When I was living in Russia, I started to take ballet classes. This was pretty remarkable in itself, one of those momentous taming of the tomboy life developments. It got pretty embarrassing at times (for more gory details, check out my Europe Trotter post and have an artistically-appreciative perve at the Farukh Ruzimatov video I rustled up from YouTube!), but the most embarrassing instance in my “ballet career” actually happened in France.

This is hard to believe, as most of the time in my St. Petersburg class I was pirouetting on thin ice in terms of the stuff-up stakes. It didn’t get off to a good start. I turned up to the first lesson with pink slippers (perhaps the Grishko sales assistants were trying to offload this unpopular shade of baby-bum on unsuspecting foreigners and dance novices), only to have it announced by our militaristic teacher that our “uniform” would have to match the colour of our slippers. I balked at this prospect, and instead wore all black for the duration of the course. She never mentioned anything, and if she did, I would have feigned a convenient language incomprehension.

But the worst was in France, in a little town called Hyères on the Côte d’Azur. I had just arrived there from St. Petes on a gust of icy Siberian winds, fresh from my ballet classes, and seeking a little respite in the sun. Guillaume, who was living there at the time, suggested that we find a ballet class for me, which I thought sounded like a great idea (I was thoroughly enjoying ballet at the time). We found a dance studio with an instructor who, ‘no problem at all, I can speak English’ announced that he had the perfect class for me when I told him that I had been only dancing for six months in Russia.

I went to the class, and to my surprise I found myself surrounded by lithe 15-year-olds, and not the frumpy, tracky-dacked adult learners I had been expecting. We started and then I realise what was wrong. He thought that I had been in Russia for six months to dance, not the actuality of only starting six months previously when I happened to be in Russia.

Merde! It was deeply, shamefully humiliating, to describe it in the best possible terms. On his encouragement I tried to stick it out for the whole class, but in the end I held my head high (and tears in) and made what I hope was a graceful exit. I packed my bag, ran home in tears, and never went back there!


My worse-for-wear Grishko ballet slippers (version II, in black). They’ve taken a battering since being converted to everyday house slippers!

Actually, I can’t believe I haven’t mentioned this earlier (other than my last post), and considering it’s Guillaume’s annual suggestion as what to get my mother for Christmas – I’d better rectify the situation.

Dieux du Stade – if this name rings a bell (and your blood runs a little hot), you’re probably scrolling down already to see if I’ve included any photographs (yet patience is a virtue, I’ve got a story to tell first).

Now it all began back in summer 2007, when I was crash-course revising rugby union, pretending that I had in fact invented the game and followed it all my life, just to get a job writing English commentaries for the Rugby World Cup in France. Writing a synopsis of the Argentinean team led me to the boys of the Stade Français and their lurid pink lily uniforms… but then I discovered that they’re even better known when they get their kit off!

It all began back in 2001, a calendar with nude and semi-nude pictures of the Stade Français players was released to try and put a bit of spark back into the club and into rugby in general. 15,000 copies were sold, and the marketing machine took off. Since 2004, a “making-of” DVD has accompanied the calendar for each year, and the figures for the 2007 calendar stand at a whopping 200,000 sales. Needless to say, the erotic and homoerotic pics are a hit with both the lads and the ladies, and wider audience appeal for the game has been of course assured.

I’m always one for parody though – and it was with glee that I discovered Les Odieux Du Stade (édition 2008) the Angoulême International Comics Festival. Part of the BD series Les Rugbymen, the calendar pokes fun at the whole Dieux du Stade shebang.

… And don’t worry, Mum, neither will be posted over to you any time soon!

For anyone who thought “Dak-huh?” after the last post…

The navigator who urgently pleads to the driver “turn left again, turn left again, turn left again” reminds me of my driver’s licence test actually, except in my case, the examiner was saying “turn right… turn right… right… right… TURN RIGHT!!! oh, ahem, I mean, turn left…”

It was announced a week ago that the Dakar Rally of 2008 has been cancelled. I, for one, needed the full week to come to terms with this tragic news.

