parismarisamadonna

Fixing a Hole – The Beatles 1967

So this is where I live…I actually pay actual money to live in this space. For every one of you who think it romantic to live in Paris, showered with snails and garlic and kisses, let me convey a short riposte of reality.

 

My front door and the ceiling above.

 

Around four years ago, the shower in the flat upstairs, obviously noticing that it was way more fun downstairs at my place, decided to come down and say hi. It chose to come down via the ceiling and the living room wall, rather than using the front door like a polite shower should. It continued to pay regular visits over the course of 2 years until finally the people upstairs were legally forced to seal it in and prevent its errant night-time wandering. 

Ever since, anyone who has visited chez moi has remarked upon the incredibly beautiful watercolour inked directly onto my living room wall.  It was a unique mural of my own, a melting, surreal landscape, a series of brown and white markings reflecting the putrid Parisian horizon outside. Quite appropriate really, I live less than 50 metres from the Salvador Dali museum in Montmartre. With the benefit of hindsight, I genuinely miss that mural; in fact, I miss having a wall at all.

During these past four years, I’ve welcomed all number of insurance experts, architects, body corporate representatives and various residents of the building, each of them stopping by to inspect ‘the wall’. It is surprising that ‘the wall’ has never fallen on my head. It is equally remarkable that I haven’t yet died of asbestos or lead poisoning; the building is after all, over 100 years old. It was, after the war, home to a brood of pretty Parisian prostitutes; likely the last time anyone had sex chez moi.

My landlords sued the landlord upstairs and then they sued the body corporate. They even had a bash at trying to get me to pay for the damage, but I’m nothing if not a colossal pain in the arse when wrongly accused. None of it worked, their insurance finally agreed to pay for the repairs. Enter stage right, Dodgy Incorporated.

Bienvenue Chez Moi!

 

Two months ago, I was informed that the repairs, repainting two rooms and fixing the wall, would commence mid-January. I was also informed that during this time I would be required to leave chez moi and live chez my landlords’ parents for four weeks. The day before I moved, it was casually dropped in conversation that the painter, Monsieur Dodgy, and his wife, Madame Dodgette, would be living chez moi, for the duration of the repairs.

Forgive me for swearing, but what the up-your-French-fucking-arse fuckitty fuck? My initial reaction to being forcibly evicted while someone else lays their sweaty builders’ buttcrack all over my Pink Egyptian Cotton sheets was about as subtle as the red cheeks of the ladies of the night, former occupants of chez moi. Documenting said reaction in slightly more palatable terms proved easy enough. Small victory to me, The Dodgy Double would not be sleeping in my bed. Though what they did do couldn’t really have been worse.

My venerable godfather, Big Al, is a painter; he has been emblazoned with splotches of white paint since I can remember. My dearly departed father was a carpenter, as he oft reminded us, just like Jesus. As a result, I’m not completely ignorant when it comes to weapons of mass construction. I grew up in a house that was constantly being renovated and despite my lack of training I regularly helped out. I can wield a paintbrush and a cordless drill with absolute confidence. So last weekend, when I returned to my little flat on the hill, I was stunned. I could have done a better job with my hairbrush and a box of Lego.

As any lady knows, when you are doing your eye make up, you hold a tissue below your lower lashes to catch any fallout from your lids onto your cheeks. Similarly, gravity dictates that if you’re going to attempt to paint anything, the first rule is to protect the floor. The second is that you need massive lengths of masking tape. I know this, and I’m a barely qualified HR chick whose only experience painting is what I do each morning to my face. If you were making a living from painting other people’s walls, I’m guessing you’d have learned about protecting the client’s belongings at some point during your apprenticeship? I’d like to know, Dodgy McDodgerson, why are there drops of paint on every flat surface in the apartment…ironically, every flat surface except for the single wall that was meant to be fixed?

In a truly spectacular display of productivity à la française, I’ve been returned to my little flat to live in a space that is less liveable than it was when I left. In four weeks, Dodgy Destructions have repainted every room except for the living room, the damaged one. They’ve also broken down the entire wall and most of the ceiling in order to ascertain the scale of the damage to the structural integrity of the space. These architectural geniuses, after ripping off seven layers of the plaster, have ascertained that the beams need to be replaced. Dodgy PhD could not have ascertained this fact without removing the only thing that protects me from the cold, from the ancient chimneys, from all manner of dust and crap hidden in the century old walls?

