So here we are feeling grumpy about cats

I'm feeling grumpy today, out of energy, out of food, out of time...
And I don't like cats, so take this. This obviously doesn't apply to dogs. Which are great and lovable.

Bah humbug.

So here we are in Casamance

Ben from Action Culture sent me this, a nice little break for all of us stuck here in the rain!

So here we are cooing at the baby alpaca

Cheer up everyone! The baby llama is here to remind us that life has a sense of humour

So here we are on the road in Africa

Inspiration is low as I pour whatever energy I have into the bloody mémoire, due in three weeks exactly and barley started. Stress is running high and I wish I could be somewhere else... So today's post is all about remembering a bit of a trip I did in 2004 with my friend Olivia to Senegal and Mali. At the time I had some of the worst experiences I thought could happen, though it all seems pretty funny now.

This extract of the Africa diary starts with us somewhere between Dakar and Bamako, trying desparately to get to Mali from Senegal by road...

Woke up at 7. Olivia was roaming about, insomniac because of the heat. Dark clouds looming overhead and insufferable humidity: looks like the rainy season is imminent. We packed up and saw the rest of the family gradually emerge. We had a bucket shower and breakfast of bread and Nescafé. Tarim Toubé was going on his way to work and had told us that he would drop us off at the bus station. We picked up one of his friends who worked for the Senegalese gas company. This was something he seemed to be doing for the first time judging by the look on the friend’s face. We suddenly realised that we were being shown off, a little hike in his prestige the reward for his generosity. This seemed fair enough so we lavishly and truthfully praised our host for his hospitality, generosity, and the splendour of his house and family. We all parted in a good mood.

We needed to go to the bank as these get more scarce apparently over the border, and waited until it opened at 8. Waiting for Olivia, I watched the queue for the Western Union counter get longer. There are Western Unions all over the place, and they are popular for their simplicity: no paperwork or alphabetisation skills needed, no explanations required. One simply correctly answers the confidential question, and collects the money that someone has sent. Living in Paris I see the other end of this chain, the men and women who send their wages to relatives out here. This is the link between these two worlds, both of which are characterised by poverty and need. I looked at the ads on the wall. The ones for loans show how extra money will allow one to make the pilgrimage to Mecca, or lots of goats for Tabaski to impress the neighbours. Credit seems alarmingly available to all, without much indication of the horrendous interest rates.

After the bank we stopped for breakfast (again) on the way to the bus station. We sat at a big round table under a straw roof. We ate a dish made of beans wrapped in bread and I had my first cup of “café touba”. This is bitter, thick and smooth and even with a lot milk tastes overwhelmingly of cinnamon, it warms and lightens the insides.

We found an empty “sept places” going to Kidira (9400 each), the town on the Senegalese-Malian border, Senegal side. This time we took the middle row, which actually has leg room. Next to me and in the back are 4 young guys carrying a massive stereo, they are already asleep. In the front, as chance would have it, is Denis, the rather annoying French chap we met outside the embassy in Dakar. He has only just arrived in Tambacounda, having taken a 24-hour bus journey from Dakar, poor sod. From Kidira we will go to Kayes which is the first big town in Mali. We’re off.

*

It’s now nearly eleven and the countryside is getting greener with more grass, shrubs and trees. It’s really beautiful. Should be at the border in about 3 hours. Insh’Allah!

*

I dozed, with music pumping from the stereo. We reached Kidira at about 12.30, unloaded the car, and handed our passports to the grinning officials. No problems whatsoever. Olivia, Denis, one of the youths and I then took a cab to drive across the border (we’ve made it!), and got out to walk 300 meters to Malian customs. These were in a square concrete building at the end of a small street that crossed a village. Inside, a half naked man was handcuffed to a bench. Olivia, Denis and I paid 1000 FCFA “customs duty” each, which the official pocketed with a smile. The other guy however seemed to have a problem in that he didn’t have a passport, and had a phoney date of birth on his identity card. I hope he doesn’t end up chained to that bench as well.

We walked back to the main road of Dibouli, the village on the Malian side, and are waiting for our new vehicle to fill up. This time it’s a baché, a cross between a van and a 4x4. The driver and two passengers sit at the front, and a kind of trailer is attached to the back. It’s made of wooden slats and has a bench running round it, the floor and roof are made of corrugated iron. After a short wait it has filled up rather a lot: 16 people so far.

*

It didn’t help that on the baché’s floor were two massive spare tyres, buckets and a large bag of rice. A thin iron rail stops anyone falling out of the back and it was as squashed full as it was possible to be. Among the passengers: a turbaned man that looked like a desert nomad Touareg in his long indigo-blue robes; a mother holding her screaming child, five young men with another ghetto blaster stereo, and a large man with the worst skin disease I have ever seen. Half his face was rotten with shiny red flesh poking out from huge scabs; he looked like he’d been eaten by insects. He was also extremely jovial and beamed at the heap of people around him. Actually, it was he who started booming at the driver about the buckets and rice and spare tyres occupying the floor; he bellowed that we were not sardines. One tyre, the rice and two buckets disappeared on to the roof, and three other people promptly got on. One must insist on the fact that this trailer was only 1.50m x 2.50m and with a 1m20 ceiling.

That’s when the goat arrived, accompanied by its young mistress, a cheerful 20-something year old girl. From the cries of the others we understood that the goat was supposed to be travelling with us. “Mais il va uriner partout!”, bellowed the massive flesh-eaten man, so instead the goat was unceremoniously dumped in to a large bag, wrapped up to its head, and tied to the roof. At last we set off, squashed and bouncing on the awful roads, the goat screaming the whole way.

After about 150 meters we were stopped. The police wanted everybody’s passports, except for us three “toubabs” (white men). The others were led off to the official hut by the road, and depending on their nationality paid 1000 or 1500 FCFA. The Mauritanians pay more as they are disliked for still practising slavery on the Senegalese and Malians according to one of our fellow passengers.

