Salut!

The best fish and chips in the world

The late Auberon Waugh, a hugely entertaining snob of the first order, wrote in a column decades ago that he loved the way the juxtaposition of cod wars and potato blight had conspired to make that great British culinary invention, fish and chips, a rarity.

That comment told you quite a lot about the man making it. But if his experience of fish and chips had been restricted to London, and most of all those chippies in the West End that even proclaimed in lights that they served the aforementioned "great British invention", I'd have been inclined to sympathise with him.

For proper fish and chips - and they exist just as surely as good coquilles St Jacques or a great plateau de fruits de mer - you need to head north. But how far north?

Monsieur les Beatles: (2) meeting Paul and Ringo

Here, as promised, is the second part of Salut!'s interview with Eric Kasker, a father-of-five who took advantage of France's generous provisions for big families to produce important books* on the Beatles ...

Do you have a favourite Beatle?


Well, I always considered that John Lennon was the most interesting personality of the group, firstly because his songs are more personal, introspective and authentic. He really had a versatile talent as a song writer. He could as well compose great rock ’n’ roll songs such as I Call Your Name and Hey Bulldog, and creating unforgettable pop numbers such as It Won’t Be Long, I Should Have Known Better, Nowhere Man or Don’t Let Me Down. His surrealistic style is also outstanding and brilliant in songs such as I’m Only Sleeping, Strawberry Fields Forever, Being For The Benefit Of Mr Kite or I Am The Walrus. Secondly, I am very sensitive to his sharp wit and his offbeat sense of humour. His attitude was also the one of a rebel who quickly took a minimum of distance with the show-business and star-system (while also using it sometimes). For instance, he was able to stand back as early as 1964, while Beatlemania was increasing everyday and, although rich and famous, he was already conscious that the Beatles had lost a part of their authenticity and freshness, and from then on simply were to promote their own same 11 or 12 hits at every show.

Monsieur les Beatles: (1) he loves you ouais, ouais, ouais

The world has an abiding fascination with the Beatles. And when you want to know something about the band, especially the early days, you can do a lot worse than turn to Eric Krasker. And why not? The first name has an Anglo-Saxon feel, the surname gives little away. But Eric is French. I first interviewed him in Paris five years ago but he's been hard at it, as a recognised authority on the Beatles, for a lot longer. On the publication, in English, of The Beatles – Fact and Fiction 1960-1962, an updated, extended version of his first book, which originally appeared only in French, Salut! decided to fire some questions at him ...

Remind me of how you managed to find time to research and write the book

When I was still a student preparing my master diploma in history, I decided that my future research would be a combination of my two interests in life: music and history. And as the Beatles were my favorite band since 1972, it was natural that I would go in for this particular subject, especially because up to a recent time, there were very few academic studies dealing with the Fab Four. And now that the Beatles’ career belongs more to history than to present, I thought it was time to go to the nitty gritty and debunk some old legends and myths once and for all. So, in the early Nineties, as a father of five children and thanks to the French system of les familles nombreuses (big families), I had the possibility to take a long off-work period (twelve years) during which I made a thorough research dedicated to the beginnings of the Beatles in Hamburg (1960-1962). Of course, during this special time off I had a family allowance of around £457 per month, but the main income was provided from my wife who is a scientific researcher in philosophy.

Expat life: trouble with the Gaul blather

It seems an awful long time since I was immersed in a family home in Normandy, brushing up and adding to my French (best achieved by avoiding the man of the house, an Australian in need of serious tuition on his own account) before moving to Paris. A lot of water has flowed sous les ponts since then, and I now feel almost as if I am starting all over again ...

A little knowledge is not always dangerous, but can be misleading.

My French, once serviceable though I have never claimed fluency, has been coming back to me in the two or three weeks since I returned.

Phisherman's blues, spam and news 'aggregators'

Salut! knows a web parasite when it sees one. Not a day goes by without the need to clear a few out of the comments boxes, here and at the other Salut! sites, Salut! Sunderland, Salut! Live and Salut! North (though poor, neglected Salut! North probably welcomes attention from anywhere these days).

Indeed, when I don't just delete offending items as spam, I have taken to adding an insult and leaving the comment there - having erased the all-important link to a sex-enhancing, penis-enlarging, hair-restoring, sweat-eliminating or loan-promising product - for all to see. The wording varies from "NB: I am a cretinous - and now linkless  - web parasite" to something more specific along "oh no, you don't" lines.

La Rafle: a nation powerless to stop man's inhumanity

A bold, unsettling new film, La Rafle, depicts the horrendous events of July 1942 when the French authorities, at the behest of the Nazis, rounded up thousands of Jews who, in most cases, perished in the gas ovens of Auschwitz ...

It took France a long time to recognise the appalling truth. Once it did so, it showed itself honourable - if, in some senses, modest - in attempting to redeem a dreadful wrong.

French complicity in the war crimes committed by Nazi Germany on its own occupied soil is reason for unimaginable national disgrace.

St Tropez, and an air of insouciance

I am not sure who saw her first, the young St Tropezienne perched on a wall on one side of the Place Des Lices. Bill Taylor had rather better photographic equipment and was on the prowl, artistically speaking, so quite probably he did.

Expat life: digging deep at the marché provençal

Going to market in the south of France. What sights and smells and sounds. And what prices ...

One of the joys of rural and small-town France is the weekly market. Our marché provençal takes place every Thursday morning. Whenever I have been there in the past, the place has been buzzing.

Three alleys of stalls, selling everything from regional delicacies and horse meat (which, emphatically, they do not sell to me) to arts and crafts, clothing and umbrellas, stretch the length of what is usually the biggest car park in the Mediterranean resort of Le Lavandou.