Showing posts with label Nowt. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Nowt. Show all posts

Tuesday, September 11, 2007

After You...Non, Pleeze After You

From Instructions for British Servicemen in France 1944, a great little book issued to every Tommy before the Normandy landings and now reissued by the Bodleian library:

'The French are more polite than most of us. Be sure to address people as 'Monsieur', 'Madame' or 'Mademoiselle.''
From a brochure issued by the Paris Chamber of Commerce to businesses anticipating increased foreign trade during the Rugby World Cup:

'The Anglo-Saxons, as well as being largely amiable, are also notable for their politeness.'

Curiously the 'Anglo-Saxons' comprise the Scots, Irish and Welsh but not the Americans or Canadians, who are afforded their own rubric. I wonder have manners changed that drastically in the past sixty years?

Thursday, August 02, 2007

Lead Astray

Mattel, most famous for Barbie and, back in the day, He-Man, have recalled over one million toys made by a contract producer in China, because the toys - ranging over 83 different products - have been coated in lead paint. It reminds me of the title of one of the educational films that we might remember Troy McClure from: Lead Paint: Delicious but Deadly.

Wednesday, August 01, 2007

'Tis strange

Bizarre news day: Martin McGuinness launches the Derry Gay Pride festival, presumably because his immediate superior, the Reverend Ian Paisley was unavailable to get down with the Foyleside sodomites. And then Kanye West, who has already fiddled about a bit with Swedish indie lads Peter, Björn and John, has asked them to be his backing band at the Gothenburg Way Out West festival next week. Topsy-turvy indeed.

Friday, July 27, 2007

Liberation of the Bidet


The French left-wing daily Libération, which I refer to regularly here, has, in recent years tried to offset its falling sales by running a series of supplements over the summer months, often gimmicky and designed to catch the eye of casual readers. The 'Sex' supplement over the summer of two years ago was one, as was the compilation of 'faits divers', major murder stories - many of them recounted in explicit details - from Libé's pages over the past twenty years, which appeared a couple of weeks back. There has also been this summer a one-off 'opening-up' to journalists from the right-wing Figaro and L'Express, which had some regular readers spitting fire: one web forum commenter said, 'if I want to read Le Figaro, I'll buy it. A real opening-up would have been to invite left-wing journalists in'. Such an opinion is common among many of the French left, who see Libé, founded by Jean-Paul Sartre, as having sold out in recent years. Of course many on the right and many outsiders (including a leftist like myself) see it as almost predictably orthodox in matters of ideology. But French politics is peculiar at the best of times.

The most interesting supplement (or, to be completely accurate, feature) so far is running at the moment; it is a daily feature on the history and cultural symbolism of diverse objects, such as the TV remote control, the crucifix and, puzzlingly, today the butter - as opposed to cheese - wire. The most interesting though has been Tuesday's piece on the bidet, which, alas, I cannot find on the website. The jist of the article anyway was France's falling out of love with the bidet, which it invented and which was present in 95% of French homes during the 1970s. Now the frequency of bidets is much less common and the king of bidet users are the Italians - followed by the Spanish and Portuguese - all of whom would not dream of using the toilet for 'une grande commission', as the French would say, without following it by hopping onto the neighbouring bidet. Hence Italians tend to squeamish about using toilets outside their home. According to an interview with an Italian historian of hygiene and sanitation, it is considered bad form to use the bidet in a house you are visiting without first being permitted, in which case you will be provided with your own personal pile of towels. The same historian defends bidet use against charges of wasting water saying that it actually uses less than a shower does, which reminds me of P.J. O'Rourke sneer (aimed at the French) in Holidays in Hell, when he says that 'hygiene means cleaning all your body'.

The article also mentions the English's complete bafflement in the face of the bidet, while adding that English expats in the French provinces now scour antique shops looking for old specimens to furnish their bathrooms with. The bidet figured as the ultimate taboo in Carry On at Your Convenience, the one thing that Kenneth Williams' lavatory manufacturers Boggs & Co. would never deign to make, and it was this film that probably informed my own view of them as an object of derision while growing up. The only bidet I ever saw as a child was in the bathroom of our cousins in Kildare, progressive folk who went on European holidays, and I remember my sister telling me half-amused, half-scandalised, 'they have a bidet!' These days the presence of a bidet in French households can be troublesome to negotiate, not least because they are sometimes located for some insane reason in a bathroom separate to the toilet itself. At a house party I was at a couple of years back in an apartment thus ill-equipped many people mistook the bidet for something else. Not too endearing that, thankfully it appeared to be only for des petites commissions.

