Musical Monday: Ian Dury

Ian Dury and the Blockheads topped the charts in 1978 with "Hit Me With Your Rhythm Stick". Ian Dury (1942 - 2000) contracted polio when he was seven but he overcame the restrictions of this to become a rock star.

I mention this only because there is a link to my blog: Paul Bura, whose poetry I have featured twice in Pause for Poetry (see right-hand sidebar), is also a polio victim and Paul and Ian both attended an austere school for disabled children, Chailey Heritage. They didn't meet at the school but years later met backstage after a Dury concert.

Ian Dury had read Paul's poem, Chailey Heritage, and wanted to meet the poet. Dury said of the poem: "This geezer says it the way it is."

Jimmy White wastes away in jungle

Jimmy White, the snooker legend, is still battling it out in “I’m A Celebrity . . . Get Me Out Of Here!” but there is a lot less of him after 18 days in the Australian jungle.

Food has been scarce and Jimmy has seen his weight plummet from 15stone 10lb (220 pounds or 99.79 kilograms) to 14st 2lb – a drop of 1st 8lb (22 pounds or 10 kilograms).

If he carries on like this he’ll end up being thinner than his snooker cue!

I’m amazed that Jimmy is still there and from what I’ve seen he has remained in very good humour despite the lack of food and facilities and sleeping rough on the jungle floor and being covered with all manner of bugs and gunge.

On being informed of his slimmer self, Jimmy commented: “So I’ve lost eleven bags of sugar?”

From the original 11 contestants, there are now just five still in camp. Each day another camper is voted off the show. It’ll probably be Jimmy who gets the bullet tonight.

Or maybe he’ll win the whole show? Fat chance!

Musical Monday: Jean-Jacques Goldman

Jean-Jacques Goldman rocks!

TRAGIC FOOTNOTE: The lovely Sirima who sings with Jean-Jacques Goldman in this clip was discovered singing in the métro. Goldman loved her voice and signed her up for Là Bas. The song was a big success in France. But there was no fairy tale ending to this story for Sirima. Her boyfriend, a failed musician, was so consumed with jealousy over her success that he stabbed her to death in 1989. She was just 25. He was given a 9-year prison sentence; he served four before being released. He lives today in France.

It's a fair cop

I'm a hard man. I'm dangerous. I'm wanted by the police. Sort of.

I was cycling to the neighbouring town of Vincennes this morning and, to avoid a maze of one-way streets, I rode for a while on the pavements. Very slowly, always stopping if there was a pedestrian.

I went to three newsagents before finding a Daily Telegraph. I can't remember the last time I bought an English daily newspaper but fancied getting one today as my Internet connection is playing up and I couldn't get online.

I was riding home, on the road, when I saw two women police officers talking to an old lady. The old lady then points at me! What? One of the officers hurries over to me and informs me that I've been seen riding my bicycle on the pavement, which is an infringement of the civil code of Vincennes or something like that.

The officer is rather cute and has a lovely smile. I beam back at her and apologise. I don't bother to explain I was barely cycling, just floating along at a pedestrian pace; I was hardly zooming along at a Tour de France speed.

The officer said that the fine for cycling on the pavement was 45 euros (or $68, or £40, or 71 Canadian dollars, or 74 Australian dollars, or 94 New Zealand dollars, or 8,295 Icelandic kronur, or 5 Dumdad doubloons), but on this occasion she was just going to give me a verbal warning. But next time . . . I thanked her and she strode off then stopped, turned and said knowingly, "I know you." Crikey.

I've been cautioned before about this crime and you can read it here.

What was interesting was that I wasn't caught by the police this time but, 10 minutes or so after the crime, I had been grassed up by a fat ugly old bag who has nothing better to do than tell tales on a virtually law-abiding citizen. (No wonder the Jews didn't stand a chance in wartime Paris!)