This time we were off. The mother and child had now moved to the front, a couple of guys had gone on to the roof next to the bawling goat, another was balanced on the metal bar at the back, the goat-girl was sitting on the spare-tyre. Denis and Olivia were opposite each other at the back looking back at the fleeing road and countryside, I was next to Denis and squashed in to the flesh-eaten man, terrified of contagion. Everyone was very cheerful, we all burst out laughing whenever the poor goat bumped and screamed. The countryside was green, like an endless forest clearing of grass and lonely bushes, scattered baobabs. The road itself was appalling: a wide, red gravel track covered in orange dust. We bounced along. Bounce Bounce Bounce. Baaaaaaaaaaaa. Guffaws. Music blared from the stereo. After about two hours of feeling stiff, we stopped at a little village; the mud houses are square here rather than round. We were covered in orange dust which made us look badly fake-tanned. Everything was covered in dust, it got under the seats, between the toes and teeth, in our bags and water, our eyes and the creases of our clothes. We swapped seats around a few times to get new muscles to ache, and for a long while I dangled out the back, sitting on a metal rod, my feet skimming the air. Became fluorescent orange.

We stopped again for hibiscus juice, a taste of cranberry and peppermint. It comes frozen, in knotted little plastic bags. One simply bites off a corner and slurps it out. It is the most refreshing thing I have ever tasted. The mood was light all the way to Kayes. When we got near the town, we turned down the stereo which had been belting out Malian drum and bass. Soon enough, officials came to look at our passports, gawping with amazement at the difference between our passport photos and grubby reality.

Now, the problem with the baché depot just outside Kayes is that it only has one cab, and it certainly charges monopoly prices. We three toubabs, in search of a place to stay that night, tried bargaining to get to the “Marché” area of town, but the guy knew that without him we were stranded and refused to budge on his asking offer of 2500 FCFA, making noises about it being 7 km away and needing two litres of petrol to get there. In the end we gave in and entered what was truly a horrible vehicle. All cars in Senegal were fucked: cracked windscreens, no mirrors, windows blocked open or shut, no door handles, or just pieces of string where they should be, spluttering engines. This one didn’t even have an ignition. When he had wired it to start, thick black smoke and carbon monoxide started pouring in to the back from the boot where the engine appeared to be. With shut windows it was an asphyxiating drive.

The room we’re staying in is huge, empty except for two foam mattresses and a ceiling fan. There is also running water and I had my first blissful shower in Africa. The rooms are set on the first floor, looking over a courtyard which is covered in straw mats. The bathroom as well as the kitchen is communal, as is a large table set on the terrace. We met half a dozen French people doing various kinds of volunteering in the area. On their recommendation we went to a nearby patisserie for supper, and Denis, who was now getting rather annoying, came too. The dark alleys around the hotel are thick with mud, so we were actually quite pleased when our companion, prepared as ever, produced a torch. Supper, capitaine fish and tinned peas, was rather spoiled by Denis’ monologue of his exploits: hitchhiking in Tibet, hanging out with arms dealers, teaching French to the Indians of Papua New Guinea, motor biking around war-torn Sri-Lanka. He says he expected Africa to be like this- he’s been here as long as I have. We leave tomorrow at 5.15 to catch the train to the capital Bamako. If we miss it, we’re stuck here until Sunday...

*

I woke up this morning to the simultaneous sounds of pouring rain and Olivia screaming “C’est trop la merde!!” We’d overslept; didn’t even hear the alarm in fact; it was 6.15. Olivia hadn’t repacked, and I was drooling with fatigue. She got Denis up (yes, he too was coming to Bamako), he had been wandering around purposefully for hours. Within 15 minutes we were sloshing in the pouring rain in the back alleys where kitten-sized rats swam in puddles of sludge. It was still dark. Thankfully, we found the main road and a cab in these deserted streets. When we got to the station we joined the rather chaotic queue for tickets and learnt that there were no more sit-down seats in second class (7000 FCFA). As the journey is between 10 and 14 hours long, we opted for 1^st class, a hefty 12000 each. The carriage is very empty, especially compared with the chaos that reigns in 2^nd class.

*

We were meant to leave at 7.15, but this is African time. The guards are wearing long yellow raincoats that make them look like Paddington Bear. At the risk of having the train leave without me, I went off in search of breakfast. Next to the station behind a stone wall and beyond a huge swamp was a little stall flanked by long tables. They were making fresh, hot omelette sandwiches, which I got with some coffee made with Nescafé and sweet condensed milk. The protein was great. The platform was not very busy because of the rain, though it was still lively: kids were selling water, women breastfeeding in a circle, a small child sitting on his potty. The guards saw us and burst in to hysterical laughter. They also said that we would shortly be leaving. That was 45 minutes ago. It’s 9 o’clock and the cushioned seats are fabulous, they even recline! I just wonder what time we will arrive in Bamako.

*

We’ve just left; it’s five past noon. The carriage has suddenly filled up with shouting people. What a shithole.

*

We’ve just gone through Mahina where we stopped for a bit. The countryside all around is spectacular like a green Texas, with huge mesas and canyons. For the past three hours though it has been flat again. From the map it seems that in the past seven hours we have covered just one hundred kilometres. We are now crossing the wide Senegal river; it’s very humid and the whole train is just dripping in sweat, the plastic seating on the seats is increasingly uncomfortable.

*

Around seven o’clock, the sky turned the colour of dirty cardboard and the humidity rose about 40%. We were stopping at a village for supper and a well-deserved break from the train. As we got closer to town we heard music drumming away and when we arrived at the station we saw women dancing a kind of St Vitus’ dance, as energetic as what we had seen in Dakar. It was rapidly getting dark; the western side of the sky was yellow, the eastern side already dark with night and black clouds. Outside, on a patch of open land, hundreds of people were milling, squatting in front of huge vats of mutton and rice, and trays of oily dried fish, tea and water. We grabbed small plastic bowls and bought some food- just rice for me, I can’t eat meat since I travelled with the poor goat. 300 FCFA. Night fell minutes after we had arrived, and soon lightning began flashing in all corners of the sky.

Just as we got back on the train the mother of all storms started. Our train is actually an old French one, complete with the French railway maps between carriages. It is completely unadapted to the climate: only the top part of the windows open, making it sweltering, and more often than not they are actually jammed open, allowing the rain to dribble in. The storm was brief and violent. Afterwards the air felt fresher and I stood on my seat, my head hanging out of the window. The whole sky is black on black: spongy velvet storm clouds on a night sky as sharp as glass. Outside a forest is illuminated by frequent flashes of lightning. We are travelling a lot faster now and it is truly exhilarating; the train is like an animal bolting for shelter from the elements.

