Under made-up "Loig7 Désespoir Excitant w.o.r.l.d." copyright worldwide 2004. Une production Sainte-Foy l'Argentière; Croix-Rousse; Reading; Dundee; Dublin. Emailez Loig7. Soutenez Loîg7 dans sa lutte contre les forces de la réaction, de la réaction et la stupidité; send a cheque to the "Yes! I want to save Loig7 from a life of Pot Noodles! fund" at this address: 83 Old Kilmainham Village, Dublin D 8, The Republic. UPDATE 2nd page here . Sex! (warning: this link may be invalid and lead you nowhere). Loig7 présente...

A collection of various ejaculations to be observed and pondered upon in moments of reflection, curiosity and probably drunkenness (which might just help to understand some fragments contained therein). Warning: fairly, ahem, robust opinions expressed underneath / collected emails / revised versions of "news bulletins" sent to my right and honourable correspondents. "Ours" en bas / credits at bottom.

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Reading Fest' 2003

Back by popular demand... Loix' Big Adventure at Reading 2003 -only weirdos use "03", which always somehow greatly unnerved me : how are we going to name this decade, then...? ..."the zeros"?!

Anyhow, as some of you might know, the festival could not take place any closer to the dive I currently reside in. So any chance of keeping my windows or curtains open between Wednesday morning and the next Monday evening was always going to be slightly unrealistic : the Great Unwashed had arrived and by God, did they smell ! -Mainly of burgers, onions, chips, sausages and assorted exhaust pipes.
Eyes bloodshot, knots of hair sticking out at all angles, palms sweaty, piercings rusty, shorts way past their sell-by date... one weekend of fun and puke awaited. But enough about me, the kids in the street were out en force (as they only say in Engerland) and ready to pardee (that is, until their Mum 'n Dad pick them up at eleven sharp and I mean eleven OK !). (The gigs, of course, finish at half-past eleven, but, hey, try telling your parents..., not a clever plan.)

I only wanted to go for one day, and so I did : just imagine, the two other days featured the likes of Bleurgh, Beck, and Metamoronicallica...
Friday it was, then. Same as ever, my personal favourite gig overall turned out not to take place on the big stage nor did it feature a big name : it was of a band whose name I didn' t even catch, playing in the tent. Heavy metal like "Spinal Tap" never happened, mullet haircuts that even German footballers would sneer at, gratuitous guitar solos by a man in a vest and glasses, and an excitable Yank woman keen on informing us that they were from Texas as if we gave a f..., this mighty pop combo kicked some heavy sh#t, man, and no mistake.
As I said, I don't even know their names, but it's just as well : ah, the endearing elegiac pang of nostalgia...

(FOLLOWING YEAR PS: that was Young Heart Attack, who played the same gig in 2004 on the main stage this time, and were as gas as the first time.)

Later on in the same tent, one of the most eagerly bands of the week-end : Electric Six, they of the "Gay Bar" fame. Imagine three thousands kids crammed in like sardines chanting "Gay Bar ! Gay Bar!" for half an hour with no regard whatsoever for the song being currently performed onstage, and you will have a pretty good idea of the level of expectation. As I mentioned in a previous posting, scribbling "Gay Bar ---->" on the back of your mate's shirt or on his / her bare back was the rage that day. Preferably with the arrow pointing down. To cut a long story short, the "Electrics" did not disappoint. Furiously delivering a barrage of two-minute songs and starring a singer that would make me look butch, the Chicagoans (I think) won the day, but only by virtue of not outstaying their welcome. (Whether they are ever able to deliver a second / third album remains to be seen; see also: Frankie Goes To Hollywood... Sex Pistols... Jesus and Mary Chain... Dubstar... Fun Lovin Criminals... Paw... Garbage... and so on.)

Meanwhile, on the big stage, various long hairs were busy torturing guitars while delivering tales of adolescent angst that presumably scare their audience's Mums. Dressed in black, of course, and answering to one-syllable names (Finch, Pinch, Staind, Crap, Shit, Moan -whatever). -Bring back national service is what I say !!