Thursday, June 21, 2007

10 Great Films and Where I First Saw Them


Not an all-time top 10, just a random list

Woman of the Dunes (Hiroshi Teshigahara, 1964) One winter morning on video in an old flat in Ranelagh, some time in the late 1990s. Since seen it twice on the big screen.

Eraserhead (David Lynch, 1977) In a video shop I used to work in in Ballymote at the age of 16. My then boss recommended it while also warning me not to go around saying that I loved it as nobody would believe me.

Breaking the Waves (Lars von Trier, 1996) At a preview screening on a Saturday morning in the Screen at d'Olier St. I've seen it five times since.

The Third Man (Carol Reed, 1949) At Christmas when I was about 16; I knew who Graham Greene was, not really who Orson Welles was.

Vertigo (Alfred Hitchcock, 1958) In a damp basement flat on Rathgar Road on a Friday night in the mid-90s. I didn't get it, and never understood it until I saw the 70mm restoration a few years later in the IFC (or IFI, as they call it these days). I left the cinema in a cold sweat, which is ironic, as I later learned that its title in French is just that: Sueurs froides.

The Naked Spur (Anthony Mann, 1953) In the Grand Action cinema on rue des Écoles, Paris in September 2000.

Rebel Without a Cause (Nicholas Ray, 1955) Surprisingly late, in 2002 or 2003 at the Action Christine cinema on rue Christine, Paris.

Sweet Degeneration (Cheng Sheng-Lin, 1997) At an afternoon screening at the Dublin Film Festival in 1999.

Vive l'Amour (Tsai Ming-Liang, 1994) At the Cinéma des Cinéastes, Studio d'Ursulines, beside the Luxembourg Gardens, July 2002.

L'Avventura (Michelangelo Antonioni, 1959) (Pictured above) On video in an apartment in Rathmines, sometime in the late 90s.

Sunday, June 03, 2007

Dodgy Geyser from Iceland

While out drinking into the wee small hours on rue de Lappe last night I and the person I was with were approached by a young man who was a bit chattier than we we thought necessary. However, rather than rudely dismiss the fellow we humoured him for a bit in the hope that he would soon go away. When he asked me where I was from, I decided to replace one letter in the usual adjective and said that I was 'islandais'. Saying you're Irish to a French person usually attracts the most banal platitudes and clichéd compliments (we're such great fun and yes, they hate the English too) but being Icelandic changes the terrain completely. The language is obscure (the young gentleman even asked me if I could speak English), the country is obscure and the only thing anybody knows about it is Björk, whom, I assured the young fellow, is a credit to the country, beloved of all Icelanders. The conversation was mercifully short and the chap looked elsewhere for chat. I think I'll be Icelandic again soon.

Monday, March 26, 2007

Are You Watching, Steve Staunton?

Northern Ireland showed the Republic how to finish off easy opposition with a 4-1 win away to Liechtenstein on Saturday, David Healy scoring a hat-trick to bring his international haul to an impressive 27 goals. Former Sligo Rovers and Wycombe Wanderers boss Lawrie Sanchez has shaken Norn Iron up and made them qualification contenders for the first time since the heyday of Billy Bingham. Rumours floating around at the weekend suggested that Merrion Square have pencilled in Sanchez as a possible replacement for Steve Staunton, something that Seanachie thinks unlikely, given the inevitable bad feeling that would ensue, especially as Neal Lennon had his life threatened for doing far less. But Sanchez was on the verge of quitting last September, being fed up with the petty sniping of the Belfast media.

Monday, March 19, 2007

Thoughts on French Students and Stationery

French students sure do like their stationery; even the adults that take a couple of hours off work for my classes, many of whom have pitifully low prospects of moving their English along, turn up with foolscap jotters free of any dog ears, a selection of pens and pencils, pencil sharpeners and something I haven't seen since I was about fourteen: pencil cases. And their hand-writing is nearly always very good too.

