then there are those who get their kicks out of hugging trees,’ Douste was widely reported to have said.
Hulot immediately aligned himself with Bove, bringing Arlette Laguiller with him to form an alternative ecological movement. The remaining candidates on the far left, Marie-George Buffet and Olivier Besancenot, crumpled after a televised slanging match over who was the best communist. Royal lost her leftist credentials after a British tabloid published photos of her locked in an embrace with Blair, supposedly tutoring her on electoral strategy. Laurent Fabius’ belated bid to supplant her failed when it was revealed he paid wealth tax and lived in a castle. On the centre-right, Francois Bayrou scored marginally more than Sarkozy and Douste who destroyed each other by leaking kinky tales of their rivals’ sexual adventures to political bloggers. As voters turned to the internet, the mainstream press was forced to break its vow of silence surrounding politicians’ private lives. National Front Leader Jean-Marie Le Pen lapped up disaffected voters propelling him into a second round run off with Bove.
Bove’s first act as president was to enable high-speed internet access in his Larzac home base, making good a regional inequality that had been driving him crazy for years. His second act was to order his farmer friends into the forests to hunt for wild boar. The animals were served on spits at a giant coronation ceremony in Bove’s village of Montredon a few days later. Bolivian Presiident Evo Morales was invited as guest of honour, together with a delegation of native Indian peasants who presented France’s new Asterix with a platter of guinea pig. Manu Chao and Zebda, the alternative rock band from Toulouse, provided the entertainment while Zapatistas from Mexico kept unwanted urban upper class Bobos out. The event was sponsored by Danone, which supplied unlimited Roquefort cheese. So great were the celebrations that Morales missed his plane home and nothing was heard from Bove for well over a week.
His third act as president was to withdraw France from the World Trade Organisation and revoke all existing trade treaties with every country except for Bolivia. Markets for Roquefort cheese evaporated overnight and even a government edict requiring citizens to consume 50 grams each per day was not enough to keep Bove’s friends in the style to which they had become accustomed. He withdrew France from the euro to allow the national bank to start printing money to keep his mates happy, sending prices spiralling out of control.
Just before everyone in France gave up hope, crackly radio broadcasts began to be picked up from across the Channel. Exiled in England, Chirac urged his citizens to resist in stirring speeches reminding France of a time when it was a great nation.
‘Whatever happens, the flame of French resistance mustn’t be extinguished and will not be extinguished,’ he said on Radio London.
He called upon Gerard Royal, an agent of the French secret services and brother of Segolene who successfully obliterated Greenpeace’s New Zealand operations, to intervene. WTO Director General Pascal Lamy arranged for Bove to be arrested on his arrival in Canada for an environmental conference. Royal led a battalion of soldiers allied with the Republican Guard, and Chirac made a final rousing speech before setting sail for France accompanied by the British navy.
Crowds lined the streets for his triumphal return to Paris, cheering as the presidential carriage made it way to the Hotel de Ville. The old warrior looked around him at the sea of people looking desperately to him for a way out of France’s impasse. He paused for a second, savouring the moment. When he took the microphone, ladies swooned in the hot August sunshine.
‘I promise not to change anything ever again,’ he said to whoops and cheers. ‘France is the greatest nation in the world. Vive la Republique! Vive la France!’
Friday 20 April 2007
For Line: Sciences Po Students Vote Royal
To satisfy Linaloca, who rejects my assertion that French students are awfully conservative, I bring you a Le Monde report of the vote at Sciences Po organised by student body BDE on April 18. Segolene scored 39.8 percent, Bayrou 26.6 percent, Sarkozy 18.7 percent, and Le Pen 4.8 percent.
Random Fan Mail and French Charm
It seems every time I go into a bookshop, it doesn't stock my book.
Am I doing something wrong? I have tons of messages from friends who've picked up a copy in out of the way places, and importantly at the airport (where normally only big-selling books are stocked, according to my publisher), but I have stopped going in bookshops now to avoid disappoinment.
'They must be all sold out,' said a friend kindly.
Whilst I await the sales numbers from my publisher, I am boosting my confidence with some of lovely moments that come from having written a book. Like the mail I got from a student today, enquiring whether I'd answer some questions for her dissertation. She found my book at the airport and now thinks I am an expert worthy of academic research!