Could they not have just made small holes? Could they not have used the fancy infrared things that look through the plaster? Could they not have done anything even remotely like fixing the hole and a lot less like breaking new ones?

Because it’s France and nothing is ever easy, the body corporate are now involved so everything has come to a grinding halt; the walls cannot be fixed by a company other than one chosen by the body corporate. They need to get quotes, they need architects to analyse the structure, they need to schedule the repairs in accordance with the wishes of the surrounding apartments, they need to do all of this in their 35 hr work week with 2 hours off for lunch everyday. Meanwhile, I’m living in Chernobyl! 

I moved that shit out before I moved back in...

 

My landlords were no longer able to accommodate me in the tiny chamber of loneliness and despair up in the ghetto of desperate youths; I had no choice but to come home. But first, adding insult to injury, I had to move Dodgy Dude’s paint kit out of my living room.  

But…hold onto your paint-splattered hats, the next chapter might just be the perfect happy ending to this less than Disney adventure.

Photo in no way representative of next adventure except in my imagination.

 

Elegantly Wasted – INXS 1997

Before I go further, let me start by saying that the Art-sist-ologer likes INXS more than I do. I am just hitching my popsugar pony to her bandwagon. There has been some familial contention over recent days; I want no beef in my family unless someone is barbecuing it, in which case, medium rare for me please. I was too busy Voguing in fingerless pink lace gloves while simulating masturbation and expressing myself to have paid much attention to the sensually evocative hips of Michael Hutchence. 

In much the same way that the Art-sist-ologer and the Smartarse, due only to their geographic proximity to me as youths, can sing, word perfectly, everything Madonna ever released, I too have an encyclopaedic knowledge of all things INXS. When she wasn’t staring sullenly into space lamenting her meaningless existence, the Art-sist-ologer would take a minute or two to stare sullenly at her bedside stereo while Michael moaned about needing her tonight or tearing her apart. Sufficiently stuffed with postmodern angst, she would go back to staring without a soundtrack…or dying her hair purple.*

Long story short, if you ever lived within the walls of 32 Hilliger Road, you knew all the words to Madonna and INXS as well as The Beatles (Dad), Queen (Motherbear) and Faith no More (The Smartarse). We’re nothing if not steadfastly loyal to our favourite artists. 

Unsurprisingly, I, accompanied by 25% of the population of Australia, watched the recently aired mini-series that retold the story of Australia’s most successful rock band; 6 exceptionally Mullet-ed boys from the Northern Beaches of Sydney who went from singing to pissheads in pubs to filling Wembley with screaming British virgins. As the old adage goes, girls wanted to shag them, blokes wanted to be them. A few Sundays ago, Australians were forced to choose between watching INXS or a dramatisation of events regarding convicted criminal Schapelle Corby. The beautician and the body board didn’t win the ratings that night; Australians still have enough sense to avoid the Murdochisation of their telly and watch some very sexy men shake their hips and play air guitar.

The series itself was just OK; the guy who played Michael was a miniscule spark on the sexual lightening rod that Michael really was. The one playing Kirk Pengilly was downright shameful while the ones playing the Farriss brothers were passable. The girl who played Kylie Minogue was the most convincing of them all. However, for my money, the most impressive performance was that of the wigmaker. Six different mullets, plus the luscious schoolboy locks of the seventies, the hair could have had it’s own series; Never Comb Us A Part

 

I remember exactly where I was when I learned that Michael Hutchence had died. I was in a taxi, weaving from George Street, in the centre of Sydney to my then home in North Paddington, in Sydney’s Eastern Suburbs. I had taken a rare Saturday night off because that night, I was going to the birthday party of a boy I’d had a crush on for months. The only thing I could think about was scrubbing off the deep fried filth of a busy Saturday lunch at Planet Hollywood and getting gorgeous in the hope of getting some from the Salacious Scorpio.

