Salut!

Marine Le Pen and the pink culottes

The National Front is a Nazi front. So the counter-demonstrators always chanted when I was reporting on its marches, and I am quite sure they held similar sentiments about Jean-Marie Le Pen’s French equivalent, the Front National. But is Le Pen’s daughter Marine trying to force the party to change Nazi front to Nicer front? Among a set of new posters she launched for the party’s 2007 presidential election campaign was one showing a young woman of obvious Arab origin in Le Pen supporting mode. “Ils ont tout cassé,” the girl says, thumb down as she echoes the FN’s contemptuous judgment on the mainstream French Left and Right: roughly speaking, they’ve failed you, the French, on all the issues that matter. She does not leave it there. The pose finds her alongside four keynote symbols of your nicer Front National – nationality, integration, social mobility, secularism. And, horror of horrors, she is wearing not a modest headscarf and sensible all-over clothing but low-slung jeans, showing bare midriff and – clearly enough to give the FN’s old codgers heart failure - the top of her pink knickers, or culotte rose as the French press helpfully puts it. The girl’s deeper thoughts on immigration are so far unrecorded, at least to my knowledge. Le Pen himself certainly hasn't changed; he was getting agitated again on the subject only the other day, accusing the French government of lying about the true scale of immigration from the Third World. But then I am currently in London and the French press may for once have set about doing what the British papers would already have done in similar circumstances and unearthed our lepéniste maghrébine.

Le Figaro's coy account of the affair quotes a prominent FN
official with a name splendidly evocative of both militarism and
Germany, Martial Bild, as acknowledging that the mode of dress may be
“too much” - uttered in English for effect – for some.
But Marine Le Pen, the FN's vice-president and strategic director of
its Elysée campaign, insisted that no one was challenging the
principles behind the poster campaign. The only reservations, she said,
concerned the visible thong.
“Some French people of immigrant origin are aware of the failure (of
Left and Right) and a lot of those are turning to Jean-Marie Le Pen for
answers,” she added.
Even old lags, I suppose, should be allowed a chance of rehabilitation.
But while Martine Le Pen and Martial Bild congratulate their party for
moving forward in a positive way and doing what would have been
unthinkable only a few years ago, I have one nagging spoilsport
thought.
If the Front National is no longer to be an odious party of racism and
other base human instincts, what is it for at all?

Labels: culottes, election, Elysée, France, Front National, immigration, Le Pen, Left, National Front, politics, racism, Right

Last tangos in Paris

Picture: Paul Cooper

With the ticking of the clock growing louder, it seemed a good idea to make a last visit, at least as temporary Parisians, to one of our favourite jazz clubs. The paradox of Paris jazz is that while people who know about these things say standards of musicianship and presentation have never been higher, musicians and club owners moan that times are hard*. Consider the glorious history of jazz in this city and you realise that the first part of that proposition is praise indeed. But the music is caught in a vicious circle. It can be difficult to get into certain clubs on certain nights but this is partly because the number of venues has been steadily shrinking. Tourists with plenty of spending power still clamour for tables, but natives on average French incomes find the cost prohibitive. Drinks and, when served, food set you back a small fortune, the band is still playing by the time public transport is shutting down, parking is a nightmare and cabs are elusive as well as dear. First choice Saturday was l'Arbuci, a famous joint along the rue de Buci. The telephone conversation went something like this:

"Hello, do you have music tonight?"

- but of course, sir.

"What kind of jazz is it this evening?"

- a trio.

"Would they be modern jazz? Traditional?........"

- traditional, sir.

"Very good. Can I book a table please?"

- Sorry, sir, but we're full.

An utterly French exchange.