My favourite random fan-mail came after an interview I did with RTL.
Laurent told me he likes my vision of French politics, but told me I was wrong on one thing.
'Non l'Ecosse n'est pas un coin perdu d'une Ile pour les francais, mais une tres jolie region a visiter.'
He signed off with this classic comment. 'Je comprends le politicien qui vous a fait des avances car vous etes
resplendissante de joie et de bonne humeur.' Merci Laurent!
Am I doing something wrong? I have tons of messages from friends who've picked up a copy in out of the way places, and importantly at the airport (where normally only big-selling books are stocked, according to my publisher), but I have stopped going in bookshops now to avoid disappoinment.
'They must be all sold out,' said a friend kindly.
Whilst I await the sales numbers from my publisher, I am boosting my confidence with some of lovely moments that come from having written a book. Like the mail I got from a student today, enquiring whether I'd answer some questions for her dissertation. She found my book at the airport and now thinks I am an expert worthy of academic research!
My favourite random fan-mail came after an interview I did with RTL.
Laurent told me he likes my vision of French politics, but told me I was wrong on one thing.
'Non l'Ecosse n'est pas un coin perdu d'une Ile pour les francais, mais une tres jolie region a visiter.'
He signed off with this classic comment. 'Je comprends le politicien qui vous a fait des avances car vous etes
resplendissante de joie et de bonne humeur.' Merci Laurent!
Anti-Sarko
He may be the front-runner for the presidential elections, but his naked ambition has cultivated an enthusiatic anti-Sarkozy movement. Copies of Marianne magazine with the cover story 'Sarkozy: what the big media don't dare or don't want to say' have been flying off the shelves this week. The weekly said it had initially sold 300,000 copies and then put an extra 60,000 copies on sale on Wednesday, which quickly diusappeared. It printed an extra 80,000 copies containing the 12-page dossier on Sarkozy, with the conclusion that he represents a 'serious danger' for France. A punchy persona with a short temper and an apparent inability to accept criticism, Sarkozy has in vain tried to shake the image that makes people afraid. He is now claiming his isn't ashamed to provoke fear, telling TF1 that worries about de Gaulle, Mitterrand and Chirac never stopped them being elected. 'Fundemantally it's s good sign,' he claimed on Monday. Hmmmm....
Press: Liberation
To read about my book in Liberation, click here.
Antoine told me his conclusion, that I end up defending the Anglo-Saxon model involuntarily, was designed to get me going.
E: 'Antoine, have you learnt nothing from our debates these past three years? There is no single Anglo-Saxon model.'
A: 'Gotcha. Hehehehehe.'
Antoine told me his conclusion, that I end up defending the Anglo-Saxon model involuntarily, was designed to get me going.
E: 'Antoine, have you learnt nothing from our debates these past three years? There is no single Anglo-Saxon model.'
A: 'Gotcha. Hehehehehe.'
Thursday 19 April 2007
The Angry Postman
Olivier Besancenot, the cherubic postman taking time off from delivering mail to stand for the second time as a presidential candidate for the Revolutionary Communist League, is angry. And guess who makes him screw up his round tanned face with barely contained rage? The capitalists bien sur.
'We are no more stupid than the capitalists,' he told a crowd of 4,000 very young supporters at the Salle de la Mutualite in Paris' chic fifth arondissement last night. With a sarcastic, bitter smile, he continued. 'If they are capable of stealing from us, then we are capable of stealing from them.' Is he talking about raising taxes I wondered? When he mentioned Johnny Hallyday, a friend of Sarkozy who fled to Switzerland to avoid taxes, the crowd booed.
Olivier is campaigning on the slogan 'our lives are worth more than their profits.' To force the message home, he wore a carton of a smiling granny on his tight black t-shirt. Her wrinkles were red. The blood of the worker.
'They try to tell us that it is the capitalists who create riches,' Olivier continued, raising his pasty white arms in the air. 'It's us,' cried the crowd. Olivier told them if he was president, he would outlaw the firing of workers and the shifting of production to cheaper countries.
Most of those who flocked to see Olivier looked just like him. Very, very young. There was barely a streak of grey hair to be seen. Looking in the faces of the teenagers and students as they raised their hands in a clenched fist and sung the revolutionary song of resistance, L'Internationale, I could see why they came. I could just about remember what it felt like to believe in a better world. But why had the old people come?