The taxi driver, with an odour and an accent resplendent with sub continental spice, pointed at the police cars as we drove up New South Head Road. They were parked in front of the Indian Restaurant in Edgecliff where Michael had eaten his last meal.

With no more intensity or emotion than he’d used to ask me where I was going, the driver turned to me and said, “The singer from INXS is dead up there.” I asked him to turn on the radio; we both listened as the entire city interrupted their busy Saturday afternoon of summery Christmas shopping to talk about what was unravelling a few blocks away.

Michael Hutchence died 17 years ago. INXS never really recovered from it, some might say they were over before he did whatever he did to himself that night. 

For many of you, especially if you’re British, Michael Hutchence is most widely remembered as the bloke that shagged Paula Yates while she was still with Sir Bob. He is the drugged-up longhaired Aussie lout who shagged his way through a cast of supermodels before shacking up with the Beatified Boomtown Rat’s wife. You probably didn’t care that much anyway, Michael died just 3 months after Diana; the world was still reeling after the demise of the Queen of Hearts and a best selling single from Elton John.

For the generation of Australians that juggled textbooks and cassette tapes in the nineties, INXS were the sound of our youth. The heady guitar riffs, the sax solos…and Michael… undulating, pouty Sex God Michael. They were the soundtrack of our summers, of our schooldays, of our sadness and our sexual awakening. I actually wonder if there is a person in Australia of my age who cannot sing New Sensation, including the punctual ‘aahs’ between the verses.

Watching this series had a very strange effect on me. Yes, I thought about Michael’s now teenage daughter, what it must be like to grow up without a mummy or a daddy and three sisters named after Strawberry Shortcake Dolls.

More than that, I was sad for me. I remembered those days in the sun. Those days when we didn’t have mobile phones, or emails, or texts instead of talks, or Al Qaida, or Scripted Reality, or Phone Hacking, or Skin Cancer, or Miley Cyrus, or Tony Abbott, or Twerking, or all of the other shit that pisses me off today. 

As I walk around these cobbled streets, uncertain of the future, uncertain of whether my apartment’s ceiling will fall onto my unprotected skull^, uncertain of everything really, Michael’s voice reminds me of a time when I knew nothing, but I wasn’t quite so terrified. I was excited to see how my life would turn out, what would I become, how I would ‘grow up’.

I’m trying very hard to focus on that feeling of excitement, rather than walking the streets expecting to be run over by an errant Peugeot scooter. I’d like to be Elegantly Wasted, not just wasted.

 

*The Art-sist-ologer was a committed disciple of the morose Seattle generation. Her natural propensity for staring at people to better understand their character had finally come into its own as she could now glare with purpose and passion. The irony is she had to give up all that black and purple to take up hot pink and orange singing all the words to Peppa Pig and DJ Lance from Yo Gabba Gabba.

^More to come soon on the subject of Home Shit Home

Leader of the Pack – The Shangri-Las 1964

You might have heard, there’s been a wee bit of media attention, just a word casually dropped in the papers here or there. Stop the presses, it has been officially confirmed that François Hollande has been shagging one woman (an actress) while he was shacked up in unholy civil partnership with another (a journalist). Valerie “the Rottweiler” Trierweiler of the civil partnership became the Premiere Amante at some point while François was still the bloke who lived with then presidential candidate, Ségolène Royal. Valerie has been hospitalised for exhaustion; she has been officially dumped from her starring role as First Lady of France. Julie Gayet, the actress, may or may not be pregnant but definitely is suing a local tabloid for damages. Woody Allen, drawing inspiration from his own personal plight, might be the only person capable of writing a screenplay which will might Jean Dujardin his second Oscar in a starring role requiring him to say nothing at all.^ 

François, a diminutive, bespectacled, unseemly man who, instead than speaking eloquently, makes sounds reminiscent of woodland rodents, has had a lot of very high-profile vagina. I’m not sure if you are with me on this, he must be stellar in the sack. Has he got a 45cm-vibrating penis? Or maybe he can recite Shakespeare’s sonnets while simultaneously performing cunnilingus. Either way, I cannot understand why all these clever women are attracted to him. He is the Mr Collins of the French Parliament’s Pride & Prejudice; not the brooding, proud Mr Darcy, not even the bumbling Mr Bingley, but the sweaty, sycophant. He’s banged a number of very beautiful, very, very intelligent women, more than once. If only he were as popular with his constituents as he seems to be with the laydeez. If only he had multiplied the economy as efficiently as he multiplied the orgasms of his paramours.

