ALLEZ LES BLEUS

Today was rugby day, hurrah! And not just on TV: I went with a few friends to the Twickenham Stoop to watch one of the quarter-final of the European Cup (on these shores, it takes the name of a sponsor, a huge brewing company from a country where they have never heard of rugby. Sigh!).

The loyalties in the group were divided: I was supporting the Irish province of Leinster, and everybody else was supporting the local team of the Harlequins. That latter preference was mostly based on reasons only distantly related to sport: namely, the good looks, or rather shape, of some players. In contrast, my own criteria for supporting Leinster are highly rational: I like their attacking game, I have always had a weakness for Ireland, which has grown stronger over the years... Oh, and I just discovered that the usual jersey of their team being blue, the Leinster fans often encourage their favourites by chanting: "Allez les bleus! Allez les bleus!". What is a (French)man to do?

I must regretfully report that being handsome and shapely does not always ensure victory. In a hard-fought match, where brawl and resilience were more decisive than skills, Leinster, despite being better known for the latter than the former, held on to a 6-5 lead in the face of some rather unsportsmanly conduct by Harlequins.

And that was not the only happy event that day. One of our party couldn't come to the match as his wife was about to give birth. The baby is not born as I write these lines, but I certainly hope he will be named Rocky, in honour of man of the match Rocky Elsom. Then again, it could be a girl...

I LOVE IT HERE

© Hugues Léglise

Don't you hate these expats who move to a country because the weather there is more lenient, but never bother to learn the local language, never make any effort to integrate into their local community, and keep bitching to other expats how backwards and deficient their new adoptive country is compared to "back home"? Well, I do.

I have always thought that unless you have been kidnapped from the verdant valleys of your home country, and brought bound and gagged to the unhospitable shores of some hostile nation, not making the most of living under different skies is more than a lost opportunity: it's a crime. You might think that ending up here is merely the result of a quirk of fate, and that your home is somewhere else. The truth is, somewhere in your family tree, there's a similar quirk which resulted in your being born in your native country, or indeed your being born at all. While you may understandably remain attached to the place where you spent your formative years, home is really where you are living at the moment.

Of course, I may bitch from time to time about my adoptive country. You should have heard me criticise France when I lived there! It is something we French do quite easily: we have what is known there as "l'esprit critique". Believe it or not, it's a good thing...

In any case, let me say today loud and clear: I love it in London! I live in a house, which would be next to impossible in Paris, I have friends from all over the world, I can taste, or cook, food from around the world, the cultural life is second to none... And maybe best of all, Paris is only a little over 2 hours away. Que demande le peuple?

ALL THAT IS GREAT AND GOODY

Today was a sad day for Britain, and for OK! Magazine: Jade Goody has just been taken to her final resting place, and the world is weeping. You probably think that I am goimg to be all sarcastic and disparaging about this heroine of our times? I must admit the thought crossed my mind. It would be easy, and tempting, to make fun of somebody so obviously stupid, vulgar and narrow-minded. But that would be forgetting who put her in the eye of the media in the first place.

Who can blame Jade Goody for having taken advantage of everything that came her way? Coming from a difficult background, completely devoid of any talent or marketable ability, she must have been thrilled to realise that the very qualities that made her an object of loathing and ridicule on TV, and probably off it, could also make her famous and wealthy. Of course, she is not the only flawed celebrity around. But while others have become famous in spite of their flaws, Goody's exposure came because of hers.

It is not difficult to guess why the producers of Big Brother selected her: somebody with such a big mouth, such poor judgement and such limited intellectual ability would at the very least provide comic relief, and hopefully (for the producers) be involved in some conflict or some cringe-inducing antics. In other words, give the audience something to talk about around the water-cooler. Was she ever happy to oblige!

What is more difficult to understand is how she managed to sustain her appeal enough to earn year in, year out a multi-million pound income, and be voted the 25th most influential person in the world... Yes, she was still willing to make a fool of herself on just about every reality show on the face of the earth. Yes, the same tabloids that had initially vilified her and campaigned for her early exit from the Big Brother house, couldn't get enough of her afterwards. Yes, the Prime Minister himself led the tributes on her death, and she was nearly made a saint for giving more exposure to cervical cancer (as if that was the reason why she had called on TV to film her last moments!).

The thing is, Jade Goody was ideally suited to an age where people aspire more than ever to fame, and at the same time are fed up with beautiful, politically correct, unattainable role models. With her around, the most untalented wannabes can imagine that fame and wealth are within their grasp. Better still, they can sense some kind of connection, and even feel a bit smug, when they see the celebrity struggle with the same handicaps as them, and come out rather worse than they would.

So, rest in peace, Jade Goody, and have no fear about your legacy. In all likelyhood, TV scouts are scouring the pubs and hair salons of Essex as I write.