Saturday, March 17, 2007

St. Patrick's Day Greetings

I don't expect many people from the old sod to be swerving any way close to this site today but I will wish all a happy St. Patrick's Day. If I may be allowed to slip into Dick Cheney oratory for a moment, yes, I am proud to be Irish, yes, I don't give a shit about St. Patrick's Day. But I will be out having a few later, mainly to celebrate a friend's birthday, who owes his second name to his peculiar date of birth. But in the spirit of festivity below is a wee piece that sums up the importance of the day rather accurately, if the Muppets are judging us, well it takes one to know one. Interestingly I was once told by an English lecturer in college that the original air to 'Danny Boy' (the lyrics of which were written by an Englishman, folks) is known as the 'Londonderry air' not out of political chauvinism but because the 'Derry air' would have sounded too much like the French for 'arse' for polite society in the past. Enjoy, and enjoy the day, however you might. Thanks to the Gweedore man for the Muppets. Once again it takes one to know one.


Sunday, March 11, 2007

Lovely Day

A 1-0 defeat for Celtic at the hands of the Huns in the 374th Old Firm game; I didn't watch it because it is such a lovely day here that I didn't feel like spending it in the back bar of the Auld Alliance. I'm heading out again to enjoy it. I'll probably go to a movie too but once again the three hours of David Lynch's Inland Empire is a bit off-putting. More from me later.

Thursday, March 08, 2007

Dishing the Dirt on Underachievement

As with anyone that tracks their blog and tries to divine reasons for anyone dropping by - and most reasons are aleatory and accidental more than intentional - I have begun to analyse the referrals to Underachievement and have been a bit surprised to find that people have been getting here by chance thanks to searches for things of a more assuredly carnal nature (and, believe me, a blog named 'Underachievement' is not deliberately sought out for such things). It all started off with my mentions of Thomas Gravesen's 'exuberant' girlfriend Kira Eggers and it has spiralled into less obviously glamorous territory. Now, Seanachie is not the sort to throw either the first, third or fifth stone, but he is disturbed on the one hand that his perfectly clean assessment of the German-style toilet attracted one person (only one, I will point out to those others that I know read it) due to a search for 'Sheisse movies' (America hang your head in shame). And then there was the Croatian that somehow ended up here having looked for 'glimpse it torrent' (Google tells me that it's mainly for watersports enthusiasts - I will never use that word 'glimpse' again). And today, Underachievement was solicited for information regarding nude images of its favourite Polish custodian Artur Boruc by one of his countrymen or women. Seanachie has never before used the words 'Artur Boruc' and 'naked' in the one sentence, though the good people at Google, or their algorithmic lackeys, give that impression. Now maybe if you refine your search to 'Artur Boruc+stark+bollock+naked+underachievement', something will happen...

Monday, February 26, 2007

Oscarcised


It's a long time since I watched the Oscars, surely one the most unwatchable three hours of television this side of North Korea, and it's as long since I took them seriously as a barometer of cinematic quality. It was inevitable that Martin Scorsese, a filmmaker who has been in decline for some time and who persists in ploughing the same farrow, would eventually get compensated for his previous losses at the hands of far inferior hacks for Taxi Driver, Raging Bull and GoodFellas. I reviewed The Departed, winner of four Oscars last night, a few months back and I wasn't too complimentary though it is a marked improvement on last year's Best Picture winner, the unspeakably bad Crash. While the film settles down to become a passable crime film its overweening pretentiousness in the opening hour and the ridiculously over-the-top performances prevent it from being a worthy addition to Scorsese's better work. It is a fittingly mediocre Oscar winner. I have seen only two of the other films that were nominated for Best Picture: Babel, which I was pleasantly surprised with though I can see how others thought it was unnecessarily high-minded and overly-serious, and Little Miss Sunshine, a film that I was forgiving enough of as a piece of silly fluff, until people like the Academy, and the French Césars, who awarded it Best Foreign Film on Saturday night, started to treat it like a quality comedy. Woody Allen or Wes Anderson it certainly isn't. Other than that I missed The Queen when it came out in the autumn and I have yet to see Clint Eastwood's Letters from Iwo-Jima. Some of the other films that were rewarded, such as Guillermo del Toro's Pan's Labyrinth and Kevin MacDonald's The Last King of Scotland, I have also yet to see. I can however congratulate the Academy on rewarding a worthy film in the Best Foreign Film category: Stasi thriller The Lives of Others, one of a number of enthralling German films to have been released in the past year.