If Francois Hollande were shagging only one woman at a time, he would be the first monogamous president of the 5^th Republique. The French, most especially the messieurs, have upheld their patriotic right of keeping lovers and conducting extramarital affairs since back when they still had kings with heads.

Leader of the Pack - Hollande

 

Sarkozy was banging a folk singing Italian supermodel at the same time he paraded his far more palatable wife for his conservative voters. Jacques Chirac had a few actresses to distract him from the exceptionally coiffed ministrations of wife Bernadette. François Mitterand was famously revealed to have an adult daughter whose mother was not Madame Mitterand. But the award for extracurricular shagging must certainly go to Valery Giscard D’Estaing, president during the free lovin’ seventies, he freeloved his way into an affair with the actress who played Emmanuelle; yes, the President of France was banging a veritable porn star.#

I’ve discussed the Hollande adultery (not really, they weren’t married) with pretty much everyone I know, both French and not French. The affair itself was not as widely reported in France as it was elsewhere; adultery in France is as common as, and as disregarded as the dog-poos. The French simply want him to get on with the job of dragging France up from the depths of recession and maintain their benefit-heavy socialist economy. François can bang whom and whatever he likes so long as the retirement age does not go north of 60. 

For us puritanical, protestant, conservative, unenlightened Anglo’s, adultery is a little less easy to stomach. It is only 15 years ago that Bill Clinton was impeached for doing hereto-unforeseen things to a cigar and the nubile intern who was holding it. The British were wholly comfortable with the notion of men cross-dressing at the weekend barbecue, or impersonating tampons, but multiple partners gets you kicked out of government and even ostracised from the Royal family.

Taking presidential adultery to sadistic, nepotistic levels not known beyond the realm of North Korea is everyone’s favourite rainbow-flag-waving president, Vladimir Putin. I, like my compatriot Adam Hills remain entirely convinced that Putin is, himself, gay. I’m not sure how a photo of a semi-naked man atop a horse cannot be considered homoerotic propaganda, but for the sake of those who tow the communist party line, lets imagine that he is straight. He divorced his wife during an interview after he had already started working his way through the Russian rhythmic gymnastic team. One can only assume their flexibility also wins them gold medals in the conjugal arts. He lately awarded his current mistress the honour of lighting the Olympic torch in Sochi, arguably the only light over there that works.

Leader of the Horse Pack. They can't afford motorbikes in Russia.

 

Like their sisters in North Korea, or any other fascist regime, I am fearful for what happens to these power-blinded women when they fall from favour. I’m reminded of the, albeit semi-fictional, novel and film The Last King of Scotland. The warning to women as to what befalls you when your omnipotent lover loses interest is a horrific image stamped on my psyche, even though I’ve seen the film just once, several years ago.

Those I’ve questioned as I began writing this have all told me that women are inherently attracted to power. Apparently we just can’t keep our pants on when faced with a man who is so potent that he lied, swindled, negotiated, lobbied and cheated his way into leadership over a weak regime that pays lip service to democracy rather than actually living it. If that is power, no number of Louboutins, Michelin Starred Dinners or Tiffany Tennis Bracelets could induce me to tolerate it, let alone be attracted to it.

Power comes from within, it is not the result of the job you do. Tony Abbott, current Prime Minister of Australia, proves this, even if he proves nothing else.

Leader of a Pack of Children - Tony Abbott

 

Tony is a God-fearing Catholic married to Margie since he began his illustrious career in right-wing politics and bipartisan misogyny. Staunchly opposed to marriage equality and abortion, he was for many years known as the Mad Monk. I’d like to get some grass roots support behind a push to change that nickname to the Catholic C**t, but I recognise in today’s censorship-stupefied Australia, printing such a name might frighten the Queenslanders.