*

We raced over bridges, over swollen streams and at one point became level with the top canopy of the trees. Forest turned in to thick jungle. Inside, people dozed under the neon lights. I woke up a few times to shut the window as it got cooler. At the same time fresh air was necessary because of the two fat fish our neighbours had bought earlier, and which were now smelling rather putrid. It’s 4.30 in the morning and we seem to have stopped. It is just pissing it down with rain outside, the lightning is flashing every few seconds; the storm is getting hysterical. It’s very hot and sticky inside, and I’m feeling increasingly nervy. Why have we stopped? We can hear an ambulance siren. It seems that someone is going to be taken to Bamako by road. If illness is what it takes to finally get to our destination, I may consider faking something.

*

It turns out it wasn’t someone taken ill at all, it was a corpse found on the rails or in the train, we couldn’t understand which.

So here we are leaving it till late

Souzana and I giggle a lot because we have similar working methods: leave it till the last minute, panic, and then spend sleepless nights, haggard, regressing into foetus-shapes as we sit hunched hour after hour over the computer trying to make that deadline....

Obviously we weren't going to do things differently for the last and biggest project of our lives, due on the 15th June and which we are basically beginning to start (both of us have got to write 100 or so pags on European politics).

Stress is running high and we are wondering why oh why oh why do we always leave things till the last minute?? Then Souz found this.
Well that explains a lot! Perfectionnist and hates failure, me?!

So here we are listening to music

The Emerganza music competition has been running for months now, and the band my friend Quentin is bassist with is going to be in the final!
I saw them last night at the New morning, a club in Paris. Furykane, the band, have been described as neometal fusion, go here to get your own idea. Anyway well done to all five of them for getting this far and rendez-vous in July for the final at the Elysee Montmartre!!

Between stretches of work I watch loads of tv and have just seen this on Nouvelle Star, the French version of Pop idol. I love Billie Jean and this is so different, so good... While I'm at it, here's another song he did tonight, jazzing up Stevie Wonder.

So here we are, humour noir

The fears over Sarkozy turning into France into a police state high on security and reminiscent of the Vichy era have started turning into jokes. This is the funniest one I have seen so far.

So here we are laughing at Blair and Sarko

Blair is on the way out, Sarko on the way in, and as the two pass each other on the conveyor belts of history, both do each other a disfavour by proclaming their mutual admiration. Blair, who took us to Iraq and licks Bush makes Sarko look like a raving atlanticist (which he is), Sarko with his right to extreme right views contradicts Blair's attempts to be Labour (which he isn't).

Anyway, it's all rather slimy; watch it here is French to catch Blair's French accent, or here to hear it in English.

So here we are thinking of the plus side

For ten days now, gorgeous chook has gone and been in Thailand for his annual three month go-visit-mum-and-work-the-other-side-of-the-world trip. This has given me the chance to repossess the flat and get down to some serious work of my own. Despite the practical arrangements, I do miss him a lot but rather than mope I thought I would draw up a short list of things that are GOOD about being alone.

* Repossessing the bed. For gluttons like me who like nothing better than toast covered in stinking marmite as a last thing at night or first thing in the morning snack, eating toast in bed again is definite highlight. Crumbs and butter are welcome wherever I am but obviously it's not something I can impose on my already suffering bedpartner (I am a nightmare, talker, snorer, teeth grinder move around, hog the covers, you name it). On similar lines it's a luxury to have four pillows to myself and being allowed to sleep diagonally is terrific. I also love sleeping with junk, and now that chook is away i can do that no probs. A quick count reveals that in bed with me last nght I had: 5 pillows, a mobile phone, 2 shirts, a t shirt a hardback book, a paperback book, a bottle of water, a necklace, a magazine, a newspaper, two pens, a highlighter, 70 pages of photocopied stuff, a notepad, various hair accessories and a lighter. Before you ask, yes I do sleep well, I love being surrounded by my stuff.

* Padding around looking like an escaped convict. I must perhaps stress that I am not a (particular) slob deep down, but I have little time to do a lot of work so certain priorities have to be recalculated. Such as general attractiveness. No time for long showers, colour coordination, brushed hair or makeup, I get dressed because I go down everyday for coffee, but that's about it. My neighbours see me go through this every year so they are no longer shocked by my appearance which is great and allows me to reach new realms of slobbishness both in and out of the house.

*Eating crap without shame. Chook is also a connaisseur of junk food and we regularly stuff ourselves stupid together, but there is something so embarassing about eating mayonnaise with a spoon, huge tubs of ice-cream with melted chocolate and tons of little savoury biscuits as a main meal that I tend not to do it (too much) when he is around. And no, amazingly I am not putting on weight.

* Gossiping and bitching. It's a shame I have so little time to see people these days because absence of the loved one allows for round the clock non stop gossiping and bitching when people come round. Not stuff about him behind his back of course, more girly (though boys are good at this too) "oooh, she looks shit and they broke up and he's a dick and did you know..." kind of conversations. No need to pretend to be a nice person you see.

* And finally... a bit of free time. Not that being with chook is a full time job, but to come back with a new pot of mayo, kick of the shoes, pour a drink, get a spoon and chill with a book for a couple of hours without having to say anything is blissful. Ditto for bedtime. I've always loved going to bed really early to get a good two or three hours reading in before I crash. Chook likes to go to bed pretty late and I usually go with him, as tends to happen in couples. Now, I can be in bed at eight if I like and crash whenever. More generally I can do what I like when I think of it, without the slightest regard for anyone else.

But hey, this is pretty short list and if ever I did one of the stuff I miss (no worries, I won't) it would stretch for a while. Basically, i just miss him and the stuff we get up to every day, and miss not grabbing him and saying hey! wouldn't it be cool if.... I got just such a thought this morning, then remembered he wasn't about.
Well babe, here is something we must do when you get back...