The only amusing incident to report -apart from being propositioned by a prostitute (but, hey, that's another story altogether...)- involved the mighty Staind, an amiable bunch of overweight frowning baldy thirty-somethings dressed in black who can't even fucking spell. As they launched into their second song (screech, screech, moan, groan, screech, frown, and so on for five other interminable minutes), the guitarist's P.A. exploded. A miracle, some might say; sadly, as I got down on my knees to thank The Almighty and promise Him in return that I will never do that thing again, the singer grabbed an acoustic guitar, parked his fat arse on a stool (that didn't even give way), and turned the gig into an al fresco acoustic, unplugged recital. "This is not what we had in mind", grumbled he, as he set about slaughtering "Black" by Pearl Jam. Ever the masochist, I hung around for half a dozen more acoustic numbers (OK OK, I'll come clean : I was checking out the babe in front of me) and then decamped to feed myself.

At this stage, we may need to take a deep breath; anyone who's ever been exposed to festival food will sympathise.

I set my sights on a so-called Oriental Delights van, the cooks of which sounded suspiciously Cockney to me but, hey, what do I know... Having parted with five Sterling Pounds for a small mountain of oily noodles which I quickly deposited into the nearest bin (bizarrely overflowing with similar plates), I hurried off to wash my mouth off with some water or somefink. Five pints of Cider working wonders, I suddenly found myself refreshed, invigorated, full of optimism in music and love for the fellow man. (Fellow woman actually, but no need to get personal). By that time, I had inexplicably missed the entire gig of one of the two only bands I absolutely wanted to see : Interpol, from NYC via Lyon. That bunch of wanke-er, scoundrels- were already packing up their equipment as I reached the tent. Expletive deleted.

Whilst in the vicinity, I decided to check out the merchandising on sale nearby: sadly, none of the official bands t-shirts were any good. But then... by a stroke of good fortune... I came across a, like, totally rad shop that kicked ass Major League !! On sale were a bunch of 70s style, skin-friendly synthetic shirts that even Africans had rejected. Needless to say, I simply had to buy a few. Now, whether I ever get to wear any of these remains to be seen, but let's just say that, at the moment, it-seemed-like-a-good-idea. Dragging my goody bag, I proceeded to go and -actually- listen to some bloody music. On the big stage Placebo were finishing their set: just my luck, the two endless songs of theirs which I don't like. The little prick adorable frontman then personnally insulted me by explaining that they were to end their concert with a song by Mr. Frank Black "out of The Pixies" -no sh#t Sherlock, and all these years I always thought Frank Black was in the Go-Gos ! Placebo dispatched "Where Is My Mind" as only them can do, and pranced off, leaving the stage to the big stars of the day (if you discount the headliners, obviously) : Blink 182. Ah, Blink... Someone should tell them that rock is not a sprint, it's not a rush to the finishing line -but personnally I wouldn't have it any other way. A demented drummer, an epileptic guitarist-singer (well, "singer"...I use the term loosely), and an electrocuted bassist-singer, I 'll tell you wo', there was some good rockin' in the house ah yes I am thinking for sure. Fifty minutes and a hundred songs later, not a dry shirt in the audience: pogo a gogo ! Ah, takes me back... takes me back to, er..., a few years, shall we say...

Did I mention the bottle battle beforehand ? As the crowd waited for the San Diego trio, someone had the genius idea of playing The Pogues on the P.A.: cue spontaneous mass battle of plastic bottles flying through the air. Spec-ta-cu-lar ! Three minutes of mayhem. ...I just hope that it was beer inside these flying missiles, though.

Moving on swiftly, I then went to watch - albeit from a safe distance, understandably- the Scousers of Ladytron recycle Human League, Depeche Mode and New Order with all the warmth of a sleepwalking funeral director delivering a lecture on Kierkegaard. Hmm... Sure beats toiling at McDonald's, but not by much. If I add that the singer's idea of dancing means shuffle her feet while staring at her band-mates for comfort, you will have a pretty accurate idea of the quality of their stage presence; Sarah Dubstar's got nothing on them!