Much like Hollande, Tony won his election because the electorate were not voting for the other guy rather than actually voting for him. Burdened with unpopularity among the intellectual elite and the working poor, Tony has had to content himself with winning over the burgeoning middle classes*, those with a “home cinema” and an “outdoor kitchen” and not a TV or a BBQ. Many of these people have become wealthy as Australia digs everything of value out of the ground and sells it to China.  They are generally concerned only with themselves, their children and the size of their mortgage. They are frightened that the freakish, scary immigrants are going to take their money and are obsessed with city street crime while at the same time celebrating the early release of a convicted criminal from a scary Balinese gaol.

These are also the people that are killing sharks, in the ocean, off the coast of Western Australia under the guise of the newly introduced Shark Cull. A move designed to reduce the number of shark attacks in WA and protect their valuable tourist dollar. A move that is far more logical than say, not swimming in the ocean where the sharks live. By the same logic, we could see the dawn of a native bird cull for fear of being shat on when one goes outside, into the home of the birds. We could equally introduce a wombat cull to ensure the nasty little buggers don’t damage the paint job on the new Commodore when they get caught underneath the wheels at 180kmh down the Pacific Highway in the middle of the forest, the forest where the wombats live.

Tony, the man with the most powerful position in Australia has very little personal charisma. When he speaks, he sounds surprisingly like an adolescent, not the authoritative baritone of Obama or even the rounded, weighted vowels of David Cameron. Robbed of the personality that would win him the hearts of the people, he’s resorted to scare tactics and jingoism to maintain a flimsy hold on power. Shouldered with religious beliefs that prevent him from shagging around, he’s resorted to belittling the large majority of women he interacts with, most famously, Julia Gillard, former Prime Minister of Australia.

These boys in charge all around the world, why do they get to do anything and everything they want? They get to bang whom they want, when they want. They get to change the rules to suit their own design and they’re rarely in power long enough to be held accountable.

I think it might be time for a girl to get a shot at the title. I’m not suggesting that women are immune to corruption, that they are inherently better at the job than a man is, but I‘d certainly like to see a few more Merkels and a few less Millibands. I’d like to see the population represented by the population, not by the guys with the best lobbyists, the best speechwriters or the best relationship with Rupert Murdoch. 

I’d like to see the other Clinton in the big chair…maybe even with a cigar.

Because she's a woman? This recent photo, taken from an article reporting her new haircut...

 

 

^I might have made up the last sentence…

#Slightly more respectable that Italy who elected one to government

*There is a b-word used to describe these people. However, if I use it here, Motherbear will cease all ties with me, she hates the B-word more than she hates Tony

Killer Queen – Queen 1974

Last week while many of you, most especially the menfolk, were grunting and gurning and gyrating with excitement as 22 very small men wearing very large plastic exoskeletons threw a ball back and forth, I was watching the ads. Well, I watched them the next day on YouTube, but let’s not get pernickety on the details.

Had the time zone been marginally less stupid o’clock, I would still not have watched the Big Game live. I don’t appreciate American Football. Learning the rules of the three codes of football (Rugby League, Rugby Union and Australian Rules) played prevalently in Australia was quite enough until I got to Europe where I’ve since gathered the requisite working knowledge of soccer. Adding a fifth code is just plain ridiculous; especially when I’ve got so much data already vying for space in the corridors and alcoves of my mind palace.* However, pop culture fangirl that I am, as every year, I was curious to check out the latest crop of mega-buck Super Bowl publicity.

This year, a spritely little vignette featuring Anna Kendrick briefly interrupted the traditional worship at the altar of Budweiser and machismo. There was something very long and boring starring Arnie and even Ellen Degeneres, seemingly the antithesis of all that is the testosterone turbocharged NFL, danced about to flog her powder blue earphones.

My own little world stopped when they started banging on about cars, which is odd because I do not own a car, and even odder, because I cannot drive. When Jaguar decided to brand their 60 seconds of football-fuelled propaganda #BritishVillains, I obligingly sat up and paid attention.