Wednesday, February 14, 2007

Limerick, You're No Lady

The Cork, sorry 'Irish', Examiner, proves itself to have got the hang of the news story of national importance with this beauty from its RSS feeds. The standfirst itself is a classic of its kind, and was not, I presume committed to copy with anything resembling a straight face: 'A Valentine's Day heartbreak warning went out in Limerick last night - but it had nothing to do with romance'.

It seems that some cad from Stab City is going around purloining valuables from dancing ladies; is nothing sacred? Can Shannonside slappers not dance around their handbags in peace without fear of losing their very soul? I thought the city had changed since Angela's Ashes...

Tuesday, February 06, 2007

Sheisse-poope

I find the Germanic toilet disturbing, as I'm sure do many others; rather than collecting one's stuff under a water seal as is common elsewhere, the Deutscher-toilet has a shelf that takes up most of the surface area of the commode, and on which one's deposit is retained, until flushing, as if you were, erm, pawning it. Lest I betray an unhealthy fascination with the subject by going on any further I will hand it over to the great Slavoj Žižek for this analysis, which first surfaced a few years back in his book The Fragile Absolute but which he has since taken great pleasure in recycling a few times. Masterly, though I don't really see any fundamental difference between the French toilet and the 'Anglo-Saxon' one (or certainly not the Irish one, which is, of course, racially and culturally different from the Yank-British model):

"In a famous scene from Buñuel's Phantom of Liberty, the roles of eating and excreting are inverted: people sit at toilets around a table, chatting pleasantly, and when they want to eat, sneak away to a small room. So, as a supplement to Lévi-Strauss, one is tempted to propose that shit can also serve as a matière-à-penser: the three basic types of toilet form an excremental correlative-counterpoint to the Lévi-Straussian triangle of cooking (the raw, the cooked and the rotten). In a traditional German toilet, the hole into which shit disappears after we flush is right at the front, so that shit is first laid out for us to sniff and inspect for traces of illness. In the typical French toilet, on the contrary, the hole is at the back, i.e. shit is supposed to disappear as quickly as possible. Finally, the American (Anglo-Saxon) toilet presents a synthesis, a mediation between these opposites: the toilet basin is full of water, so that the shit floats in it, visible, but not to be inspected. No wonder that in the famous discussion of European toilets at the beginning of her half-forgotten Fear of Flying, Erica Jong mockingly claims that 'German toilets are really the key to the horrors of the Third Reich. People who can build toilets like this are capable of anything.' It is clear that none of these versions can be accounted for in purely utilitarian terms: each involves a certain ideological perception of how the subject should relate to excrement.

"Hegel was among the first to see in the geographical triad of Germany, France and England an expression of three different existential attitudes: reflective thoroughness (German), revolutionary hastiness (French), utilitarian pragmatism (English). In political terms, this triad can be read as German conservatism, French revolutionary radicalism and English liberalism. In terms of the predominance of one sphere of social life, it is German metaphysics and poetry versus French politics and English economics. The point about toilets is that they enable us not only to discern this triad in the most intimate domain, but also to identify its underlying mechanism in the three different attitudes towards excremental excess: an ambiguous contemplative fascination; a wish to get rid of it as fast as possible; a pragmatic decision to treat it as ordinary and dispose of it in an appropriate way. It is easy for an academic at a round table to claim that we live in a post-ideological universe, but the moment he visits the lavatory after the heated discussion, he is again knee-deep in ideology."



The full article can be viewed here. Austrian Railways, I am pleased to report (but was dismayed to discover) employs the same useless spindle dispensers of powdered hand soap that have been Iarnród Éireann's hallmark for the last thirty years. But their rolling stock is better; I suppose, unlike Ireland, Austria's rail gauge has correspondents other than South Korea, thereby increasing the sources of its material.