So here we are following rules and regulations

I was in the metro earlier on my way to Sciences po library for a bit of rainforest destruction with frantic nearing-the-end-of-my-library-card photocopying when my eyes hit upon one of the new ID photo booths at St Germain des Prés. In huge letters on it it says "do not laugh (joke) with your id photos". On closer inspection it reveals that one is no longer allowed to smile on pictures destined for official stuff. This got me thinking about the French, who appear to have zero regard for rules and regulations nevertheless have one for absolutely everything.

Though this is undoubtedly the sign of law-abiding and a rule of law state, it has reached proposterous proportions. Here is an example.

Take my university, Paris III la Sorbonne nouvelle, a 1960s creation only vaguely related to its older and illustrious sister, Paris Sorbonne. I passed (brilliantly I might add) all the exams last year at the end of my Fourth year of European studies and, last September, tottered off to the usual office to collect my diploma. Melisande, the friendly secretary listened to my demand and said that I had to go to a different office, somewhere on the first floor. I set off, eventually found it and came across a woman slumped at a desk and on the phone. Once she had finished (never interrupt a French person at work on the phone, even if they are obviously talking to their sister), i asked for my diploma.

"Validation d'acquis please" she snapped efficiently, "student ID card and last year's exam results". "Validation of what?" I asked. She sighed and pursued: "the paper you signed at the begining of last year, validating your student dossier, allowing you to study here. And your ID card, and last year's exam results". Validation d'acquis? Good god. I had no memory of it, not the slightest clue where it could be, and told her so. "Oh, that's not good", she replied looking delighted. "Well you'll just have to find it".

I left, not feeling encouraged. I couldn't remember the validation d'acquis but I remebered the student dossier alright: a thick folder full of forms to be filled, levels of French to be examined, demands for references, CVs, proof of address, proof of diplomas and other formalities. Moreover, as I am British and studied in Britain for my BA, I needed to show my marks (over three years) as well as give them a full official translation of my previous courses (Economics? European studies? French? How hard are they to translate?). Finally after many weeks of photocopying, rewriting (only black biros and capital letters please), translating (fuck an official translation) and proving I was not a terrorist, they announced I was now a candidate for selection. Not actually selected, just a candidate, and all this for one of the crappiest universities in Paris. (I have heard far worse tales of changing universities within Paris, changing course or trying to go on Erasmus by the way).

Anyway, I got selected, completed my M1 and am now drawing to the end of my M2. Somewhere along the line though, the validation d'acquis had been lost. I returned one day to the office and said "look, given that I actually completed last year and have been with you for 4 months this year, thus proving that I did actually pass the M1, why do you need to see if I was allowed to join in the first place, can't you just give me my diploma?". No way, said the look I got back.

I searched everywhere for the validation d'acquis, at my place, at my parents', behind sofas, in files. Nope. Went back a third time in January and went bambi-eyes. "Oh please I need my diploma to apply for a PhD", I lied, "It's at my old house in England somewhere, look I've been here 18 months and passed your exams, surely you can trust me that I managed to get in in the first place". Nope, said the look.

Weeks passed, one day in March I went to see Mélisande at the office and told her of the problem. Her answer made me jump: "Oh, well I can give you a photocopy of it, I've got them in the cupboard". What? stupid me, it had never occured to me that this precious document had been duplicated a thousand times and was now hiding in most of the offices, in humoungous files. "We're not really supposed to give them out to students", she said... but Mélisande is cool. She found the right file, one of hundreds, found the right paper, and twenty seconds later I had a fresh photocopy of the precious validation in my hand.

I went down to the office of the dragon, found my ID card and produced all the paperwork. The woman glared at it and said OK. My heart leapt. "Only thing is", she added, "we haven't got the diplomas from the printers yet, maybe in June...".

For god's sake, running around two months for the validation when the old troll doesn't even have the bloody diploma! All these cupboards full of useless paperwork belonging to students who might not even be at the University still! And they don't even have the bloody diplomas almost a year after I theoretically obtained it! I remember that at Sussex University in Brighton, they both put on a wham-bam graduation ceremony for those who wanted it, or just sent out the diploma to the student's home address. No fuss, no hassle, no paperwork, no delays.

If all French bureaucracy is like this (and, god help us, it is), one cringes when imagining the inefficiency that results from a build up of all the paperwork and useless protocol. Entire buildings must be stocked with the files of hundreds of nobodies, each file full of useless photocopies. Each piece of paper lacking or form badly-filled in, or badly signed, or badly stamped, means more and more delay.

I mention this because my story continues in a pleasing circle. My mind was full of all of this when I eaving the metro this morning to go to Sciences po, after the sight of the aformentioned photo booth. I had with me 1200 pages of somebody's thesis, that I had borrowed from my friend and collegue Souzana and was now returning. Got to Sciences po, produced my library card at the entrance and, still holding it, went to the 'return' counter. 30 kilos of thesis were given back to the smiling assistant who beeped them through. Suddenly, simultaneously, he must have realised that I was not Souzana, owing to the fact that I was waving my library card in his face. "Did you take this out?", he asked gravely, pointing to the two volumes on the counter. "No", innocent me answered, "I'm just returning them for a friend". "So it was not taken out on your card", he confirmed. At last I twigged. "No", I replied timidly, "but you don't need a card to return things do you?". Wrong answer. Another rule. Only people who take the book out can give it back in, and never mind that the thing is in perfect condition, that you don't need to prove who you are and that it isn't late back.

Without sticking around to chat, i heaved the thesis back in to my bag and left the library. I called a friend, smoked a cigarette and went back in. Chose a different counter with a different bloke, hid my card, and plonked the thesis back down. "Thanks", said the guy beeping the books back in to the machine. "Thanks, bye", I said. And that was that.

So we are at the birth of a parrot

It's raining, it's cold, I have to work, Chook is several thousand miles away and I'm out of coffee. Life sucks. So what can we do about it?

Look at baby parrot piccies, of course. Awwww.

Alternatively, pick up some ideas on how to help your drunk friends. Heehee!

So here we are mixing politics and football

The well known dual passions of the French. So what do you get when France loses at football and at politics? find out here!

