France Strikes Again

Striking seems to be something of a national sport in France – with everyone from the bus drivers to high-school students joining in on the fun.  I can testify to this; in the five years I lived in France and the three years in which I was a high-school student, there was more or less a strike every year.  Of course, while it was nice to see even students stand up for their right to have a say in what was going on with their education, there was a large majority of those who simply striked (if that is the correct term) for the sake of it.

 

On the Guardian Website you can find a live blog of the current events of this particular strike.  From what I can surmise, it has been brought on by the pension reforms and Sarkozy’s unwillingness to back down in front of almost universal anger and outrage from the French people.  But since when has it ever been different?  It’s true what they say about short political leaders – they all seem to have a problem with public opinion.

In any case, I support this strike and support those out on the streets protesting, for the most part.  Just remember; trashing shops, burning cars and throwing bricks at the police may be fun, but doesn’t lend that much credibility to your movement: it just makes you look like a dickhead.

 

Anyways, time to finish my coffee and skeddadle.

 

Ciao

J

My cup runneth over: how Rhy and Napoleon came to be.

Oh, I love these nostalgia visits so much.  For one it’s an excuse to burn up some not-so valuable  spare time.  Then again, I have that shit coming out of my ears.  I suppose I just need to give Rhy and Napoleon some breathing space.

That’s right.  It’s been too long, bitches.  Napoleon’s come out of retirement and I for one was sick of being kept in that duffel bag under your bed.  Metaphorically speaking, yanno.

Ah, ze fraiche ‘er ees good on mah skeen!

A lot of regular readers to this blog might be wondering just who the hell you guys are and how you came to become semi-regular contributors to FTD.

Ahh, ze nostalgia.  How zat tale of ah-camaraderie and schizophrenia brings a tingle to mah spine!

No, that’s just the Alzheimer’s setting in old chap.  Anyway, get on with the story so that it finishes quicker.

Alrighty then.  The year was 2008 and I had just reached the climax of my creative potential.

Meaning your limited creative spurts had just run out and you were getting desperate.

Erm.  Yes. Ah-HEM.  Anyway, I had recently written a piece on Tipper Gore which met to universal acclaim from my peers.  I was looking for something to fill the void.  And that’s when I hit my first recognized minor depressive episode.

And guess who stepped in to fill the void?

I wasn’t and am not schizophrenic.  But I’ve always had a habit of making up conversations for myself.  It’s helped me get the worst of my thoughts out there and properly develop my imagination.  It may sound immature or crazy… But it’s just what I’ve done to cope with the situation I’ve been in.

Vous avez forgot about me.

No, Nap.  I’m just getting to you.  See depressive episodes are difficult to cope with.  First of all, I’ve never been able to properly get through to my parents about this sort of thing.  Not even my mum who’s gone through this sort of thing when I was younger.  It’s always put down to “teenage angst” or shit like that.  But I know it’s not normal for me to feel like this.  I can’t really get into it without going on a long tirade and going completely off subject.  Anyway, Napoleon came about as a manifestation of my frustration with France.

Zat ees whah I am expressed through zees red-eeculous stereotahpe-uh! Sacré Bleu!

I just get annoyed with the country sometimes… My frustrations with many failed relationships, the social situation… I don’t know, it pisses me off sometimes.  So Napoleon and Rhy came along to fill the void.  All of a sudden I found myself becoming more creative and more optimistic about life.

We gave your creativity a kick in the ass!

Yes, you did.  You bastards, you.

And so what’s our future?

I don’t rightly know.  Due to recent and somewhat unfortunate circumstances concerning my personal life, I feel as if I may be slipping into yet another minor depressive episode.  Whether or not Napoleon and Rhy will help me through this is unknown.  I fear that my apathy might take hold once again and my creativity and spontaneous schizophrenic dialogues may dry up entirely.

So we’ll be put into that fucking duffel bag again?

Perhaps.

Motherfucker.

Fils de pute!  Ah weel not be treated lahk ze Man in ze Iron Mask!