The Jaguar advertisement was made exclusively for American consumption and will not be screened for Her Majesty's, or any of her subjects' pleasure; the country in which it was filmed, the country from whence Jaguar hails and the country native to the three men who feature in the humorous little celebration of all that is bad in Britain. The three actors make suppositions as to why it is that the baddies are so often British. They reference power, the stiff upper lip, the precision and their obsession for details. All of them are wearing suits and bowties as they approach the Palace. All of them are very, very handsome.

Ben Kingsley. Dishy Bald Brit.

 

Ben Kingsley won an Oscar playing the most generous man that ever lived in Ghandi, Tom Hiddleston is more often seen in Shakespeare than Asgard and Mark Strong is regularly cast as the Arab intelligence officer, despite being Italian. But in this advert, these three men were bundled together representing the new British Invasion. Americans aren’t bad enough to play their own baddies, so they’re importing them from the UK.

When interviewed by the ultimate British baddie Jeremy Clarkson, Benedict Cumberbatch, Star Trek’s resident baddie, was asked why all the bad guys in Hollywood films are British. Cumberbatch suggested that it was because Americans speak with warm round vowels while Brits speak in a staccato of clipped consonants. He implied that their accent makes them sound more intelligent, rendering them much nastier than their cousins across the Atlantic. Being well spoken, being intelligent naturally suggests that you are bad.

Mark Strong. Dishy Crooked Tooth Brit.

 

I don’t disagree. Our collective consciousness is drowning with idiots getting their 15 minutes because they were filmed doing something stupid on a smartphone. If you don’t believe me, check out the latest episode of Rich Kids of Beverly Hills^ or check out just about anything on Twitter or Instagram. Being vacuous and inane is its own reward in our new establishment. You might even make a million from your sextape. Being clever is not only frowned upon; it is potentially the root of evil.

Why are British actors taking over Hollywood? Why is America gaga for Maggie Smith’s vitriolic barbs in Downton? Why was a man with a moniker most people can’t spell let alone say voted sexiest man?

Ben Elton, the brilliant mind that wrote Blackadder and We Will Rock You, suggested during one of his stand up routines that Hollywood movies use British voices for baddies because it harks back to the War of Independence. The original American bad guys were British soldiers; think Jason Isaacs in The Patriot. Elton’s theory certainly makes sense, but I’ve got another one.

Ralph Fiennes. Dishy You-Know-Who Brit

 

Maybe it is just because many contemporary American actors, pumped up on inflated paychecks, scientology and macrobiotic goji berry smoothies are very, very conscious of their public image. Playing a character that is mean, or controversial, or unchristian, is anathema to securing lucrative cosmetic and jewellery sponsorship deals. 

I’m a big fan of the mega hit Homeland. I wondered early on why it was that the lead actor, Damian Lewis playing an American soldier, was not American. That character, Nicholas Brody, is a traitor to the American people, a converted Muslim that spends much of the first series on his knees calling out in Arabic. Is it too much to theorise that the casting agent couldn’t find a local star willing to do it?

Tom Hiddleston. Dishier than his Aussie Brother Brit.

 

As with any rule, or any of the gross generalisations previously featured on these pages, there are exceptions. The lately departed Phillip Seymour Hoffman had the biggest acclaim of his career playing a very, very nasty gay man and John Malkovich does a brilliant baddie, but generally speaking, if ever a character is going to be universally despised, the actor is foreign. Stephen Spielberg cast Englishman Ralph Fiennes as the German Nazi camp director in Schindler’s List, American Hannibal Lecter is portrayed by English Anthony Hopkins and in Titanic, the poor good Irish were trapped downstairs while the nasty English drank tea from porcelain cups before sailing off to safety in life rafts.

I’m sure that when Jaguar made their ad, they were just being funny, playing up on the recent anglophilia that has gripped the stars and stripes. Their little girls are fainting over One Direction while their mums are having hot flushes for Matthew Crawley. London has just this past year overtaken Paris to become the European city most visited by Americans. I suspect that the Olympics had something to do with it. I also suspect that the current craze for all things transatlantic is not likely to end anytime soon.

 

If it means more Benedict, I’m not going to complain.

Benedict Cumberbatch. Dishy 6 Syllable Brit.