Le Bilboquet was a
perfectly acceptable as second best. Tucked away in a street off the
Boulevard St Germain, opposite one of those "secret sauce" steak
restaurants where people actually queue outside in the cold, boasts a
rich heritage; Duke Ellington, Charles Mingus and Miles Davis all
played there.
It has been a frequent source of pleasure during my Parisian adventure.
On Saturday, the club was again heaving, with what looked like a French
office party taking over more than half the tables and foreign visitors
most of the rest.
When I say prices are steep, I am not exaggerating. You leave with the
feeling that you have not so much pushed the boat out as mustered the
entire flaming fleet.
The food was excellent but simple. In ordinary circumstances, you might
quarrel with 35 euros as the price of a pair of modest starters:
girolle mushrooms cooked in garlic and tomato mozzarella. The grilled
tuna, a dependable main course, was as succulent as ever, as it rather
should be at 30 euros a head.
By the time you've added drinks, even from the bottom end of the range
on offer, you can see which way the bill for two is going.
But you've also heard some great music - Le Bilboquet is a mecca for
fans of rollicking boogie woogie, though Saturday's fare was the
Brazilian chanteuse Catia Werneck, more sophisticated if less fun.
The club has the band to pay as well as the cost of running the
restaurant and bar, and the entertainment is built into the menu
prices.
Yes, it hurts to pay quite so much for an evening out, even when
service is superb and the ambiance perfect, but this is an expensive
part of an expensive town. All in all, in other words, you are not
ripped off.
Walk a short way along the boulevard, order a small Leffe beer and menthe a l'eau
at Le Mabillon, and you'll get little change out of 15 euros.
And the only distraction there yesterday, if you don't count the
bawling of fractious twins and equally fractious parents, was that old
Parisian standby: a game of Spot the Waiter, with long gaps between
each sighting.
* An easy search of the Telegraph website will turn up the
original version of this article. For a reason unknown to me, direct
links from Salut! to the Telegraph do not always work.

Labels: Bilboquet, boogie-woogie, drinking, eating, jazz, music, Paris

Pardon the French

Sometimes I back the right horses. This year's Carpette Anglaise awards, more barbed bouquets than trophies and given to those considered to have done the gravest disservice to the French language, have gone where Salut! suggested they would. For the main English Doormat prize, step forward the body of august French dignitaries that is France's Conseil Constitutionnel, or constitutional council. The council's crime, in the eyes of the French language purists who make up l'Académie de la Carpette Anglaise, involved "numerous" breaches of Article 2 of the French constitution, which declares that the language of the Republic of France is indeed French.

Faut-il conseiller le Conseil?

Specifically
this year, the council dismayed the judges by endorsing a London
protocol agreement on patents that allows text in English or German to
have legal effect in France.
This was one of the two co-defendants I tipped for victory. It would
have more fun had the judges opted for my other choice - Philippe
Baudillon, France 2's director general, for screening programmes called
Top of the Pops and Dancing Show
- but the Academy is made of more sombre stuff.
For the international prize, I am pleased to reveal the winner as my
clear favourite Ernest-Antoine Seillière, president of the European
Business Confederation (UNICE,) for delivering a Brussels speech in
English.
This minor affront to the la Francophonie became a cause
célèbre only because of Jacques Chirac's contrived tantrum, leading a
silly little walk-out as M Seillière began his address.
Marc Favre d'Echallens, secretary of the Carpette Anglaise body
representing four associations that defend French, brought me news of
the results along with a reminder of the criteria.
In particular, to win the main prize, some member of the "French elite"
must distinguish himself (or herself or itself) with great efforts to
promote the domination of Anglo-American to the detriment of French.
I have yet to see a reaction from the recipients of these 2006 civic
dishonours.
But nor have I seen much evidence that the French in general are about
to drop anglicised words and expressions from everyday conversation or
writings. Perhaps ça ne roule pas cool after all.

Labels: awards, constitution, English, franglais, française, French, judges, language, prizes, Sellière, Unice

Decadent distractions

As culinary experiences go, it had the edge on fish and chips eaten out of paper wrapping, and not even newspaper, while walking from Shepherd's Bush to football at Loftus Road.