So here we are selling stuff

Long day. Up early to distribute Ségolène leaflets and simultaneously help out on a stall at a boot sale in the 17th. Leaflets for Segolene were to help Sarkozy lose (apparently it's illegal to distribute tracts on the election day anyway...), and boot sale was to vaguely contribute to the association I belong to. Action culture is a bunch of guys who are friends of friends who have an organisation that aims to raise money and school equipment for a bunch of schools on Casamance, Southern Senegal. Check it all out here.

They were selling stuff that Edouard ('Doud', co founder with Ben) had got from the 5 star hotel he works in, stuff the hotel was just going to chuck out: beautiful linen sheets, towels, cosmetics, minibars, hoovers, cleaning equipment, ashtrays you name it. 157 euros by the time I left at lunchtime.

********

First results from AFP news agency on tonight's presidential result. Sarkozy easily ahead, 54% against 46%. Oh dear.

So here we are in the European Union

As my profile so concisely says, I am a student of European studies, having specialised first in Economics, and now in Politics and Law. Nobody seems to have heard of European studies, so a brief word on the subject. ES are a relatively new subject, usually focusing on the history, economics, law and politics of the construction of the European Union, though it can also take into account cultural studies, languages and other subjects relating to the EU. I chose ES for my two-year MA after my economics-and-french degree in England at the University of Sussex in Brighton.

A word on why the EU is important to me. I am British but was brought up in China, Belgium, the US and France. I was twelve (and in France by then) when there were 12 countries in the EU, fifteen when there were 15, 25 when there were 25. Ok, amusing parallels aside, my attachment to all things European does run a bit deeper than that. I honestly believe that European values (there is still some debate about what these actually are) are the way forward. In my mind, the principles (inspired from the Enlightenment) based on freedom, equality, non-discrimination and so on are both fantastic on paper and, as the EU gets stronger and they are actually applied, actually quite amazing. The abolition of the death penalty, the right to vote, to go to school, to own property, to have access to a swift and efficient judiciary; these things that many take for granted first budded as theories and then slowly became firmly-anchored values. The Irish, the Spanish, the Portuguese, the Greeks, and more recently Cyprus, Malta and ten central and eastern European countries have joined and in their different ways benefited from the Union. Some may scream at the fact that so much money was given to these countries before and after their accession, but just as the Marshall plan (curtesy of our American brethren) allowed Europe to rebuild and implant solid, peaceful democracies in Europe after the war, so have European structural funds avoided countries returning (or just turning) to the desperate nationalism and xenophobia that accompany economic and democratic poverty. A hundred and sixty years ago, a third of all Irish died or emigrated out of hunger. Seventy five years ago the Germans turned to National Socialism in the belief it would give them a job and feed their family. Seventeen years ago the Romanians were living in a dictatorship and extreme poverty that are only familiar today in the form of banana African republics. Today, all are sealed in mutual peace due to economic interdependence and (somewhat forced admittedly) solidarity emanating from an invisible unknown called the EU.

I'm quite capable of sobbing when I see old men remember the Wars as they take the train from France to Germany, and knowing that there can not be a similar occurence because of the links between these countries today. (On a similar note, I also weep when I look out of my window on to the courtyard below and see the Portuguese and Indian kids from next door playing French games together even though their parents hardly speak the same language). I love the fact that students (such as I) now have the chance to study one or two semesters in other country, to meet different cultures, to talk about things that go well beyond nationality, that through students and the younger generation in particular a real European identity, based on freedom, non-discrimination and mutual respect is emerging. Unlike other great blocks that have been created in the past, the US or the USSR, the EU has incorporated from the start both individual rights (property, justice, political) as well as ideological, which incorporate society as a whole. Refusal of the death penalty, belief in free movement, the right to study whatever and whenever, the right to choose your job, to live decently whoever you are, in peace, with free education, free health and free transport, all these ideas that are engraved in the treaties and are the very root of what the founding fathers of the EU believed in represent the ideal backbone of the society I want to live in.

Cynics will cry: "Christ, do you know how much the Common agricultural policy costs?!", "the difficulties of harmonsing the economies of 13 countries so that their common currency actually refelcts their economic health...", "Jesus, Miranda, the European Parliament is the least legitimate democratic institution in the world", "I hate the Portuguese, don't want them in Europe". I actually agree with the first three of these (I don't hate the Portuguese, only the British and French actually ;), but must respond to these fictional cynics that they do not see the bigger picture.

Ok, so the CAP is hideously oversubsidised (trust me I know, I studied the problem for my dissertation last year), and it must be reformed. It will (it must, nobody denies), only in the meantime it is allowing Europe to feed itself (people were starving to death after 1945 remember) as well as not just letting millions of farmers just die out and move to shitty jobs in the city, as they would have 200 years ago. Obviously the Euro is absurdly overvalued, making the EU less competitive than undervalued (currency wise) China, and making our exports absurdly expensive. In the meantime however we have insulated ourselves against inflation (remember pictures at school of people buying potatoes with sacks of money? Life savings disappearing overnight?) and made imports very cheap for ourselves. Also, being tied together where it really hurts most (the pocket) means that we won't be shooting each other for a while. As for the lack of legitimacy of the EU Parliament you see me nodding vigourously. I am currently (not) writing my 100 page dissertation on the subject, and you will find no one more convinced then me that most of our European representatives are tossers, well paid and inefficient at that. But hey, 30 years ago the European Parliament was literally just a lot of old guys who talked. Now they decide where the money goes, suggest laws, and are directly elected by us. Not bad for a such a short life, try and find a Parliament in history that was so settled so quickly. And vote. As for the Brtish and French, both are definitely arrogant and bossy. The French are pretentious and smug and self-centred; the British are hypocritical, anal and disloyal. On the other hand, the French are passionate, fighters and dedicated. The British are inventive, firm and rational. The fact these countries, along with the humourless-brilliant Germans, sqawking-creative Italians and all the others are free to sniff each other out and more or less forced to cooperate with the quasi-garanty they they will not be killing each other and will show solidarity towards each other in the forseable future is a great thing.