 

 

*Yes, that is a reference to Sherlock. He and I share the same megalithic intellectual capabilities 

^Actually don’t. Even my admittedly low-level crap-o-meter forced me to look away after 15 minutes

Gypsy – Lady Gaga 2013

Staring down the very real possibility of leaving France sooner rather than later, I’m taking the time to review my Bucket List. 

Louis XIV has already taken care of No 1; the King is whisking me away this spring to see, and smell, the Lavender Fields of Provence.  I can’t remember if it was My Mother’s Castle or My Father’s Glory or Jean de Florette or Manon des Sources, but it was in one of those romantic, sun-drenched films I was forced to watch in French class. When I was a teenager, I first saw a screen filled with lavender flowers as far as the eye can see, feathery mauve blankets draped across the sun bleached yellow clay of France’s hottest corner. Ever since, I have wanted to throw myself onto that purple pillow and slip into a luscious lavender coma for at least as long as it takes for someone to proffer another glass of ice cold Rosé.

So the first item will be ticked in May. For January, I settled on Bucket List No 2; the Fish Market at Marseille.

A long time ago, while disinterestedly flicking through food channels on a rainy Saturday afternoon, I happened upon the High Priest of Pisciculture, Rick Stein, banging on about the Fish Wives flogging their husbands’ treasures on the shoreline of the Old Port at Marseille.

You may not know this, but the phrase, to swear like a Fish Wife was actually born in the salty port of France’s second largest city. Should you ever visit, your sense of propriety will remain perfectly in tact; you won’t be able to understand a single word they say. The accent of Marseille being so stained with the broguish tongue curls and nasals of nearby Italy and Africa, you can barely make out their bonjour, let alone their merde or anything remotely crude. In addition to the accent is their incomprehensible slang, a hybrid of French peppered with words they stole from the Maghreb as the human stream of immigration sailed, and continues to sail, into the limestone harbour of France’s largest passenger terminal. 

Beyond the romance of salt, of sea and of ships, Marseille is, on the whole, unimpressive. Perched between the fashionable French Riviera to the right and the family friendly holiday resorts of Languedoc to the left, Marseille is a working city studded with chimneys that spew grey smoke into the grey sky and stain the facades of the chalky houses a dirty, smoggy grey. Much like the working harbours in Northern England or Newcastle north of Sydney, the city is undergoing a bit of renovation around the docklands. Disused crumbling brick grain stores are being transformed into very fancy apartments that will be filled with ridiculous lengths of Italianate marble kitchen bench-tops as the Nouveau Riche take over walls their ancestors would have scoffed at.

MuCEM and the Villa Mediterranee. Black Lace Box and Precarious White Box

 

There is however, a pretty damn impressive brand spanking new Museum.

MuCEM is the museum of Mediterranean Culture inaugurated last year as part of the celebrations to commemorate Marseille being the European Capital of Culture for 2013. Before you get all hot and sweaty with excitement, I will add that this year, Hull, of Northern England, is the European Capital of Culture. The overpaid Bureaucrat that is being paid his weight in gold to decide where the European Capital of Culture is must have a penchant for dusty, dirty, industrialised cesspits in need of a facelift. But anyway, back to this fancy new museum. 

If you’ve ever wanted to see just what a clever man can do with concrete and a touch of creativity, the building is really, very impressive. Unlike Gehry’s Aluminium Vomit in Bilbao, MuCEM is a gigantic black concrete lace coated box, designed by a French-Algerian with an Italian name and a wee bit more respect for the existing landscape than the bloke who destroyed Bilbao. From atop the Chantilly Cube stretches a fine black footbridge onto the ancient Fort of St Jean, one of the two that guard the entrance into Marseille’s Old Port. Wandering along the medieval terraces of ochre granite and staring back into the computer generated black concrete masterpiece is a visually extraordinary feat of architectural harmony. Gehry may want to visit.

There are sunlounges dotted everywhere, long benches and designer gardens perched on top of rooms filled with ancient artefacts and a very good restaurant. The views up to the hilltop basilica of Notre Dame de la Garde, Mary standing up high on a hill to protect the mariners, not not the poor fish) are worth the visit. On our chosen day, the only thing we could see was the violence of the gathering storm that dumped enough water to flood most of southern France.