Jean Michel de Laroche, 53, a psychiatrist from Paris' fourth arondissment, said he supports Olivier because he embodies justice and equality. I admired his expensive-looking watch and beautifully coiffed grey hair, and enquired whether he'd be willing to share his money with some of the poor students around. 'I’d be happy to pay more taxes, much more.' Still, he must be in a minority. Most people rushed past the volunteers collecting campaign funds at the door without reaching into their pockets.
I understood barely a word of what Michel Lopes, 63, was saying as he thrust a leaflet heralding the workers’ occupation of a printing factory where he used to work into my hands. I made out that he belonged to the generation of '68, when students marched for a change in society, and that he despised the 'liberalisme' of Blair's Britain.
Some people had come as part of their civic duty, touring rallies as they try to make up their mind who to vote for. Documentary maker Antoine Dauer, 30, said he likes Olivier's candour, but questioned whether his economic discourse is realistic. Hedi Taleb, 28, agreed. 'It's total demagogy, but then so are the people who say everything will be solved if we cut taxes.' I asked them what they thought of Tony Blair, and suddenly found myself drawn into a debate about the Anglo-Saxon world. 'We are not all horrible capitalists,' I found myself saying as I put my journalist pen into my handbag. Then I recommended they buy my book....
Wednesday 18 April 2007
L'AngloSaxonne Rules The Airwaves
Today, dear reader, I rule the French airwaves. At the risk of sounding like it's all gone to my head, I'd like to share with you the delightful fact that l'AngloSaxonne featured on TV, radio and in the newspapers.
It all began very early in the morning on France Info where Mireille Lemaresquier asked me for my views on les petits candidates - CSA rules mean her radio has to give equal attention to all 12 presidentiables and she'd heard more than enough about Sego, Sarko, Francois and Jean-Marie. At work, I discovered that Jacques Hubert-Rodier had reviewed my book in Les Echos .
His favourite phrase « Viens vite, ô plombier polonais ! Paris a besoin de toi ». All because my French plumber screwed me for 700 euros for two hours work and a few plastic pipes. Then this evening, I had the great honour to be invited on Patricia Loison's evening show on i-tele. She was absolutely lovely, and I enjoyed myself enourmously, not least because the hairdresser gave me a fabulous 1980s coiffe and told me I was beautiful. Which made me feel better after Mireille told me people have been mistaking my fat tummy for the beginnings of a wee baby.
It all began very early in the morning on France Info where Mireille Lemaresquier asked me for my views on les petits candidates - CSA rules mean her radio has to give equal attention to all 12 presidentiables and she'd heard more than enough about Sego, Sarko, Francois and Jean-Marie. At work, I discovered that Jacques Hubert-Rodier had reviewed my book in Les Echos .
His favourite phrase « Viens vite, ô plombier polonais ! Paris a besoin de toi ». All because my French plumber screwed me for 700 euros for two hours work and a few plastic pipes. Then this evening, I had the great honour to be invited on Patricia Loison's evening show on i-tele. She was absolutely lovely, and I enjoyed myself enourmously, not least because the hairdresser gave me a fabulous 1980s coiffe and told me I was beautiful. Which made me feel better after Mireille told me people have been mistaking my fat tummy for the beginnings of a wee baby.
Tuesday 17 April 2007
Red Noses
Presidential candidates are sporting red noses everywhere in Paris. For some reason they suit women better - Segolene and Marie-George look fantastic. Perhaps because men have a tendancy to take themselves a wee bit too seriously? In any case, the only candidates to be spared by the red-nose brigade on these posters by the Sorbonne was Sarkozy and Le Pen. What does that say about French students.....
Monday 16 April 2007
For Balance
After a weekend away, I return to France to see Segolene posters are now being defaced. In this picture, taken by the canal Saint Martin at Jaures metro station, she is sporting a Hitler moustache accompanied by the title Demagogie. It's not the funniest, but I thought I should display it for balance. The best Segolene graffitti I saw was again near my house (I live in a creative neighbourhood obviously). La wannabe premiere dame de France was sporting a red nose. I wanted to take a picture.But I was late for work and cycling downhill fast. Maybe tomorrow.