Wednesday, January 24, 2007

Logan's (Burger) Bun

I'd like to think I'm cutting-edge but I have to doff my cap off to the lads and ladies at Blogorrah for this astounding analysis of Johnny Logan's McDonald's ad (or is that McDonalds' Johnny Logan ad?) It's strange that it took Ashbourne's greatest export after Hunky-Dory's so long to pass through the Golden Arches. Would have loved to have got to this first but I'm an exile from my ex-isle. I'm still quite good at what I do, if you know what I mean.

Monday, January 22, 2007

Party to Information?

Absent for the weekend due to a surfeit of activity caused by people being in town. I went to a curious party on Saturday night, which was held in an outhouse on the grounds of L'hôpital St-Louis, Paris' largest hospital. Why the hospital authorities decided to allow two hundred drunken revellers to occupy a building on the grounds is unclear, especially as there was neither a bouncer nor any admission fee. Not that there was any trouble though. Most strange was the decor of the room where the party was held; a long room that had the air of a parish hall, it was decorated on all sides with murals of pornographic cartoons, depicting various orgies and obscene images. The party itself was a much more restrained affair but the decor does limit the potential use of the building for other activities. Who organised the soirée was also unknown to me and, as there was no cover charge and everyone was free to bring their own drink, and most did, the financial motives of the organisers are equally puzzling. Not that I am complaining, the music was top-notch and the place was full of beautiful women. But I have a sneaky feeling that if I try to seek out this event again that it will have disappeared, venue and all, as if it were only a dream to begin with.

Monday, January 15, 2007

Pseudo Cream

I have a couple of annoying pimples on the forehead and I am despairing as, for some reason, I am convinced that only Sudocrem can do the job of ridding them by morning. It must have something to do with an over-application of the stuff to treat nappy rash when I was a wee nipper. You can't get the stuff in France though. Always read the label.

Friday, January 12, 2007

What I Learned Today II

That Oklahoma, an inland state, has more shoreline than any other American state, more even than Alaska, California or Florida. All this because of an immense amount of public works creating reservoirs carried out under Roosevelt's WPA programme. Read more here.

Saturday, January 06, 2007

All Sept

After about two years back in France, and almost seven after I came here for the first time, I have begun to cross my 7's, in the French fashion, something that I have long resisted, mainly because my 7's never look like they could be mistaken for 1's, despite the protests of many French people. I have always been irritated by French bank clerks crossing my 7's on lodgement dockets, as if they were making them presentable for French processing. When one looks at the absurd way many French people write 1's - often leaving hanging a stroke from the top of the figure so long that the 1 looks like a ski-jump - the possibility of getting the two figures getting confounded is even greater still. In Philip Roth's The Human Stain, Coleman Silk's persecutor, and would-be suitor, the French academic Delphine Roux, gives herself away by the crossed 7's à la francaise in her anonymous letter. The main reason I have started doing it is because many of my students, having difficulty comprehending anything that is not Gallic, cannot conceive of a 7 being sept without that bar running through it. But I may also be going native, finally.

Wednesday, January 03, 2007

Lift of Irish Laughter

This Christmas, for the second year running I had trouble with the lift that brings passengers from the Luas terminal at Connolly Station to the station itself one storey up. The classically bad design begins with the positioning of the door at the back of the lift, which, when you are carrying suitcases, rucksacks and carrier bags full of Christmas shopping is not terribly helpful. When I stepped in I noticed a couple with a baby carriage and I duly kept the doors open for them. We then stood waiting for the doors to close, which never happened, despite repeated attempts to press the appropriate button. The couple soon tired of waiting and stepped out of the lift, as did I. As soon as I turned away to take the stairs up, the doors shut behind me and the lift began its ascent to the upper level. There was a sadistic air to the shutting of the doors and the subsequent smooth kicking-in of the lift’s machinery. Still it was not near as bad as what happened at the same place and at the same time last year, when I gallantly reopened the doors just as they were folding to let two elderly ladies in. The doors’ recoil knocked over one of the ladies’ enormous rolling suitcase, which domino-like then sent the frail old dear to the floor. I was horrified and commenced apologising profusely, only to be told by the outraged septuagenarians to ‘go on up, yourself’. It was something to make Larry David blush. I was only trying to be nice.