Napoleon's Fancy House on the Hill - Pharo

 

I was far less impressed with the exhibition inside; a visual history of the Mediterranean peoples and how their mastery of agriculture, invention of citizenship, desire to discover new worlds and creation of the three religions of the book means that they are the most advanced people on earth.

Yeah well, they also discovered how to harass, torture and kill each other in the name of afore-mentioned cow, colony, passport or theological fairytale. Not so advanced the way I see it. Although there was a very interesting section about the Death Sentence. I’ve now seen, with my very own eyes, an actual Guillotine that actually killed someone. France, the ever so advanced nation of the Rights of Man practised the death penalty until Mitterand abolished it in 1981. In France, they executed the poor souls with a Guillotine, until the very last one was beheaded, in Marseille, in 1977. My French family assure me that the guillotine is far more effective method of execution as death is instantaneous, unlike the barbaric anglo method of hanging. I suppose I’m just a bit squeamish about the idea of removing a person’s head when not in the context of Tudor marriages or Game of Thrones.

Efficient..unlike everything in France since.

 

During my short stay in Marseille, I didn’t see a man beheaded, but I was witness to a live Sea Bass being hung, drawn and quartered, upon a small plastic table, in the open space just above a busy Metro Station.

Unburdened by the mundane criteria of anything like a health code or hygiene standards, in Marseille, after the Fish Wife has harassed you into purchasing the frolicking fish in front of her, her knife wielding husband will happily prepare your piscatorial delicacy for cooking. The Sea Bass, as alive as you or I, was rather annoyed at being removed from his tray of seawater and refused to lie still on the scales as he was weighed. He jumped onto the ground at least three times before Madame was able to price him. Sea Bass seasoned with the smoke and shizzle of a pedestrian zone must be delicious. 

Go Fish.

 

More spectacular than the aqua acrobatics was the knife entering the belly of the writhing fish and the scarlet sensation of his insides spilling over the table followed by a crimson tide of blood gushing onto the pavement below. A quick wipe over with an oil-stained cloth and the gutted guppy was thrown into a plastic bag in anticipation of a generous bath of garlic and parsley.

For two hours we stood and watched as tables were set up and filled with gasping fish of all shapes and sizes. Crayfish pricked at the eyes of the wiggling fish and squid stared up as they were poked and prodded by customers assessing their freshness. Being winter, there was a fishy frenzy for the Monkfish; the ugliest things you ever did see, so ugly that they are usually sold without their giant toothy heads. Echoing their compatriots of 1789, we observed the beheading of a hundred or so of the tasty little buggers, albeit with a giant knife that slammed down onto the plastic bench, hammering out the rhythm of repetitive death, rather than the slick squeal of Lady Guillotine herself.

The Fishwife.

 

After observing the mass murder of a whole lot of fish in a whole lot of increasingly brutal ways, it was time for lunch.

The second reason I wanted to visit Marseille was to eat Bouillabaisse. The dish, a stew of the various fish native to the rocky, salty shores of the Mediterranean is flavoured with saffron and garlic and served with garlic bread and rouille, a sort of mayonnaise thickened with potato. Garlic, bread, potato, fish, mayonnaise…fancy French fish and chips? Possibly… but most definitely one of the most delicious plates of food I have ever eaten.

Sailed right into my mouth...

 

Wet through after three days of torrential rain and freezing temperatures, it was time to head back to the southern French House on the Prairie, the place I’ve been hiding out these past few weeks. The recent crush has ended with a colossal slap to earth. If only I was as adept at selecting the qualities of the opposite sex as I am at combining words to describe food?

Today, I’m off again. The red Swiss Army suitcase will roll into another city, for another adventure. I’m not sure what this one will bring, but I know that I’ll never, ever stop moving, searching and seeing…or falling stupidly in love with inappropriate men and ridiculously handsome British movie stars.

 

After three months of anxious panic and crippling stress, it is definitely time I got Loki.

Marseille.

 

 

 

Final Observation - Proof positive that men are ENCOURAGED to piss outdoors.