Salut!

Georgia off its mind (2)

When I posted an item in June about the wretched case of Genarlow Wilson in the southern American state of Georgia, I half expected to be writing a follow up within days.

Surely the grotesque misjustice that had seen him jailed for 10 years for consensual oral sex, at 17, with a girl aged 15 would quickly be put right and the young man freed.

It wasn't. They do things their way in Georgia.

Instead, it has taken the Georgia Supreme Court four-and-a-half months since a judge ruled that the original sentence represented a "grave miscarriage of justice" to confirm that this decision, not a hard one to understand, should translate into Wilson's release.

The fact that it didn't, wilfully prolonging Wilson's agony, is just another indictment of American justice in action.

While I am delighted that he is at last free to rebuild his life, I cannot help wondering what goes on in the minds of the dissenting judges in what was a close-run thing: only by 4-3 did the court find that Wilson had been subjected to "cruel and unusual punishment".

Three members of the panel were clearly content to bring further disgrace on their state, and by extension America, by voting to continue that cruelty until the savage sentence had run its course.

Films, family and favouritism

So what's this all about?

Well, as the headline suggests, the theme is film, specifically the films you and I love most. The picture doesn't so much give a strong clue about my favourite among the current crop of (UK) releases as shout its name from the rooftops.

My opinion on the cinema is worth no more than the next man's. But I'd love to see a few alternative suggestions from Salut! readers and, indeed, any quarrels with my selection.

In several decades of movie-watching, I have not enjoyed anything more than Brassed Off, which described a Yorkshire pit closure through its impact on the colliery brass band.

Peter Postlethwaite, who played the band leader, was quite magnificent; that emotional Albert Hall speech scene was recorded in one take, reducing many of the crew to tears.

My acquaintance and fellow Sunderland supporter, Melanie Hill, was among others deserving high praise, in her case for a striking portayal of Mrs Coco the Scab. Stephen Tompkinson was even better as her husband.

A straw poll among my new colleagues when we headed back to the shisha hangout tonight produced a varied response.

Cover girl

Not quite as many people voted in my Petite Anglaise book cover contest as in the French presidential elections.

But the steady trickle of votes has produced a winner.

To no great surprise, a thumping majority - 95.5 per cent and yes, it does sound a lot better that way than giving the number of votes cast - supported my view that the American version, Petite and Mr Frog back to back against the Eiffel Tower with her holding the baby, is by far the more arresting.

But Salut! salutes Bo Lundberg, the Swede who designed the American cover, and Spiegel & Grau, the US publishers, for choosing it.

Flat out, on and off court

My new Romanian friends - that's them above, and one has just clipped my sporting wings, of which more later - tell me that the occupancy rate for flats in Abu Dhabi is 99 per cent, as opposed to a more typical 80 per cent in other capitals.

No wonder we're all having such problems finding places to rent.

One colleague struck lucky in his first few days, but is now enduring a spot of uncertainty about a deal he believed to be secure.

I have been assured that there will be an apartment available for me. It comes at a rather higher price than I wanted to pay but is precisely where I need to be - on the superb Corniche - if leaving the south of France is to make sense.

In fact there will be two flats in the same development, the other earmarked for someone who is part of the new newspaper's strong advance contingent of north Americans and therefore calls me her co-worker.

Co-worker is just one of the words I am urging her to discard before we become neighbours. But that should leave her plenty of time to retain it in her vocabulary since the building may not be finished before February.

Bob Newhart and an introduction to shisha

To three of the people around the table in a Lebanese restaurant in Abu Dhabi, smoking from a shisha pipe seemed a jolly enough wheeze. A strawberry flavoured joint was duly ordered, and soon the wheezing began.

My colleague Laura Koot (seen above) is a fit and healthy Canadian who has never smoked cigarettes but appears as a chain smoker in a recurring dream of hers. After a few puffs, she was coughing. One of the others admitted to feeling a little odd. The third reported no greater sensation than that produced by a thin vapour.

"Do you have any idea," Lizzie, our seasoned expat, asked gravely next morning, "how many cigarettes a shisha is the equivalent of? Seventy-five."

Getting France back to work: Sarko's challenge

Nicolas Sarkozy has sorted out his troubled home life, after a fashion. The planned swimming pool at the Fort de Brégançon, a Cécilia project if Le Canard Enchainé is to be believed (and it often is), has presumably been put on hold.