  Photograph: ParisDailyPhoto (Eric Tenin)
Exactly one week on, just as fans had jostled for position in the fish
shop queue on the Uxbridge Road, sharp-elbowed Parisian ladies in
cocktail dresses were making their presence felt at the Hotel Lutetia
in the grander St Germain des Prés.
But who's to blame them? They'd sat or stood loyally through the 40th
annual Prix Culinaire International Pierre Taittinger awards ceremony.

Those able to squeeze into the small hall where the announcements were made had warmly applauded Charly de Wijs,
the Dutch winner of this year's prize. The rest nattered a little
noisily in an adjoining room.
Trophies presented, it was now time for the serious business of the
evening, a sumptuous buffet in the Salon Président of this palatial
hotel on the corner of the Boulevard Raspail and Rue de Sèvres.
I always feel slightly uncomfortable in the Lutetia. It's the thought
that within these walls people were tortured by German agents during
the occupation of Paris.
Last night's feeding frenzy deepened that discomfort, though not quite
enough to ruin the appetite.
Guests surrounded each serving table, two or three lines deep at the
most popular ones, presenting a formidable obstacle to satisfying that
appetite. Fortified by a glass of bubbly, I persevered. It was worth
the effort.
The president of the judging panel, Jacques Pourcel, celebrated
co-owner with his twin brother of the Jardin des Sens in
Montpellier, was lurking close to the first table entering the salon,
and this seemed as good a recommendation as you could expect.
With his fellow judges, a well fed looking line-up, M Pourcel had spent
part of the day in the kitchens of the Ecole Ferrandi for the deciding
round of what Taittinger calls its gastronomic Nobel.
The seven finalists were each asked to prepare a whole turbot cooked
with two sauces, one of which had to be Champagne-based. Francophone
foodies should consult the fuller description* below.
In any event, Pourcel looked and sounded the kind of man who knew a
thing or too about la bouffe,
so I hovered close by. He was sampling the duck foie gras creation** of
last year's winner, Jérôme Ryon, from the Carcassonne restaurant La Barbacane,
and it turned out to be as delicious as anything else on offer around
the room. Before making my retreat - the place was probably too crowded
with people I didn't know to enjoy for long - I had muscled my way
through to the agneau d'Oc cooked
with garlic, watched huge plates of oysters being rushed through by
waiters to replenish depeleted stocks and grabbed a slice of Tomme de Savoie from a cheese display that also had Cantin, Beaufort, Chêne and Pigouille.
In a city packed with beggars, it is difficult not to feel a pang of
guilt when taking part in such a feast, even if you do leave early. But
then, they're unlikely to ask me back again next year.

* Each finalist was asked to prepare: Turbot presenté
entier, farci de homard et nappé avec trois garnitures libres, 2 sauces
(dont une sauce Champagne et un libre) et une tarte au citron meringuée.

** Full description of M Ryon's contribution to the
buffet: Foie gras de canard cuit au naturel, "chouchou" et marmelade
d'orange sur une brioche tiède.

Labels: Carcassonne, fish and chips, foie gras, football, Lutetia, Montpellier, Paris, Taittinger

End of the road?