Or in this case, the imaginary man in the Marché Plus plastic bag.

Do not turn mah words against me, Rhy!  Remember Napoleon’s campaign of Russia!  Remember Trafalgar!

What, where Napoleon got his ass kicked?

Sacré Bleu!  Nom de Dieu!  Sainte Marie!…

Oh, this may take a while folks.

Till next time,

J

Ain’t nuthin’ but a G-thang, baby.

Hip Hop culture has brought us some of the best young minds in modern culture from the past ten years.  Mr Lif with his poignant social commentary, Busdriver with his absurdist, dada lyrics and… Well… This guy.

Don’t worry if you don’t understand it.   Neither can I, and I speak French.  But I’m going to try and give you a translation here on FTD.  And I do stress the word TRY.

Billal Sparky, mec des Skars, t’inquiètes : 92 F.A.R, y’a rien à faire!
Wesh regarde ta tête et ta touffe de mouton
Généralement tous l’monde dit qu’t'as une tête de con

Oh, I get it!  He’s dissing someone!  I don’t know who Billal Sparky is, but I’m pretty sure he feels burned after seeing this video, dawg.

Attends tu fais l’mec, retournes au 93
Qu’ils t’mettent la zermiiiiiii!!!!!
Même ton père se surnommant Kader,
Il se saoûle tous les soirs

“Zermiiiiii” seems to be a sound the average wigga makes when he gets kicked in the nads.  I shall have to remember that.

Et ensuite il te course dans les cou-loiiiiiiiirs!!!!!

Could there be a small Nicaraguan midget kicking him in the nads?  You decide.

Attends!!!
Ouais on devrait te Hagar,
Pour qu’tu fermes un peu ta grosse gueule,
T’as niqué Beblah et tu t’crois chaud?

It would seem the would-be rapper’s object of desire is called Beblah.  Think Mel Gibson’s catchphrase in South Park.  Except that was more “KERBLAAAAAH!” instead.
Mais, dis toi, dans ta tête, que nous
C’est pas la même chose, alors :
Arrête, Arrêteeee, Arrêteeeeeee quoi!!!!!!!!
Apparently he wants somebody to stop something.  I’ll tell you what, buddy.  You stop with this charade and I’ll stop whatever the fuck you want me to stop doing.
Putain, tu t’es serré une p’tite gogo danseuse,
Et ça s’croit chaud,
Hein, tu t’crois chaud?

Yes, I do feel rather hot in here. Might be because my heating is on.
Si elle aurait vue ta p’tite bite, elle s’rait partie
Hein, bon, ta bite, déjà, elle est toute p’tite
Elle a des rides, attends
Même celle de mon p’tit frère est plus grosse et plus grande

This is the clincher.  How does he know how big his little brother’s penis is?  Has he looked?  Was he curious?  Will I claw my eyes out at the very image of this possibility?
Et sans rides, donc tu vois,
Arrête, tu vas t’… t’afficher
Alors, arrête, arrête, arrête
Whoooohhh

The rapper tries his ghost impression on the final line.

Now then, children.  Aren’t we glad that this guy exists?

Try not to kill yourselves,

Rhy

Donnie Darkos: The French Paradox

The crowd is teeming in front of the old, majestic building. Betwixt the crowd passes a stirring, a murmuring; a certain electricity in the air. Why are they here? What’s going on? Why can’t they get into the imposing building in front of them? The crowd is comprised mostly of students, young adults who are fresh-faced and ready to face the world that their forefathers have laid out in front of them. Slowly but surely, a cry builds up from their bowels. A murmuring becomes a wave of sound, voices slowly raise up and cry in union…

DARKOS ENCULÈ!

The crowd goes wild! Laughs! Cheers! Screams of the paranoid insecurity that only those at that curious age could feel! Then they look around, unsure of themselves. Something has disturbed them, but what? For what reason? A boy in the crowd turns to his friend; “Hey, who the fuck is Darkos?”

This was the scene that greeted me on Tuesday morning in front of school as I tried to go to class. This is of course the student revolution in France that has risen up to combat the education reforms in France as being implemented by the French education minister Darkos. Yeah, I know. He sounds like the villain from some lame fantasy movie.