I then trekked back to witness the start of Linkin Park's gig, ignoring the inexplicable attentions of a bunch of pesky kids dead intent on scribbling somefink on my back (what da- ?!?). By then, night had fallen. Observe, if you will, the simplicity of the previous sentence. ... Nice, is it not. Understated, and yet potent with the promise of untold secrets... Night, as I said then, had fallen -and from quite a distance, too !! (Or How To Blow Your Credibility With A Single Crap Pun.) People all around had taken to doing what they do every year and what is every year forbidden: lighting up polystherene cups. The stink, the chemicals released... Oh, the fun. Then The 'Park -as noone calls them- arrived on stage and set about reciprocating, note for note, their two albums. Get this: the guitarist keeps giant headphones on, Roger Waters style, as he swans about wielding his pre-recorded mighty instrument. Like, spontaneous as f#ck, hell yeah. Convivial. How to describe Linkin Park ? Let's give it a try. The oh-so original combination of basic guitar riffs with would-be atmospheric samplings over some heavy metal / rap beats, with one rapper, on one side, delivering angry kid tirades that even Zach outta Rage Vs. The Machine would reject and, on the other, a death-metal throaty shouter, it is no wonder that they became the biggest selling album of 2001. Yep that's right, the biggest seller in-the-world, tss... Poor Maria Callas, poor Mahler, poor Celine; life can be certainly cruel innit. Anyhow, they're back, with a second album the perfect copy of the first one. The two singers, curiously, don't see it this way, and spend their time assuring us how much more original and stronger their new material is, and how delighted they are to be performing at Reading. Or, to do them justice and quote them accurately, how fuckin' great it is to play motherfuckin' Reading, hell yeah shit I'm gonna puke with excitement, guys! (Sadly, the shouter does not fulfill his promise and remains on stage to continue regalling us with his lyrical genius.)

Too old to bear being told by a rich American how easy it is to take control of my life by telling all and sundry to "fuck off", I soon start to make my way towards the exit. Only stopping occasionnally to apologise after trampling someone who had had the brilliant idea of sitting down on the ground in the complete darkness. (Or sometimes not even bothering, mind you.) I am now carrying my bag of funky dayglo shirts home and have partaken of the Electric Six experience, so my life is slightly richer. The-dive-that-is-my-house is within spitting distance, and I still have to negotiate past a good dozen thousand of revellers on the way. Tomorrow United are playing the Geordies, and it's time to get your priorities right, eh.

PS. Some of the views expressed above may not necessarily reflect the writer's mind.

"Choice Of Two Weeks On Mars Or In My Brain" Loig 69 7 Allix Thivend copyright 2003.

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Essclusif!! Le derby contre st-eti#nne -le compte-rendu.

(premiere partie: 1)

Saint-Etienne (France). Les brasiers illuminent l'horizon de leur lueur infernale, leur rouge sanglant soulignant les hautes cheminees de brique noire egayant la succession de rues dans lesquelles se terrent les indigents misereux. Approchons-nous un peu. Ici-bas, de pauvres heres agressifs en guenilles de rappeurs americains se trainent dans les fonds de cour, monnayant les maigres charmes de Slovenes, Bosniaques et autres Belges importees. Des corbeaux fameliques (malefiques ?) se disputent les restes desseches d'infames charognes achevant de se decomposer aux givets des coins d'impasse. Il pleut du charbon.

Ce samedi (ou bien un autre jour) les champions de l'Olympique Lyonnais ont rendez-vous avec leurs cousins du Florez en terre sainte-stephanaise. Decouvrant le paysage sordide qui constitue l'inevitable quotidien des malheureux stephaneux, les athletes n'en croient pas leurs yeux. Et pourtant, et pourtant…, St-Etienne n'est a priori pas totalement repulsif: il y existe un acceptable musee d'art moderne ainsi qu'un tres bon acces autoroute permettant d'en sortir.

Nos gentils Bresiliens de l'Olympique sont plein de compassion: "Si c'est pas triste, on se croirait en banlieue parisienne...", soupire l'un d'entre eux. Puis il se retracte: "Non non, quand meme pas, il ne faut pas se moquer!"

Exitant l'autocar pour entrer le stade Jeffrey Guichemolle, les joueurs se retrouvent entoures d'une poignee d'autochtones grimaçants. Edentes pour certains, mal rases pour la plupart, ces derniers tendent leurs poings, levent leurs index et maugreent d'incomprehensibles imprecations au sujet d' " il y a une trentaine d'annees, ah ça crevaindieu... " Hatem prend peur : les verrues suintantes des gargouilles grouillantes l'environnant lui coupent le souffle. Heureusement Caçapa le prend sous son bras protecteur et le cherubin se trouve aussitôt a l'abri.

Ignorant l'avalanche d'insultes meme pas grammaticalement correctes et de crachats tuberculeux, les triples champions de France vont se changer dans le cabinet malodorant qui leur est reserve au sein du stade branlant. Le personnel technique declare qu'il est trop dangereux de s'aventurer sur le terrain avant le coup d'envoi -les cannettes volent bas cette saison-, et les-hommes-de-Paul-Le-Guen attendent leur heure avec quietude et assurance. Quand il leur faudra assurer, ils assureront. On n'est pas champion pour rien!