The Big, Wide Blogging World
Tomorrow I'm coming out of hiding. I'm going to go meet other bloggers and find out how this blogging thing works. How I can see if anyone is reading my drivel. How to make sure my drivel is read. See what inspires others to blog. A quick glance at the blogs of the bloggers inscribed to attend, and they all have something to sell. Saving the environment, justifying Segolene, promoting a film script, making folk back home jealous of the ex-pat lifetsyle. They all seem much more technologically savvy than me. But then that wouldn't be hard.
Still there is more to life than blogging. Like getting engaged. Yes really. I still can't believe it.
Sunday, driving to the airport, went something like this.
D (removing a ring he had given me from my middle finger): why don't you get the jeweller to make this smaller to fit here (placing on wedding finger)
E (joking) Are you asking me to marry you?
D Well I thought we had already agreed that
E (shocked) is this a proposal?
D Che?
E You are asking me to marry you?
D You don't want?
E Yes, but you have to ask me in a way that I have a story to tell my girlfriends.
Later, the sun set in an obligingly romantic-ish fashion as we stood outside the airport munching sandwiches and watching D's car, parked in the quick drop space, to make sure he doesn't get a ticket.
D Emma, will you be my fiance?
E Yes
Thursday 12 April 2007
Bombs
I'm a little scared that something really awful is going to happen this election. After the deadly bombs that killed 33 people in Algeria, Sarkozy warned us today that the terrorist threat is 'real.' What happened in London, Spain and New York could happen here, despite France's opposition of the Iraq war, he said in an interview with Europe 1 radio.
Will Al-Qaeda try to leave its ugly fingerprints on this election, traumatising an already slightly paranoid country? It's a frightfully chilling thought. Not just for the people who could be hurt or killed. But also because of which candidates would benefit. And what this would mean for democracy.
Will Al-Qaeda try to leave its ugly fingerprints on this election, traumatising an already slightly paranoid country? It's a frightfully chilling thought. Not just for the people who could be hurt or killed. But also because of which candidates would benefit. And what this would mean for democracy.
Wednesday 11 April 2007
France's Briget Jones
'France's Briget Jones' is what the i-Tele interviewer called me.
'I hope you gave him hell for that,' said a friend afterwards. 'You are much more together than Briget.'
If only he knew.... Seeing as the interviewer was my friend Jean-Jerome, who enjoys winding me up, I said nothing.
I got a bit lost on the way to the television studios and stopped in a neighbouring building to ask for directions.
'It's over there,' said the helpful lady, before asking timidly. 'And if you don't mind me asking, who are you?'
Wearing a leather jacket makes for instant stardom I suppose.
I smiled. 'Nobody important,' I assured her. Perhaps I should have said 'Briget Jones.'
'I hope you gave him hell for that,' said a friend afterwards. 'You are much more together than Briget.'
If only he knew.... Seeing as the interviewer was my friend Jean-Jerome, who enjoys winding me up, I said nothing.
I got a bit lost on the way to the television studios and stopped in a neighbouring building to ask for directions.
'It's over there,' said the helpful lady, before asking timidly. 'And if you don't mind me asking, who are you?'
Wearing a leather jacket makes for instant stardom I suppose.
I smiled. 'Nobody important,' I assured her. Perhaps I should have said 'Briget Jones.'
Tuesday 10 April 2007
Ready, Set, Go!
At midnight on Sunday, France's official election campaign began meaning all 12 candidates are allocated equal air time, preventing any serious debate and providing a real headache for broadcasters. (The schedule of the France 3 news broadcast to which I was invited in the wee hours of Monday morning was shown just after midnight, granting freedom to the late Sunday night political debate that squeezed in just before the deadline). By putting him on a par with Segolene and Sarkozy, this quaint but arcane law has blasted unknowns such as Gérard Schivardi, a mayor from a south-western village who is backed by Trotskyite Worker's Party into public consiousness. The problem with Schivardi is that thanks to his accent, noone has a clue what he is saying. Still, there is something quite wonderful about the fact that Mr. Nobody (with enough buddies among elected officials) can shoot from obscurity with little or no money and participate in the debate. Each voter they attract is someone who failed to be inspired by the main candidates.