There will be relief among many of my readers that this, barring some unforeseen development or need to reply, is intended as my last word on the Nathalie Gettliffe affair. From the responses since I first raised the subject, it is clear that some agree the issue was worth airing, a few feel indignation that an outsider should express an opinion on any aspect of Canadian justice and at least one wants me to pipe down and Gett a Liffe. Reports of the case, on both sides of the Atlantic, have sometimes been confused and confusing. Today, there is a fresh gloss on the 16-month sentence passed on Monday and initially reported as leaving Gettliffe with six months to serve for the abduction of the two children she had with her ex-husband, Scott Grant. It could be little as four months, we now learn, if she behaves herself in jail, or two if she succeeds in a bid for parole. All of which reinforces my view that a sentence providing for her immediate release would have been the appropriate one, preferably but not necessarily by means of a suspended term. It is a struggle to think of a rational reason for making her spend this many, that many more weeks inside. Nathalie Gettliffe is no saint, nor even a model mother whose actions can easily be excused, even if no account of the hearing I have seen describes precisely why she acted as she did. Nor does she deserve mercy solely because she has already paid heavily for her misdeeds. It is simply my case that there is not a single decent cause to be served by her continued imprisonment. The interests of deterrence and retribution have been amply met by the detention of an intelligent but misguided woman of previous good character for eight months and throughout a difficult pregnancy. Being made to give birth while a prisoner, wherever delivery actually takes place, would surely be a pretty stiff punishment for any woman. But I am even more concerned about the impact on her children, all four of them. Madam Justice Marvyn Keonigsberg said Gettliffe's vilification of her former husband was one of the most seriously troubling aspects of the case, causing him and their children "immeasurable, perhaps irretrievable harm". In what way incarcerating her for another two, four or six months can possibly help heal that damage, and make the children happier and more settled with their father, is not clear. Judge Koenigsberg faced, as she acknowledged and I recognised, a tough task in deciding the right sentence. I respect her conclusions that Gettliffe deserved severe punishment for encouraging the children to hate their father and "brainwashing" them into believing him to be a brute who belonged to a religious cult. The view that a more compassionate decision could have been reached is no less respectable. While I hoped to avoid further comment, some of the reactions justifies this added thought. Certain aspects of the case - and in particular the about-turn made by Gettliffe in its closing stages - frankly baffle me. Taken at face value, the outcome can be seen - as Le Figaro noted when summing up opinion in France, where she would almost certainly not have been jailed - as "harsh but not scandalous".

Despite criticism from a small number of readers, my very own tricoteuses,
the fact is that I repeatedly distanced myself from the extravagant
claims of some of Gettliffe's supporters. I expressed no view on her
guilt or innocence or on Grant's religious activities, but reported
what was being said on both sides, with much more restraint than I have
seen elsewhere, including here.
However, I stand squarely by my reasons for raising the matter in the
first place. I never believed the world would be a better or safer
place because Nathalie Gettliffe was in prison, and still don't.
And I do believe that a mature and civilised democracy should find
better ways - does possess better ways - of dealing with a pregnant
woman, unconvicted but facing trial, than throwing her in jail.

Labels: abduction, baby, British Columbia, Canada, judges, justice, Nathalie Gettliffe, prison, Scott Grant

Nathalie Gettliffe stays in jail

Nathalie Gettliffe was sentenced tonight to a term that means she will spend a further six months in jail. The sentence was 16 months. I know little more about a decision that naturally disappoints me and confounds those confident Canadian voices that spoke of a likely release. In particular, I do not know how the sentence squares with the "credit" scheme for time spent in custody awaiting trial. It appears that the judge made allowance for only part of the time served. She (the judge) did not, however, go as far as urged by the prosecution, which wanted a sentence that would have kept Gettliffe incarcerated - with or without baby son - for a further 14 months Gettliffe's continued detention, wrong as I keep saying she was to abduct two of her children in a bitter matrimonial/custody dispute, seems to me to be of value to no one. And least of all does it appear to serve the interests of the children the courts repeatedly said were their main concern. When I do know more, I will have more to say, though I may wish to wait for more information about the sentencing hearing. Oh, and the flagship 8pm news programme of France's private TF1 channel was only 15 or 20 minutes behind me with the news.

Labels: baby, British Columbia, Canada, child custody, jail, judges, pregnant, prison, Scott Grant, TF1, Vancouver

Adieu to the rue de Rivoli

Only three weeks to go so we invited the concierge and his wife to our farewell to Paris party. They couldn't make it, though the crown princess who will one day rule as Queen Victoria came instead.

But that's being extravagant with the truth.

The lovely Princess Victoria of Sweden was indeed in our building on
the rue de Rivoli, the Daily Telegraph office-cum-apartment that has
been our home, shared with a procession of colleagues from London, for
two-and-a-half years.
But the nearest she came to attending my shindig was when she bowled
over to my wife at the bottom of the lift shaft, assuming her to be
part of the Parisian Swedish Circle's welcoming party.
We'd agreed to take it in turns to make sure guests to each function
were ushered to the right one.
As
it happens, and despite the fact that we were able to secure the
presence of not only two ambassadors but the charming and witty Petite Anglaise
(leading me to speculate that this must surely outrank one Scandinavian
princess), it was not too difficult to make the distinction.
None of those attending our party wore formal evening dress. And, as a
mark of the leaner times upon which their hosts had fallen, our guests
were mostly carrying bottles or titbits of food, or both.
  