All this to say, yes the EU is bollocks, a fifty year old pile of treaties that have somehow shuffled out buildings and people, institutions that control many aspects of what we do and how we do it. Some countries may have lost out on the EU, and some realise it. But all this is so new, we are judging on such a short-term activities. Surely peace and economic prosperity have been proof that we have probably got it right, at least in the parts that matter. Yes, we have to reform so many parts of the EU, not the least show that we have world presence, that we can perhaps avoid wars outside our borders (Iraq would have been a good opportunity), that we can collectively do something about the economic development of Africa or the environment. Yes, we must deal with cultural identities so that no one feels left out or that he is sacrificing his roots for something new. Of course we must allow Europe to help the Europeans have good lives.

But the EU is so young. Have the UK, Italy, Egypt, the US managed these things? Whether a region, a nation, a state, a union or a federation political structures are built on values, recognition of something bigger than one's self but working for one's self. European values are as good today as they were fifty years ago when they decided, for the first time in history, that countries, nations that had traditionnally been enemies would conscientiously and volontarily work together and become interdependent. This is surely just as revolutionnary as deciding that the people choose their own representants, or that the State must take care of the weakest.

European values and the building of Europe to make these values real to all those who adhere to them was the whole point to this...

So here we are, the presidential debate

Hahahaha! Despite sarkozy's reputation as a smooth and charismatic talker he was, to everyone's surprise completely dominated by Ségolène, hurray!

Watch the debate here.

Take a look at part two, when ségo is at roughly 52 minutes of talk time. Don't you just love the way she told him off for being such a immoral hypocrite!

Allez Ségo!!!!

So here we are ... disappointed in spiderman 3

Ok, so like thousands of other nerds over the world, Chook and I duly trekked to the cinema on day 1 of Spiderman 3. Our favorite cinema, an old 1920s one on the Grands Boulevards, called Max Linder is usually deserted (a combination of being unknown and usually only playing arty-farty movies), but tonight the queue stretched for miles and, being late as always, we ended up right at the back of the theatre on fold down seats against the wall. To be fair, maybe I thought the film was so crap because of the seating arrangement, but since when has fairness dictated my behaviour? The film was shit, basta.

Actually no, not basta. I should expand. The film was shit because

a) There was no plot: having a bit of black glob fall from the sky and change your wardrobe colour is not plot, it's an excuse to make a black spiderman.

b) The characters are rubbish: Harry is feeling betrayed, then in a coma, then friendly, then evil/possessed, then manipulating, then friendly, then dead. If you were looking for a smooth logic running through this rather confused character then think again. Kirsten, or MJ or marijuana or whatever, is girlfriend, then fired, then cheating, then sorry, then weeping then worried, then angry then hostage then weeping again. Ditto. The new blond guy has got severe pathological psychiatric problems if he thinks killing people is a justified response to losing your job. Not very credible, like the others. In all fairness Tobey, or PP, is cute.

c) There are too many baddies, none of which are any good. Black spidey is, er, a black spidey, sandman (yup, he sends you to sleep) is a murderer with a heart, fanged thing is funny but you don(t see enough of him, goblin junior is obviously too confused to be a decent baddie but still tries, just adding another layer of fluff to the whole thing.

d) ONE good storyline is better than 4 or 5 which do not make sense and do not fit together in any coherent way. Black alien glob, jealous photographer, escaped murderers, cheating girlfriend, amnesic friend, mourning aunt... it's all too much for my little brain! Cynically, I reckon they've started all these storylines (without finishing most of them) so that SM4 has something to take off from...

e) It was boring. You know there are some movies you sit down, get out the popcorn and within 20 minutes, or so it seems, you see the credits roll, the popcorn is half chewed and it's already over. Well, I didn't get that, au contraire.

f) Ok, so the special effects are amazing, shame they invested so much on those and not more on a decent script or storyline.

So, a big disappointment all in all, especially as I loved the first two. Still, a lot of people disagree with me, check it out here.

So here we are in France's presidential campaign

It won't come as a scoop if I tell you that France is right now coming to the end of a long and passion-fuelled presidential campaign. For months now personnalities, the media, café counter conversations, sunday lunch debates and every other kind of social interaction has been centred on the choice of who is capable (or not) of being France's next President.

It isn't my aim here to go through all the blurb that has been wafting our way, it would take pages to write up and the internet is full of sites that will explain it more accurately. However, here is a brief history of what, in my view, have been the main milestones in this campaign.

It is worth bearing in mind that France is a pluralist democracy which, unlike Britain or the US say which are caracterised by their bipartisan approach, boasts a large number of political parties, though most are clearly less important (in the sense of size and influence) than a few.

French political culture is still deeply anchored in what is called "le clivage gauche/droite ". Left wingers ("la gauche") and right wingers ("la droite") have had a conflictual relationship since the 60s, and "l'alternance", i.e. replacing la droite with la gauche or vice-versa at practically every election, has been a huge feature of French political life for years. "La cohabitation", describing the situation where the head of State (the President of the Republic) and the head of government (the Prime minister) are of different political colours has also been a feature of the France's Vth Republic politics. (The Vth Republic dates from 1958 when Charles De Gaulle, hero of the Resistance in WW2, designed a Constitution that gave the President quasi-monarchic powers). The combination of l'alternance and la cohabitation, plus the status of the President has meant for the last 30 years or so that France's political scene has been shambolic, based on rejection of the last lot in power and impossible cooperations at the highest levels of State.

It is equally important to recap how the French electoral system works for the Presidentials. Any person wishing to present him/herself must gather signatures from 500 of France's 36000 mayors. Once these have been validated by the Conseil Constitutionnnel, France's equivalent to a Constitutional Court, the candidates proceed to the first round ("le premier tour").

Traditionnally it is an eclectic bunch that campaigns for that premier tour. Green, communist, extreme-right, center, rural right, urban right, left, international left, you name it, you can probable find it, but the great feature of the VthRepublic is that no matter who you vote for in the first round, the left wing candidate will face the right wing candidate in the "second tour", which is held two weeks after the first.

Until 2002 that is, which is milestone one in my analysis.