Now, with the transport and public service unions playing their ritualistic part on the streets, he must turn his attention to remodelling French working patterns and practices.

One of the more interesting aspects of his early presidential career will be the issue of whether he lives up to all that pre-election reforming promise, or sinks into the traditional swamp of French surrender politics.

My picture is almost certainly a poor example of the malaise Sarko must cure. There will be a perfectly good reason for the advertiser to offer such limited summer hours of business. We do not know, for example, how many of those afternoon meetings there are, or how long they last.

But just think if it were true. If everyone stuck to such an agreeable working life - six half days a week, with the occasional afternoon rendez-vous - would we all be twice as happy, or would the world simply come to a halt?

Abu Dhabi postcard: from the palaces to Water Tank

Here are some more or less random images of my new home town, Abu Dhabi.

It takes me longer than some to gain my bearings in unfamiliar territory. While I am no stranger to the Gulf, my previous experience of the United Arab Emirates was restricted to a couple of hours in transit, twice, at Dubai.

Abu Dhabi is not Dubai. Those who know both cities are better placed to judge, but most tell me Dubai is a lot livelier, Abu Dhabi more conservative and restrained. Both appear to possess ambition and initiative in abundance. Abu Dhabi wants an international film festival; it launches one. That bit of the coastline needs to be reclaimed; it happens.

The English language newspaper I am here to help create will identify the contrasts and similarities. But more of that at some future stage.

For now, I will allow myself a few preliminary thoughts. My hotel, the Intercontinental, is smart and functional with splendid pool and beach, but the Emirates Palace, where that film festival has just had its debut, is something else.
I overheard a Welshman telling someone back home of the shimmering grandeur of the first seven-star hotel he had ever visited. It drips state-of-the-art opulence, giving it a clear edge over the great palaces dotted along the Croisette in Cannes.

Knocking 'em down with a feather

It is no great secret that my knowledge of rugby would render worthless any view from here on whether England's try should have been allowed.

The people in my pictures, taken at an expats' club in Abu Dhabi, had no complaints, of course. But their opinions are without value for the obvious but different reason.

Even without a sound grasp of the laws and manoeuvres of the game, however, I could see that for all their valiant efforts, England's status as underdogs fairly reflected reality. Leaving aside quarrels with the referee, or the assessors who denied that "try" on video evidence, the result from the Stade de France was one of life's broadly predictable disappointments.

But this was not even the second most important English sporting occasion of the weekend. The climax comes a few hours from now at Upton Park, of course. In second place, also ahead of the rugby World Cup final, was yesterday's long-awaited clash between England and Australia on the badminton court.

I feared the worst.

Petite Anglaise cover story: another England defeat?

EYES RIGHT...VOTE IN MY POLL

Salut! can hardly claim her as its own. It was not even born when the idea first took shape.

But for all the upheaval in my own life, I cannot suppress feelings of smug excitement at the gathering interest in Petite Anglaise's forthcoming book launch.

Like the girl in the Human League's Don't You Want Me Baby?, Petite - more properly known as Catherine Sanderson - always knew she'd find a much better place, either with or without me.

It is just that things moved rather faster for Catherine than would have been the case had I not broken the news of her summary dismissal, by an English firm of accountants with offices in Paris. The story swept the world, propelling Petite from popular cult blogger to serious player in mainstream non-fiction.

And just for a spot of fun, use the Salut! Soundings poll to your right to let me know where you stand on the great debate: who got the book cover right, the Americans or the British?

That's the US version at the top of this posting. Buy it in the UK and it will look like this.

Saints and sinners, hammers and sheds

How often will I have to watch the televised football game between Luton Town and Northampton Town?

It may just be my bad luck, but every time I surf the TV stations or pop into a bar showing sports channels, I end up watching that game. I mean, there may have been five goals but PLEASE no more Hatters (Luton) and Cobblers (Northampton), whether the commentary comes in Arabic or English. I feel I now know every kick, and each card, by heart.

Needless to say, I have been ignoring England's latest sporting setback and exploring the options for catching Sunderland's game at West Ham live on Sunday. Sunday is a working day in Abu Dhabi but the three-hour time difference means I should be away in time to see it live.