"Il y a un petit problème," the concierge had said when I asked him to join us and our friends and colleagues for Saturday's modest soirée
to mark the end of two eras - mine as a Telegraph journalist and the
Telegraph's (rather longer) presence in two of Paris's most chic
arrondissements, the 1st and the 8th.
The Swedes had their royal reception, the concierge added in worried
tones, and the strict security measures included the stipulation No
Press.
Luckily, our neighbours saw the funny side of one minor snag: the
majority of our people were indeed likely to be press. In the end, the
building somehow accommodated all their guests and all of ours. The
sifting process at the lift worked a treat.
To the horror of one or two French friends, we'd promised only a "light
buffet" and the more sensible guests dined out before arriving. But the
light buffet stretched an awful long way and I fear I shall be eating
the remains - cheese, crisps and charcuterie - until we leave for the
Var immediately after Christmas.
Living at the office has been a far from ideal arrangement.
But when you peer out from the living room, directly opposite the
Tuileries, you get as good a view as you'll find in most parts of
Paris.
It runs from the Louvre to the Eiffel Tower and takes in all the
landmarks in between, and we have been fortunate - despite those benign
invasions of our privacy from London - to experience it.
Successive Telegraph correspondents, dating from before the Second
World War, have had similar luck, being based in a series of imposing
offices in the 1st and 8th arrondissements. Soon, for us, it is to be adieu to the rue de Rivoli, au revoir
to Paris.
Among regrets, one sticks out. Why didn't I put more pressure on the
mayor of the 14th arrondissement to order the demolition of the Tour
Montparnasse, the one ghastly blot on the landscape as seen from our
room with a view*.
* Captured here, in photos two and three, by one Bill Taylor,
who may have a flawed outlook on penal matters but knows a bit about
photography. The first is mine and the last, a family snap taken by me
on Tour de France finale day, shows how thin you'd need to be to dine
on the balcony.

Labels: Daily Telegraph, Eiffel Tower, Louvre, Paris, photography, royalty, Tour de France, Tuileries

Lines of disservice

Imagine the Paris Métro has closed an important section of line one between La Défense and Château de Vincennes. Other parts of the Métro, including the link to Orly airport, are disrupted, too. Two things would not be happening. No member of staff would be anywhere near a platform to explain to frustrated would-be travellers what was going on, or advise them what to do next. And no announcement would be made informing people that a good service was operating on all lines.   London does it differently. When I was back there a few days ago, part of the vital Piccadilly Line service to Heathrow was suspended. There were no District Line trains from Acton Town to Ealing Broadway. Another line, from memory the Circle, was experiencing its own problems. None of which was enough to discourage the cheery London voice from informing passengers, as you have already guessed, that a good service was operating on all lines. At least London Underground could not be blamed for the grim onward journey to Luton Airport. The signs said my train was on time, but a verbal announcement warned passengers needing to travel beyond Luton that they would have to take a replacement bus service. Then the phrase "on time" assumed new meaning as the number of minutes to arrival began to rise rather than fall. When the train eventually turned up, it managed only a short distance before shuddering to the first of three or four stops between stations. Each halt lasted several minutes. Even when the train started to move again, that movement was painfully slow. Every so often, a muffled voice would appear from a speaker on the roof of the carriage. The word "problem" could be discerned, but little else. Finally we reached St Albans. There the train stopped, seemingly for good. Loud, clear public address announcements informed people that nothing was moving southbound. By the time anyone could be persuaded to add some information for those of us stuck on the northbound train - information that turned out to be no more encouraging - passengers were beginning to scuttle off towards the taxi rank. The usual suspicion in such circumstances is that your train will suddenly depart just as you climb the stairs and spot a queue a mile long for cabs. There seemed little such risk this time, and within a few minutes I was sharing a taxi with a Scot and a German also with flights to catch. A couple from Waterford (is there anywhere planes don't go to these days?) pooled resources with a Swiss girl. Two builders from County Tyrone were already on their way, having opted much sooner to flee the train. The German, perhaps dreaming of a return to a more efficient world after five years in England, was pessimistic about our chances. But he knew the area well and gave useful running commentary on our progress towards Luton. The Scot, most at risk of missing departure, thrust two Scottish fivers into the German's hands, promised (correctly) that they were legal tender and talked of making a sprint for his flight the moment we reached the airport. In the event, I think we all caught our planes, having added £31 between us to the cost of getting from London to Luton. In my case, the RER and Métro then got me back into central Paris in no time. There is no particular moral to just one more example of transport misery. The French railway worker's fondness for his strike, or mouvement social, has ensured a few hairy races against time from Châtelet to Charles de Gaulle. And if the Métro seems more reliable than the Tube, that may be because it is a smaller, more compact system.