Posters for all 12 contenders went up in front of voting centres Monday. By Monday evening the images of Sarkozy and Le Pen had already been defaced at this school just yards from my home.
Sunday 8 April 2007
Student Politics
When I was at university, no self-respecting student campus would have left election posters for a right-wing party unvandalised for long. It's only when we get older and realise we don't want to share all our money with our compatriots that we are supposed to become conservative. I said it during the CPE protests. French students are middle-aged before their years....
Why Do French Toilets Never Come With a Sink?
This blog was intended as a commentary on the French political campaign, continuing where my book Schizophrenie Francaise left off. So I should really be talking about the growing anti-Sarkozy movement that deprived him of chocolate in Lyon last week after protestors held up banners saying he wasn't welcome. Or Le Pen's cloak-and-dagger excursion to Argenteuil, the Paris suburb where in 2005 Sarkozy promised to rid the neighbourhood of scum, a word (in French 'racaille') which has become emblematic of his menacing tough-love approach. Or the book which cost Equal Opportunities Minister Azouz Begag his job. He reveals his dislike for Sarkozy and the former interior minister's inability to control his temper. 'Will Azouz Begag have the right to the same media promotion as Eric Besson?' asked Marianne magazine after it published serveral extracts from the book, a reference to the supposed pro-Sarko bias in the French media. Not if the anecdotes are anything to go by. Compared with Besson's insiders account of Segolene's campaign, Begag's story appears to be more about his lack of political skills and support in Chirac's government.
All very interesting stuff. But what I want to talk about today is a thought that struck me last night. French toilets, certainly in Paris, are mostly seperate from the bathroom and rarely contain a sink. A habit I had become accustomed to, thinking it reflected the small living space of most Parisiens. When my British visitors complained, I thought they were being British and directed them to the sink in the bathroom or the kitchen. When my Italian visitors expressed surprise, I began to think that perhaps it is the French who are different. And then last night, I started to think about toilet arrangements in Belgium or Spain. In each picture of appartments I have known, there was always a sink next to the toilet. Why then, in France, do you have to make a special trip to wash your hands?
All very interesting stuff. But what I want to talk about today is a thought that struck me last night. French toilets, certainly in Paris, are mostly seperate from the bathroom and rarely contain a sink. A habit I had become accustomed to, thinking it reflected the small living space of most Parisiens. When my British visitors complained, I thought they were being British and directed them to the sink in the bathroom or the kitchen. When my Italian visitors expressed surprise, I began to think that perhaps it is the French who are different. And then last night, I started to think about toilet arrangements in Belgium or Spain. In each picture of appartments I have known, there was always a sink next to the toilet. Why then, in France, do you have to make a special trip to wash your hands?
Friday 6 April 2007
Party
He came! I was signing a copy of my book when I heard a familiar voice in my ear.
'Felicitations!'
And there standing next to me was Jerome Bonnafont, Chirac's spokesman.
'You came!' I exclaimed. 'How wonderful!'
I procured a book and signed it with a mention for Franco-British relations which I classed as 'notre vieux rivalitre qui nous tiens chaud au coeur.' After flicking through a few pages, he promised to let me know his opinion when he's read the book.
I was of course delighted by everyone who showed up. Old friends including my flatmate from when I worked in a Tex Mex restaurant at Montparnasse, and a former partner in crime from Brussels. New friends with flowers and smiles. My neighbour and her daughter. Old Fettesians come to show support for the Edinburgh school which we have in common with Tony Blair. French colleagues from the Association de la Presse Presidentielle and British and American colleagues from the Anglo-American press association were out in force.
I had absolutely no idea how many people would be able to come. I had total faith in Felix, who had organised everything and persuaded his mum to loan us her fabulous art gallery for the event, but I was still nervous. The white space of the Gallerie Nikki Diana Marquardt seemed awfully vast when Donato and I stood alone in the middle.
'Taste this,' said Farid as he and his Nouveaux Traiteurs set up the cocktail they'd prepared for around 200 people. It was the only time I had time to eat any of his delicious nibbles.