We had already experienced some minor uprising on Monday morning, as bright eyed and fresh faced, we went outside at 10 am to socialise and were greeted with a bunch of midgets hurling firecrackers at people. Oh, you crazy shiners, you. It was all fun and games until they came back on Tuesday morning to throw firecrackers at us again and one went off next to my frikkin’ EAR. But I digress.

I actually felt quite positive about these demonstrations. I am usually rather skeptical about student activism over here, especially in Béziers as most people getting out there are looking for an excuse to skip school and generally fuck around. But this seemed different: people actually seemed to care about what was going on because it affected their little brothers or sisters. It really seemed as if the student body of France had had enough of being pushed around by the government. It also bore exactly the sort of trademarks I look for when it comes to open revolution; the internet was only being used to keep people informed and to organize things and everyone I talked to was advocating active and open dissent and civil disobedience. What more could you want in a coup d’état?

But alas, all solid plans eventually go to waste. The student body is incredibly sloppy when it comes to organising such endeavours: a blocus (barricade) was supposed to be set up on the Tuesday: it comprised of several dustbins and a handful of arseholes trying to stop people from getting past. Luckily they rectified this problem on the Thursday, constructing metal grills and proper barricades on the stairs so that people were unable to get in. They actually did a decent enough job when it came to blocking up the school. At 9am we marched to Jean Moulin to “re-inforce” the barricades there, to find that half of the so-called “activists” were a bunch of 16-19 year old potheads who weren’t actually sure WHY they were demonstrating. They thought that Darkos was a character from Star-Wars. Oh, the horror. Nor did the sit-in in front of the mayor’s office (though I was not present, I had given up in exasperation) any use. They didn’t do anything. They just sat in front of the town hall and shouted obscenities at the police and mayor. No violence, nothing.

I mean what the fuck?! Did Che Guevara defeat Batista with harsh language? Did the Bolsheviks take over Russia with insults? I think not. Yet we’re here facing the pinnacle of apathy: people are happy to lend their support unless they think they’ll get arrested for it.

‘”Ah, but James!” you say, “Why were YOU not out there, molotov cocktail in bag and AK 47 in hand?! Why were YOU not killing cops left and right?” Well, dude. Come on, if you’re going to revolt at least make it for something worth while. Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for student activism concerning the education reforms, but I don’t think an open revolution will change it. I’m simply trying to stereotype the mentality of the people who were protesting this week.

This has manifested itself perfectly today: half of the people want to keep the barricades up, half of them want to take them down. As I sit here writing this, I feel regret. Regret that the student body, while willing, is still horribly disorganized. How can we stand up for our rights if we can’t even agree on basic agendas? How can we do anything if we’re squabbling between ourselves?

How depressing.

Till next time,

James

On a warm Béziers night…

Saturday marked the end of an absolutely shitty week for me.  I cannot stress how pissed off I was on Saturday afternoon, I’d had enough with life.  It’s a long story and one I won’t quite get into on here.  At least not entirely.

Flashback to Thursday.  My friend and I went to the Korrigan bar because we’d seen an interesting live band advertised.  I had previously never had a proper listen to 30′s swing, and wasn’t sure what to expect.  Cloudy and Madcat, the band, was a little late starting but when they did… JESUS, it was nice.  Authentic swing that had everybody in the bar tapping their toes and clapping along.  They deserved the praise they got, I can tell you that.  Anyways the beer and the good ambience helped me come to a deicision to start living my life a bit more spontaneously and to try and take a few more risks: namely in trying to get a girlfriend.

Friday afternoon: Philosophy test which I understood nothing about.  But we got out at 4pm to find a group of chavs waiting outside school with metal bars and looking generally like they wanted to thump us.  Fuckers.  I was shitting myself.

Saturday: Got two SHIT marks.  In the evening, the Aussies thrashed the French and I stayed up till half three in the morning drinking vodka.  Now I have a headache.

Shit week.