There’s something that all those out there in blogland don’t know about me. In fact, not many know this piece of personal information. My father was the first to hesitantly suggest a diagnosis (perhaps it could be genetic?) because…

I’m totally into the Dakar Rally. I don’t follow any other motorsports and would be one of the first to feel sensitive about the cultural, environmental and political issues of an off-road rally of that scope – but put me in front of a Dakar television broadcast in January and I’ll contentedly sit there for hours and dream (this is rendered as further remarkable by my irritation at television in general and inability to sit still for the duration of a film, due to many years’ overdose from working in a video store).

I’ve often said that if I announce my intention to learn to ride a motorbike, watch out, for Dakar would be the next logical step. This is all because I saw a Japanese woman race one year on a bike. I’m not Japanese, I can’t ride a motorbike… but I am a woman – so I figured that one out of three isn’t bad!

(Otherwise, would it be possible to hitch a ride in a Kamaz*?)

But looks like I won’t be able to get my fix this year, as the bikes, cars and trucks won’t be racing from Lisbon to the Senegalese capital from January 5th-20th due to the security concerns in Mauritania, all under the guise of the “big T”… terrorism. This should have been the 30th year of the race, which was originally known as the Paris-Dakar until the course was changed in 1995.

Ah well – there’s always next year… I just hope they don’t cancel Eurovision as well, or 2008 will be a very bleak year for me!

* An archetypal Soviet/Russian truck, it’s said that both Kamaz and driver will have seen better days, but it’s a guaranteed ride for any hitchhiker…

Wow, a blog that combines cooking and Chabal - have I died and gone to heaven?

Just let me add one more thing on this topic - I’m glad to find other blogs venerating the cult of Chabal as I had done…

Now everyone in Paris can breathe a sign of relief as the fever pitch of Rugby World Cup madness has thankfully ebbed without causing any lasting damage or too much scarring. The month-long stint of the giant rugby ball dangling from the Eiffel Tower has come to its natural culmination, and everyone can get on with looking stylish whilst riding on bicycles. Things can just get back to normal.

Which gets me thinking about normality and surrealism – and where better to ponder that than in the halls of the Musée du Luxembourg with visual stimulation provided by 16th century Italian artist, Giuseppe Arcimboldo?

And here I was thinking that rugby players had cauliflower ears – they don’t even come close!

In quite possibly the most interesting exhibition I’ve seen in Paris thus far, the Arcimboldo collection is a creepy but amazing display of the possibility of imagination – or the product of derangement. The extent to which either or both are applicable is still being debated.

For those who aren’t familiar with Arcimboldo’s works, he is famed for his anthropomorphic natural images – where the contents of one’s modern-day grocery trolley take the form of realisable human form portraits.

Fruit, vegetables, seafood and flowers transform into eyes, ears, mouths and noses. In his repeated studies of the seasons, the youth of spring is light garlands of flowers, summer is heavy with ripe fruits, autumn brings its substantial harvest, and then winter presents a harrowing image of decay and withered remnants.

Far from being a light-hearted take on painting, a lot of the images are really haunting. For squirm-value, ‘Water’ has to be seen to be believed. A collection of crustaceans and slippery sea-dwellers have been assembled to create a rather aristocratic portrait. The image is so true to theme, it’s even adorned with pearl jewellery!

The unofficial “Over 60s” social club for the men of Angoulême meets on daily basis, just outside of house we lived in for the summer. They are a resilient bunch, with no need for any sort of a club house. The only structures they require is a decorative fence and something of a rectangle, but this could all be tossed by the wayside as long as they have a small carry bag, packed with arsenal for the day’s leisure activity.

We lived opposite the boules “playing fields”.

Every morning, as I walked to the local market (we never had the foresight, or need, to shop for anything more than one day at a time), I would pass these men – although I think they were oblivious to it, so intent was the concentration on the game. At first I thought it was sweet – a relaxing pastime – but then I soon came to realise that this was an intense competition, a running battle. Day in, day out these gaulish gladiators would either attempt to use the same old dirty tricks, or accuse each other of cheating. Comme d’habitude.