Paul Le Guen tende d'etendre ses longues jambes sur le tabouret sans pied de chaise que le garde-champetre peu amene lui lance, puis y renonce. D'un index manucure, il deloge une poussiere de son beau blazer. L'atmosphere deletere empuantit les eboulis servant de murs saint-etiendeurs. L'edifice rouilleux n'a clairement pas ete renove depuis une eternite -Ah ça, c'est sur, quand on n'a plus de caisse noire pour soutiendre le club a bout de bras, les choses se passent differemment! Des photos jaunies aux murs rappellent a ses souvenirs l'epoque a laquelle. Le garde-chiourme revient a la charge: "Puqu' cinq minutes", il couine, "puis vous vous zalle prendre la derouillee d'chez grandiose!"

Paul Le Guen echange un regard avec Joel Bats puis decide de le lui vendre.

Les icones jaunies arborent la tenue fierement sponsoree, a l'epoque, par une marque de fournisseurs de tueurs d'animaux. Paul Le Guen se permet un baillement. Enfin l'heure du moment sonne. Premier round, les Lyonnais deboulent athletiquement sur le terrain clairseme de pieges a rat et autres preservatifs usages. L'air send aigre.

En chemin vers sa cage, le beau Gregory est accoste par un indigene a l'accent a couper a la hache. Icelui lui tient la jambe, l'empechant par la meme de courir; il lui rappelle les fameux poteaux carres de Hampden Park ah que si ils zauraient ete ronds etc. etc. "C'est cela, oui... sans doute, je n'en doute point...", Gregory opine poliment. Puis finalement presse d'en finir, il donne cinq centimes au malotru et continue son chemin. Soudain eperdu de gratitude, le pauvre here baise la trace de ses pas et s'en va festoyer.

Un curieux fantome a la chevelure afro rouge flotte dans l'air vicie. L'air renfrogne, il a la mine triste.

L'arbitre siffle le coup d'envoi; la balle est donc envoyee. L'equipe-au-sein-de-laquelle-Lacombe-et-Carteron-durent-s'exiler se rue dessus, oubliant de proteger ses arrieres. Les dix Stephaneurs, dans leur rage aveugle, ratent le ballon et c'est tout naturellement qu'Essien le passe a Malouda ingenieusement place en avant. Qui en profite pour marquer. Un-zero, balle au centre. Les verts reiterent leur fine manoeuvre et se jettent encore sur le ballon. Ils le ratent encore, se cognant les uns les autres. Ils en viennent aux mains. Pendant ce temps, Sidney tente un audacieux tir de la ligne mediane... et trompe le gardien qui etait tourne du mauvais cote, fixant d'un air perplexe les spectateurs. Deux-zero.

Le grondement bestial des brutes avinees se fait plus distinct. Cinquante mille fans en delire soutiennent leur equipe locale -quant a ceux veritablement dans le stade, la centaine de supporteurs commence a cracher en l'air et a bruler des drapeaux. Leur arriere-droit tente une percee, et dribble son propre milieu de terrain. Ayant deserte son couloir, il a perdu ses reperes et erre, confus, a la recherche de la buvette Kanter Sans Filtre qui lui sert habituellement de guide. Deconfit, il en perd la balle. Juninho s'en empare donc et s'aventure en avant. 'Las! Le terrain devient vite marecageux, il se detrempe, s'embourbe, se revele impossible a negocier et le joueur finit par s'enchevetrer dans les ronces sauvages qui deferlent sur la partie Q de casserole du " Chaudron ". L'as lyonnais tente tout de meme un tir instinctif, ….et inscrit de suite le troisieme but.

Pendant qu'il cherche a se degager du bourbier, le jeu reprend.

L'entraineur des Saints-Etiennois s'arrache les cheveux. On dirait que sa bande de mercenaires n'a aucune vue d'ensemble, comme si qu'ils n'auraient jamais joue ensemble!?! ...Comme s'ils ne se reconnaissaient pas... … -Soudain, il saisit: habilles en vert sur fond vert, ceux-ci ne se distinguent pas! Comment pourraient-ils se faire passe?!! Ah fichtre alors, l'entraineur echappe un juron et reprend une bibine. Plus que quarante minute jusqu'a la mi-temps, il essaiera de leur changer le maillot. Entretemps, Malouda en a inscrit un autre.