The first to arrive were my work colleagues, closely followed by Jean-Claude and the team from Gawsewitch. And suddenly I was in a whirl, greeting people with never enough time to chat. After a little more than an hour, we decided to welcome everyone. Donato filmed my wee speech, which I watched again today. Very Gwyneth Paltrow, though thankfully without the tears and the pink dress. Cringily though, there was lots of hand waving and touching of my heart. And my bra strap decided to jump out from under my dress and decorate my arm.
'Trop mignonne,' said a French friend kindly.
People stayed until around 11 p.m. when we ran out of wine. Donato and I left Farid to clear up, and stolled out into the romantic evening darkness of the Place des Vosges.
Postcript: To hear the Radio France interview of this morning with Dominique Andre, click here.
Tuesday 3 April 2007
Anglo-Saxonne Identity Crisis
Patrick Cohen doesn't get it.
'Why don't you like being called an Anglo-Saxon?' he asked me earlier during his evening show on RTL radio.
'Because they aren't very popular in France,' I told him.
Then why do you call yourself an Anglo-Saxon on your blog (someone reads it!) and on the cover of your book? he continued.
'Because I didn't think anyone would care about the opinion of a tiny wee country tacked onto the north of England,' I said.
To be clear, I should perhaps explain. 'Anglo-Saxon' is a French concept which comes with a bunch of assumptions (money-obssesed, wedded to unfettered capitalism). I don't recognise myself nor the country of my birth among them. Nor do I think English-speaking countries have enough ideology in common for them to be lumped together. Plus the word 'Anglo' is never going to be a popular epithet for a Scot. Hence I reject the concept. At the same time, I live in France and I know that for French people, I am an Anglo-Saxon. So I allow myself to be categorised in a way French people understand. And then I tell them they have got it all wrong. Capisce?
'Why don't you like being called an Anglo-Saxon?' he asked me earlier during his evening show on RTL radio.
'Because they aren't very popular in France,' I told him.
Then why do you call yourself an Anglo-Saxon on your blog (someone reads it!) and on the cover of your book? he continued.
'Because I didn't think anyone would care about the opinion of a tiny wee country tacked onto the north of England,' I said.
To be clear, I should perhaps explain. 'Anglo-Saxon' is a French concept which comes with a bunch of assumptions (money-obssesed, wedded to unfettered capitalism). I don't recognise myself nor the country of my birth among them. Nor do I think English-speaking countries have enough ideology in common for them to be lumped together. Plus the word 'Anglo' is never going to be a popular epithet for a Scot. Hence I reject the concept. At the same time, I live in France and I know that for French people, I am an Anglo-Saxon. So I allow myself to be categorised in a way French people understand. And then I tell them they have got it all wrong. Capisce?
Hurray for Fast Trains
'Look at it go!' exclaimed a French colleague as a TGV hurtled across television screens during the lunchtime bulletin, breaking world records with a speed of 574.8 kph.
The express train was showing-off the new Paris-Strasbourg line to its journalist passengers, and Gallic excellence to the world. Across France, people and news commentators beamed with pride and presidential candidates scurried to lap up some of the good feeling. Hang the cost! France is the champion du monde! Hurray for the TGV!!
The express train was showing-off the new Paris-Strasbourg line to its journalist passengers, and Gallic excellence to the world. Across France, people and news commentators beamed with pride and presidential candidates scurried to lap up some of the good feeling. Hang the cost! France is the champion du monde! Hurray for the TGV!!
Monday 2 April 2007
Sex, Scandal, Sarkozy, Segolene, PMT
Sorry about the misleading title. It's just that I was advised that one way of attracting people to your blog is to use words commonly searched for on google. So let's see what happens.
The PMT part is true. It explains why I am writing this blog from my bed at 8 p.m. while the sun is still shining. And why when Donato told me he has a good chance of getting a job in Paris, I found it impossible to transmit the enthusiasm I felt in my heart into the words that came out of my mouth. So the best thing for me to do now, is to have an (extremely) early night.
Buena notte.
The PMT part is true. It explains why I am writing this blog from my bed at 8 p.m. while the sun is still shining. And why when Donato told me he has a good chance of getting a job in Paris, I found it impossible to transmit the enthusiasm I felt in my heart into the words that came out of my mouth. So the best thing for me to do now, is to have an (extremely) early night.
Buena notte.
Sunday 1 April 2007
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