What was even funnier is that they formed such a formidable force, that any younger-generation boules aspirants were forced from the field until late afternoon or early evening. Even if there was an empty playing pitch, no one seemed brave enough to show off their skill – or flout their lack of – when the boules brigade were around.

However, it was of a totally different character as families with children or young people with six packs of beer assumed the stage. Of an evening, there was to be no measuring with string, but more approximation, a little bit more swearing, and a lot more whooping with glee.

Everyone graced the evening with an appearance. The gangs of Paris congregated and openly flouted the ‘no glass’ policy in grand fashion, free-style rapping pre-match, gesticulating with drained bottles of rum. Kids with turbans of dreadlocks and Hare Krishna tufts of dreadlocks sat on picnic rugs and drank cans of beer. Old men had French flags painted on their faces and young girls brought baguettes along as costume props.

Guillaume and I had also decided to watch the France vs. New Zealand rugby match at Hôtel de Ville.

Every tournament has its idol. If I can recall correctly, everyone’s heads were turned by France’s Frédéric Michalak and England’s Jonny Wilkinson at the last tournament in Australia – and I’m not just talking about their ability to kick a rugby ball! Now, four years later, boyish good looks and the allure of a pre-kick bum wiggle have somewhat stagnated in their attempt to catch the attention of the public. Tastes have somewhat matured, and now prefer brute strength and facial hair… Enter Sébastien “what if the Second Coming adopted the form of a rugby player?” Chabal. Crowd-pleasing beyond belief, Chabal drove the French crowd into a frenzy whenever he did anything, and I mean anything. He got a greater reception from the droves assembled at Hôtel de Ville than “La Marseillaise”, and I’m sure even the New Zealanders were quaking in their boots as he stared them during the haka. I can’t even begin to describe the euphoric outpouring when he took the field in the 52nd minute.

Exacerbating the frenzied worship by the cult of Chabal, there is also a meat product company in France by the name of “Charal”, that has a series of inane, though amusing, advertisements which culminate in “mmm… Charal.” The obvious appropriation (“mmm… Chabal”) has become the unofficial catch-cry of the French XV supporters. This makes me laugh at the moment, but by the time the tournament ends I think I’ll be ready to – Chabal style – crash tackle and break the jaw of anyone who dares utter this phrase. Just a friendly warning!

By way of explanation, a Charal advertisement (they ask: who is the greatest carnivore?)

And all you could ever have wanted to see of Sébastien Chabal’s claims to fame. Warning - not only is it over 4mins of rugby footage, I should include a little bit of a language warning for their choice of soundtrack. Enjoy!

In case you are living on a deserted island, with an internet-connected laptop that for some peculiar reason can only access blogs, and thus I am your only source of news in the universe, well then… firstly, I pity you, and secondly, the Rugby World Cup is on in France at the moment.

As happy as I would have been to stick my head in the sand of the aforementioned deserted island, it’s impossible to ignore, especially on the public transport with numerous British, South African and Australian fans either drunkenly chanting, or just looking drunkenly lost. But for a little while there, I thought I was even going to jump on the bandwagon. Before I blinked and missed it, I was going to create official English-language program material for the International Rugby Board.

I applied for a job in July which required someone who was:

1. A native English speaker (YES!)
2. Perfect spelling (ho-hum, well I would have Microsoft Word, right?)
3. Passionate about rugby (hmm… this one might pose a challenge, but I don’t have a research degree for nothing!!)

I spent the weekend on BBC Sport, Wikipedia and Google, and then applied for the job. A few writing tests later, and then the confirmation, the position was mine! More information was at this stage revealed… the position was for writing SMS/MMS/WAP coverage. Hmm… not exactly the most literary start, but then again, you’ve got to give the sporting public what they want to know.

Anyway, there I was, roster in hand, prepared to give up a month’s worth of weekends to try and write rugby updates in 160 character or less, when I was informed that the position no longer existed.

I don’t know why. Maybe in adherence with the « je parle rugby » program, they decided to abolish any trace of the English language from the tournament. Maybe they just realised that I was bluffing. Oh well…