Sur le terrain, Hatem ne se demonte pas. Oh bien sur, il y en a qui ne veulent qu'a lui vouloir du mal : ces defenseurs qui lui sautent dessus a la moindre occasion (et qui se tordent la cheville en atterrissant apres que le petit lutin se soit deja eclipse), mais il doit garder sa concentration. Le Guen le lui a rappele, qui lui a si finement confie, droit dans les yeux ce matin: "Hatem, la sagacite n'epargne pas l'aptitude. Nonobstant ta pusillanimite, eclipse ton capital-latence." (Vlan, un autre grand hirsute au crane rase le tacle apres les talons -et s'ecrase la tronche sur les panneaux publicitaires.) Hatem remonte son axe de couloir. C'est maintenant au tour d'Abidal de marquer. Ben Arfa multiplie ses percees consciencieusement -Hop, un ptit dribble pour le plaisir (bon, d'accord, ça compte a peine : les deux defenseurs n'ont meme pas bouge, mais, hein...) Decidement, cette equipe dont le plus recent titre de gloire consista a rater des penalties face a l'OL en quart de douzieme de Coupe merite bien sa reputation. (Vlan, Coupet vient de marquer directement de sa cage.) Soudain, un autochtone le rattrape -sur le terrain meme!: "Hey, Msieur, tu veux pas m'signer un autographe? Siteplait ? Allez, j'te presenterai ma soeur!" Puis la securite s'empare de l'energumene, et l'ASSE se retrouve privee de son entraineur.

Govou vient de se planter, glissant sur une bouse de vache et, ce faisant, a marque un nouveau but. Ca passe comme une lettre dans du beurre.

Juninho n'a toujours pas reussi a s'extraire des ronces sur le terrain.

PLG, debout sur ses jambes, s'interroge; il se perplexe. Est-ce bien le match de Ligue 1 auquel il s'attendait? Legerement esbaudi, il s'ebahit ; pris d'un reflexe machinal, il lustre son crane lisse. Il se demande. A-t-on jamais assiste a telle gabegie, il se pose la question (puis il la souleve). Est-ce bien pour tel spectacle que nos grand-meres suffragettes se jeterent naguere sous les chevaux de la marechaussee... Et au fait, a-t-il bien ferme le gaz en partant ? Encore cinq minutes a tenir avant la mi-temps, il a deja perdu le compte du score. (Bien sur qu'il a ferme le gaz, Paul Le Guen n'oublie JAMAIS de fermer le gaz en partant.) Mi-temps!

L'arbitre souffle enfin dans son sifflet pour un repos bien merite ; il se prendrait bien une p'tite taffe, il se fait la reflexion.

Abidal - recemment immortalise sur Film Incoherences au http://members.aol.com/Loig7/filmincoherence.htm - remonte ses chaussettes et le ballon jusqu'au centre du terrain. Tels de petits moineaux au beau mois d'avril, les joueurs s'esbrouffent et s'eparpillent gaiement en direction des vestaires, laissant les Saint-Stephanes continuer a roder, hargneux, sur la pelouse. Ces derniers n'ont pas compris que la mi-temps a ete sifflee et cherchent encore le ballon, mysterieusement disparu. Une spectateuse devant qui le beau Gregory passe s'ecrie soudain: "Bonne mere, mais!?! Avec ses longs cheveux, je le reconnais!! C'est Jesus-Christ!!!" Elle s'ebahit / pame / signe et, derechef, on lui erige une grotte en son honneur.

On en profite pour saluer la venue au monde de Deva Bellucci, fillette de Notre Belle Italienne Nationale, et -tres vite- je vous convie a tourner une page.

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DEUXIEME PARTIE (2, pour les cons)

La page est tournee. Dans les vestiaires de l'OL. JMA -tout guilleret- fait son entree.