Still, I suppose I'd better be careful next time I sweep into Vincennes and be on my best behaviour. Although the thought of being taken to the station and frisked down by this particular woman officer is not without a certain appeal.

Musical Monday: Jacques Brel

Things you didn't know about Jacques Brel that I revealed on my blog here.

Bonjour Beaujolais nouveau!

Last night I ventured into Paris, leaving the children to fend for themselves, to join The Frog Queen who was having a Beaujolais nouveau night with her colleagues from the OECD department in which she works. Spouses were invited, too.

About 20 or so people gathered at Le Petit Sud-Ouest, a bustling bistro in the 16th arrondissement not far from the OECD. One long table had been reserved for all of us.

The bistro was packed solid and the atmosphere was lively and noisy: there was a resident singer-guitarist who belted out covers of Jacques Brel and Georges Brassens and other famous dead French singers. Which made conversation tough but ambiance is everything, n’est-ce pas?

Bottle after bottle of Beaujolais nouveau was quaffed by our thirsty table (it was hot, remember) and the food came promptly. Her Royal Frogness and myself decided to eschew, not chew, the starters and just ordered a main course. I, comme d’hab, chose the entrecote and chips (the steak was excellent and cooked rare just as I like it) while Mrs Froggy enjoyed confit de canard avec pommes de terre sarladaises.

Evelyne, who was sitting across from us, had the terrifying os à moelle, which is bone marrow (see photo below). Apparently, it was very good.

Back to the children. This was the first time that we’ve left Brainbox, 16 in February, and Princess Perfect, 12 next month, alone for the evening. How would they fare? Agnès, a friend of ours, popped in at about 8.30pm with some vegetables for us and to check all was well. It was. And we phoned home about every 10 minutes . . . well, maybe not as often as that.

Princess Perfect took charge of the kitchen and cooked and prepared dinner for herself and her brother. No problems, and when we returned around midnight they were sound asleep in bed and the house was in one piece. We’re very proud that they acted so responsibly although they could be lulling us into a false sense of security and next time we’ll return to the blare of police sirens and the drug squad frogmarching our children off to the slammer.

Beaujolais nouveau, although always a good excuse for a night out, is a young wine and not much to write home about but is lively enough and tastes better after the fifth glass . . . Cheers!

Confit de canard avec pommes de terre sarladaises

Jimmy White ventures into the jungle

"The hardest part of it so far for me is not knowing what’s going on, not knowing where we’re going, what we’re doing and we still ain’t got anywhere."

The latest series of “I’m A Celebrity . . . Get Me Out Of Here!” is underway in the Australian jungle.

I don’t watch reality shows and this 9th series features 11 so-called celebrities but I’ve never heard of most of them. Very much C listers.

I remember Sam Fox who was Britain’s favourite Page 3 girl in the 80s and whose ample cleavage was on display virtually daily. She’s now 43 – and, I have to say, in very good nick.

But the reason I’m writing this blogpost is because of the only other contestant that I recognise (apart from the ghastly Katie Price, aka Jordan, a glamour model who is all silicone, botox and bullshit).

Step forward Jimmy “The Whirlwind” White, a professional snooker player well past his best. The left-handed Jimmy is the greatest player never to have won the world championships; he was runner-up SIX times. He is a cheery chappie and well loved by the British.

But hanging up his cue to eat bugs and swim in shark-infested seas in Australia? Obviously, he needs the money.

The now chubby Jimmy (he used to be razor-thin when he was young) said after the first few days of his adventure:

"The hardest part of it so far for me is not knowing what’s going on, not knowing where we’re going, what we’re doing and we still ain’t got anywhere."

That quote could about sum up my life!

I wish Jimmy well and hope he wins although he might struggle a bit especially as he admitted he suffers from ophidiophobia. A fear of snakes and wandering around Australia is not a good combination. I suggest, Jimmy, you carry your trusty cue with you at all times, ready to strike any serpent that tries it on.