The French say that you vote with your heart in the premier tour, with your head in the second, and that is what prodeuced the extraordinary situation of April 2002. Without going into detail of the campaign at the time, it is necessary to know that people were pissed off with the right, in the form of Jacques Chirac who had been a useless and corrupt politician for years as well as President for the past seven. However, people were equally disillusioned with the left, represented by the fluffy Lionel Jospin who lacked charisma and had failed to unite the left (a tricky business in France as it spans the communists to the center-left) and who had been the Prme minister since 1997 (there's cohabitation in action).

Add to that charismatic candidates such as the handsome young postman Olivier Besancenot (from the LCR, Communist revolutionary league), issues such as the environment being taken more seriously, fears over immigration and security (the National Front's bête noire for years) and general disinterest and mistrust in the political world, and what do you get? The 21st of April 2002, now a synonym for disaster in France.

What happened is this: the left split, mostly profiting the extreme left and the Greens as well as a more central candidate. Jospin did badly. The right, more stable, got Old Chirac through, but the real shock was who ended up facing him: Jean-Marie Le Pen.

JMLP is a dinosaur of politics, he has been around for about 50 years, and created his National Front party in 1972 (le Front National, or FN). His basic political line has been "screw the right and screw the left even more, get rid of the thieving immigrants, get out of Europe, re-establish the death penalty, bring back order to the Republic ". He has had enlightening slogans such "3 million unemployed, 3 million immigrants" and is famous for saying that the Nazi gas chambers were "a detail of history". He is in other words a xenophobic old fart, who has consistently blamed communism, socialism, immigration and Europe as the roots of all trouble for the past 40 years or more. He is also as right wing as it is possible to be, though even right-wing old Chirac has refused to shake hands with him. He is generally considered a threat to Republican values of "liberté, égalité, fraternité".

His presence in the second tour was seen as a disaster by pretty much everyone except his own supporters who, as this election showed, appeared to be more numerous than previously thought, though later analysis showed that many who voted for him were making use of a "protest vote', rather than voicing a firm adhesion to his beliefs. A huge campaign from all other parties took place in the two weeks between the premier and second tours, and even the left, grimacing, called to vote for Chirac, who won the election with over 80% of votes.

France was stuck with Old Chirac for the next five years, but this episode rocked the very foundations of French politics.

Zoom to 2006, the 2007 election is already on everyone's lips. How to avoid a similar scenario, how to get the left back on the scene, how to get the old droite-gauche polarisation back at the second tour. Quickly the notion of "le vote utile', the useful vote, appeared. Rather than vote with your heart at the first round, vote for who you would most like to see at the second. The question is, who?

La Droite, or rather the UMP (Union por un mouvement populaire) - Chirac's party, the government's party and the majority party in Parliament - chose Nicolas Sarkozy, Interior minister of the time who has also done a stint as Budget and finances minister and Prime minister, as its leader. There will be other posts on Sarkozy, all that needs to be said now is that this man, a lawyer, son of a Hungarian immigrant and in politics since his twenties is known as the man who, as Interior minister and head of the Police, said he would "nettoie les banlieues au Karcher", which can be roughly translated as "wash down the banlieues with a jet hose" to get crime and delinquancy down. This did not go down well in the banlieues, the urban agglomerations found round France's big cities and sometimes characterised by poverty, crime and lack of opportunities. A separate post on the 2005 riots will go in to more detail.

Sarkozy is also big on "travailler plus pour gagner plus", or "work more to earn more". This is in reference to the 35 hour working week the Left put in place in 1998 and the low purchasing power of the French. He also supports reforms that would allow minors to be treated like over 18s in certain cases and, through the laws he passed has been taking foreigners back to the border, including children who go to school in France.

On the other side, within la Gauche, or the PS (Parti socialiste) things were more complicated. Someone was needed who could sweep away the failure of Lionel Jospin, unite a left which was, and still is deeply divided on issues such as Europe and how to get the economy back in shape. The first step was therefore to hold primary elections within the PS to see who would be a favorable candidate. The choice was between Laurent Fabius, former Prime minister and more recently known for leading part of the PS to vote NO at the EU Consitutionnal treaty referendum. The second, Dominique Strauss-Kahn, a professor of Economics and politics at Paris prestigious Insitut d'études politiques (Political science institute, IEP or Sciences Po as it is known) and former budget and finances minister who helped design the 35 heures (35 hour working week). Finally was Ségolène Royal, who has been minister several times - for the Environment, Family and social affairs, linked tgo the Education ministry- as well as a member of Parliament and a regional representative.

Hours of debate were organised on France's Parliamentary channel (LCP) so that PS members could choose the best. Fabius was like a tired old lettuce, demanding instant, impossible pay rises, public investment and sounding rather like the left of the left on many social and economic issues. DSK was a sleek badger, a man who keeps his cool and obviously competent on most issues, pro-European and conscious of the need to reform the economy to survive globalisation. Segolene, fresher and younger-looking, was firm and spoke clearly and loudly with a kind of rictus-smile on her face, but was rather monotonous and bossy.

After weeks of this, Segolene won, a woman, a beautiful one, who says is determined to change France, modernise "her" (France is a woman, symbolised by the revlutionnary figure of Marianne), with a modern, firm, 'juste' woman at her head.

So the official campaign starts, the media is mobilsed, conversations monopolised, arguments dominated by "who are you going to vote for?". Without recounting the campaign, here are some personal highlights, in no particular order or degree of importance:

* Sarkozy, still Interior ministry, is shat upon for the way he handled the riots, his provocative statements regarding the inhabitants of the banlieues, his remarks on Muslims (slaughtering sheep in the bath and so on), his capacity to create opposition between chunks of society (workers/unemployed; immigrants/French; rich/poor etc). He is also criticised for taking many ideas from the FN and arresting 'illegals' in careless and inhumane ways, such as the 70+ old who was arrested in broad daylight when he came to get his grandchild from school.

* Ségolène goes to China, and says France has much to learn from the country's "efficient" justice system

* François Bayrou, and old figure of France's centre party (the UDF, less than 7% of votes at the last Presidentials) cries "enough of all this left-right crap, we need to reunite!" and overnight becomes France's third man of French politics.

* Le Pen, the octogenarian dinosaur with a glass eye (though this is an improvement of the patch he wore in the 70s), full of "send the immigrant back! law and order!" becomes a fluffy old grandad and tours the tv sets with his loud and arrogant daughter Marine, boasting that whatever is being said by Sarkozy as regards controlling immigration was first said by him. Sadly, he is right.