JMA: "Bonjour tout le monde!"
Choeur: "Oh, bonjour NotrePresident! On ne savait pas que vous etiez la!"
JMA: "Vous plaisantez, evidemment que j'allais y assister! -Et que de rire, ah que je ris!" (rire)
Paul Le Guen: "On... n'a pas ete trop mauvais non, patron?"
JMA: "Pas trop mauvais? -Mais vous avez ete du feu de l'enfer, mon cher ami! C'est bien simple, on aurait dit du Jesus en culotte de velours! En parlant de, j'ai ete pris d'une subite inspiration..."
PLG: "...?"
JMA: "Tenez, puisque vous avez tous ete si performants, je vous emmene bouffer! On est Lyonnais, que diable! Il y a un petit restau auquel je pense... vous allez m'en dire des nouvelles!"
Paul Le Guen: "Mais... le restant du match?"
JMA: "Foutreaucullacharette le restant du match, mon ami!! Nous en sommes deja a, quoi, quinze zero; que voulez-vous qu'il arrive?!! Que nenni, allez, je vous invite, c'est parti! En voiture Simone !"

Paul Le Guen est dubitatif, un sombre pressentiment le travaille. En fait, il est completement ahuri par la proposition intempestive de NotrePresident, lui qui d'habitude est si reserve, si diplomate… A tel point qu'il souleve a demi un sourcil arque.
"Soit, mais... Jean-Michel, ne pensez-vous pas qu'il serait souhaitable de garder un moins un joueur sur le terrain...? ….Pour garder les buts, par exemple."

NotrePresident considere la suggestion de son entraineur. Ah ça, pas de doute, il fit le bon choix le jour ou -contre l'avis de tous !- l'idee lui vint de l'engager a l'OL. Il eut pu prendre Alain Perrin, depuis parti a Marseille (-Ah Marseille, ha ha ha!) avec le succes que l'on sait ; il lui prefera Paul Le Guen. Bon joueur, NotrePresident accede a la requete leguenesque.

JMA: "A la bonne heure! Tenez, puis que vous insistez, allez-y. Pourquoi pas?"
Rassenere, Paul Le Guen se tourne: "Giovane, Giovane ou es-tu ? Ah te voilà. Tu as ta tenue? Comment va ta patte, toujours fracturee?"
Giovane -car il s'agit de lui!-: "Ah c'est que... oui un p'tit peu, Herr chef...toujours platree..."
Paul Le Guen: "Bon, ce qu'il te faut, c'est reprendre un peu l'entrainement, non ? Juste deux trois ptits footings, une ou deux accelerations. Tu vas donc nous representer, d'accord?"
Giovane Elber, legerement surpris: "Ach… Eh... oui, si fous y dites..."
Paul Le Guen: "Tu vas nous faire un plan Essien: muscle a l'arriere, sans concession en milieu de terrain, avec un ou ou deux ptits buts devant. D'accord?"
Giovane Elber : "Des buts ? Naturlich, che suis un buteur-ne, fous fous rappelez? " Giovane Elber opine; il branle le chef.

Exeunt les Lyonnais.
Rentrent les Lyonnais une heure plus tard.
Voix: "Ah ça pour etre delicieux, c'etait carrement bon!" (assentiment en choeur)
Paul Le Guen: "Tiens donc, mais regardons le score final... Quoi??? Toujours quinze-zero?!??" (decouvrant Giovane) "Mais Giovane, que s'est-il passe??"
Giovane Elber: "Che suis fraiment desole Herr patron, mais en entrant sur le terrain, je m'a suis foule l'autre chenou, et -regardez- chai du etre platre sur l'autre chambe!"

Loig7 Sep. Oc. 2004

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Petit traité d'analyse. Considérations improvistes et calibrées.
De l'utilisation du Stéphanois et de l'attrait du Lyonnais dans la pratique du Football Association.

Le ballon lyonnais se conquit, se caresse, se passe, se repasse (et se repasse encore, surtout quand il reste 45 minutes à jouer en fin de championnat qu'on a déjà gagné -mais ceci est une autre histoire), s'envole, s'élance, se fouette, se minaude, se dribble, se chignole, vole, virevolte, et rebondit avant d'aller s'écraser au fond des filets (ce Sacré Graal des 25 mètres, le troublant sac tressé à violer).

En comparaison, la balle stéphanoise : se perd, se manque, se fait subtiliser, est détournée en corner salvateur, se laisse trébucher dessus, amortit les coups, part en touche en catastrophe, prend son envol au loin dessus les filets, est gracieusement remise en jeu par les adversaires, échappe au gardien. (Le gardien du " sac d'oignon ", ce dernier refuge translucide de l'Outre-Là, ou bien dans le cas du gardien stéphanois, de l' " Oops !! Hélas ?!?!! ").