But I was left with little sympathy for the Livingstone/Delanoë
approach to getting around and out of capital cities.
Ban cars by all means, chaps, but not before you can assure travellers
of a first class public transport network that actually works. 
* Picture courtesy of Paul Cooper

Labels: Charles de Gaulle, London, Métro, Orly, Paris, RER, Tube, Underground

Nathalie Gettliffe sentencing (updated)

Anyone interested in the Nathalie Gettliffe case should know that prosecutors in British Columbia have asked for a two-year jail term when sentence is passed this evening (Monday).

Moreover, they do not feel that her entire time in jail awaiting trial should qualify under the Canadian "credit" system which allows actual sentences to be reduced by up to double the pre-trial custody period.

If Madam Justice Marvyn Koenigsberg follows the prosecution demand, in other words, Gettliffe will still have to serve 14 months before being released.

Some readers will remember that the woman involved in that appalling sex crime in another Canadian province qualified for instant freedom under the same "credit" scheme. Her two years spent in custody was allowed to count double against her four-year sentence.

The actions of Gettliffe, in removing her two children from Canada to France in defiance of a court order, were wrong and punishable.

But they pale into insignificance when set aside the other woman's role in the abduction and gross sexual abuse of two girls, aged 12 and 13.

Chalk and cheese, cries Bill Taylor from Toronto. But why on earth should we not draw attention to such a glaring inconsistency as the further imprisonment sought for Gettliffe immediately after someone guilty of somewhat more evil acts elsewhere in Canada has received compassion and leniency?

Different jurisdiction? Cobblers. Same country. I may need to gett-a-liffe, as Anon cleverly puts it in the comments below. But Canadian justice, I repeat, has not covered itself in glory in the Gettliffe affair. To deny a pregnant mother bail pending trial was bad enough. To refuse her these "credits" for part of her time behind bars (the couple of months between arrest and the children's return to Canada and their father's custody) begins to sound, if not vindictive, draconian.Nathalie Gettliffe's defence has argued for a sentence that would ensure her immediate or early release.

No one at all appears to have canvassed what I believe would be the appropriate and merciful outcome, a suspended sentence.

This would surely take account of the interests of everyone, especially all four children (the two at the centre of the case, and two more by her present companion).It would also make proper allowance for the harsh punishment Gettliffe has already brought upon herself over the past eight months. And it would acknowledge the extremes to which acrimonious parental battles over child custody can drive one partner or both. I do not suggest that Judge Koenigsberg has anything but a difficult task to perform, as she herself has admitted.

But if I may add to the mitigation already offered to the court, no decent interest would be served by making Gettliffe serve another day in jail. Once she has been sentenced, I will naturally discuss the case further as soon as I can.

But Salut! is not a news agency and anyone who cannot wait, and is not following the matter in the French or Canadian media, should check the usual internet news sources.