* Sarkozy becomes increasingly convincing, an excellent orator, putting forward "values" such as hard work, law and order, respect for the Republic, protection of the poor, the destitute and the handicapped. He speaks well and passionately, has an answer to everything and in most confrontations crushes he opponent.

*Segolene is considered increasingly incompetent, and there are people from within her party who grumble about her. Claude Allegre, ex-education minister who worked with her, says he hates her and her methods. Eric Besson, one of her counsellers writes a book saying he fears for his children in the France she would run. She seems to have a superficial knowledge of everything, has a rather monotonous voice, and repeats statements loudly time and time again.

*Segolene, candidate of the PS, is more or less married to the First secretary of the PS, François Hollande with whom she has four kids. On tv, her counsellor Arnaud to Montebourg answers the question "what is Ségolène's worst fault?" with "Francois Hollande". Silence on live tv. He is fired.

*Bayrou's popularity increases, stabilises, increases, decreases, stabilises. People start wondering how realistic a centre (centre right usually) President is. How will he form a majority? Who would he work with? He suggests DSK. No way, says the latter.

* Segolene is popular in the banlieues, who have seen their electoral lists swell with people who are against Sarkozy. Sarkozy cannot even go to certain banlieues, especially in the north of Paris, after what he said during and after the riots of November 2005. He has moved to headquarters in the relatively working class/immigrant area in Paris's 10th arrondissement. You can't miss it, twenty police vans are parked outside all the time.

*Sarkozy is accused by French paper, le Canard enchainé, of paying virtually nothing for his huge flat in his constituency, and various other dodgy deals. All is denied and wrapped up quickly.

*Candidates publish their income and capital. Sarkozy and Segolene pay the ISF (Tax on fortune), not Bayrou.

*Other candidates are first of all cutie trotskyist Besancenot, the postman who wants immediate raises in salaries, schools and health, as well as renationalisation of all privatised huge businesses, all this financed with stripping profits from multinationals. He speaks very well and his youth and passion work well with left-wing women who dislike Segolene for being a rather harsh and bossy boot.

*Sarkozy is accused of being authoritarian, controlling, overly ambitious at a personal level, corrupt, borderline mad and hysterical.

*Segolene, being tricked on a radio show where she thinks she is talking to the Prime Minister of Canada, jokes about getting rid of the Corsicans. This flapped about as further proof of her incompetence.

*The scooter of Sarkozy's 14 year old son is stolen. DNA matching is required, the secret services mobilised, the bomb warmed up. Well, it was rather outrageous how many cops were on the case.

* Other candidates include Philippe de Villiers, Patriot, right wing, anti-Europe, pro his region which is the traditional realm of the noble, catholic and monarchist French who escaped the Republican Revolution. He talks as if he is drunk/has a bar of soap in his throat, strangled and pulling his mouth all round his face, stopping every six seconds to lick the corner of his mouth. Wants a flag in every school.

* Segolene goes mad. Realising that everyone is cashing on the 'Vive la France' card, she suggests a flag in every school and sings La Marseillaise at conferences. Until now this has been strictly right-wing territory. Le Pen laughs.

*Sarkozy sucks up to the workers, 'la France qui se leve tot" (the France that gets up early), tours warehouses and old industrial plants, shakes a million hands and quotes ideas of great left wing thinkers, Jaurès and Blum. Segolene and the rest of the Left laugh.

*Other candidates are mainly left wing. Besancenot aside, we have Marie -Georges Buffet of the Communist party (PC), shrill and rapid-firing about massive pay-offs and profits, financial havens, poor worker conditions. José Bové is a self declared peasant, internationalist, environmentalist, anti-WTO, anti-GM, anti FN. Dominique Voynet is the Green candidate who is sending off emergencu signals, and Arlette Laguillier who has been around almost as long as Le Pen, of the workers party wishes to defend the Proletarians, who are now voting Sarkozy and Le Pen. Everyone laughs.

*Sarkozy goes mad. In an interview with 'Philosophie magazine' he says that certain personnality traits such as delinquancy, paedophilia and homosexuality are innate, and down to nature not nurture. Bayrou, twelve days after this statement, says "er, is anybody going to pick up on this?", and the Press go crazy.

*Other candidates are so small nobody remembers them: the tall youngish guy, Frederic Nihous, from the "preserve 'em hunt'em fish 'em it's tradition" party (CPNT) and the guy nobody has heard of, Gérard Schivardi, who is, well, we don't know. he wants to leave the EU seems to be the only fact.

So Sunday the 21st of April, in the middle of France's April heatwave, people totter off to vote. Strict rules say that no indication of who is winning must ne known before 8. What does rapidly appear however is the huge turnout. Voting outlets must be kept open longer than planned, the queues are huge, it's a record for the Vth Republic; 85% of the electorate turned up.

It's soon clear that Sarkozy and Ségolène have gone through. Segolene gets 25,87% , Sarkozy gets 31,18%. Bayrou got only 18%, after months at around 20-23% and thoughts that he would get through. Le Pen is crushed at 10%, his lowest score for twenty years (Hurray!) though most of those votes now simply lie with Sarkozy.
All tv channels are on it but with little to say. Le Pen is pissed off, Bayrou is disappointed, calling for unity, Sarkozy is beaming and nervously leaping about, Segolene is lying low while hundreds are waiting for her in the streets of Paris. Debates start between different parties, a drunken bernard Tapie, ex-left now with Sarkozy is drunk and slurs he supports "Ségolène, er...Sarkozy".

We are now only five days away from the decisive second round. In the last ten days, Bayrou and Ségolène have got closer, even having a tv debate much to the anger of Sarkozy who is saying she therefore gets extra airing time. Sarkozy appears to be increasingly dangerous, some papers are presentinghim as controlling the media and dangerous for democracy. There is going to be a debate between him and Ségolène on Wednesday May 2nd. The thing is, he is a very good orator despite his manic little frame, and she is rather bootfaced and posh and stern despite her pretty face. It will be 'a confrontation of ideas, of personnalities" and one can only pray to God, she will appear more convincing than him.