On dira du ballon lyonnais qu'il ne démérite pas de ses shouteurs, et qu'il ne leur accorde, en fin de compte, somme et conséquence, qu'autant de rétribution qu'il lui est accordé de respect et d'art. Le ballon lyonnais est proprement " champion ". " Champion " du Latin " campeus " (le camp, duquel on se déclare, auquel on se réfère), et de la même langue que celle qui nous donna " Lugdunum ", c'est à dire Lyon. CQFD.

Mais penchons-nous sur le cours de la rencontre. Que remarque-t-on ? (A part les gros plans sur les belles Espagnoles, Italiennes et Grecques lors du dernier Euro mais ceci est une autre histoire.) Le ballon, soit sublimé par la touche juninienne, soit maltraité par la botte à crampon verdâtre, s'inscrit dans un contexte populaire dépassant de beaucoup le simple cadre des 22 hommes en culotte courte sur le terrain -ainsi que Carteron. (23 donc, avec Monsieur-l'arbitre.)

L'auditoire aussi, par sa participation, participe de la partie.

Aha… analysons donc.

Le supporteur lyonnais fredonne, chante, il saute en l'air (puis atterrit, en raison de la force d'attraction universelle), se fait guilleret, fait fête à ses héraults / à ses héros, entame des hymnes, fait fissa des aléas / fi des quolibets, donne quitus, reprend en chœur, tonne, entonne, détonne (dans la grisaille bétonnière des stades adverses), s'enjouit, se réjouit, célèbre son équipe -même Réveillere-, encourage ses joueurs, remercie NotrePrésident -et finit par saluer une nouvelle victoire.
On reconnaît le public lyonnais à ses couleurs (bleu, blanc, rouge), même quand on n'a qu'une télé en noir-et-blanc : sa bonne humeur, communicative, se communique. On dira qu'elle se " trans-met " (met à distance).
On peut ainsi voir que le public lyonnais " entraîne " son équipe vers sa gloire logique : il l'en-traîne vers sa destinée, le conviant à monter dans son " train " : son transport tonifiant.

Dans l'autre cas de figure, le supporteur stéphanois : brait, beugle, jure, injurie, crache, fume, mange des produits McDonald, maudit ses propres joueurs ainsi que son administration -ne vit-on pas, ce soir, d'immenses panneaux appelant à la démission de la présente présidence ? On en rit encore-, tape des pieds (quelquefois des mains pour saluer un mauvais tacle), lance des fumigènes sur la pelouse et des projectiles sur les Champions de France, éructe, peste, empeste, maudit, malcomprend, s'agglutine, grimpe aux grillages, rumine, ramène sa fraise, rephrase son amertume, morigène, exhale la micture, jette intelligemment des cailloux sur les CRS, et généralement fait pitié à voir ainsi que honte à sa maman.
D'un statut sidéré (par la médiocrité du spectacle qui lui est imposé), il devient agent sidérant (par la médiocrité des commentaires qu'il impose).
On dira du public stéphanois qu'il n'en-gage pas à la bonne humeur, car il a fort peu de chance de ne dé-gager qu'une mauvaise : littéralement, il donne pour gage ses marques d' " humeurs " (bile, glaires, crachats, larmes, sueurs).

Observons encore, si vous le voulez bien.
La chevelure du gardien de but lyonnais : simple, attrayante, de bon aloi, elle s'agrémente d'un ingénieux bandeau permettant à son auteur de dégager son champ de vision, ce qui -on en conviendra aisément- est bien pratique pour voir arriver le ballon. Tout usage, elle convient parfaitement à tous climats. Un à zéro pour le style grégorien, donc.

Le numéro 9 stéphanois -ou bien le numéro 10, je ne sais plus et m'en fous d'ailleurs complétement- propose par contre aux regards consternés une sorte de pâte blanchâtre, peu dissemblable à la couche d'excrément que les oiseaux laissent choir sur les capots des voitures garées le long des quais, plaquée sur sa tête. (Techniquement, il ne s'agit pas de défécation, mais d'une forme d'urine concentrée que le volatile facétieux expulse). La signification de cette étrange teinture reste à ce jour inconnue.

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"Things, stuff, and more -by someone."

First of all, my honourable correspondent James G… accuses me of seeing the world through red-tinted Man United lenses and of harbouring a visceral hatred of Arsenal Football Club verging on the psychopathic. -You say that like it's a bad thing…

So. Winter is coming. Streets will be slippery for joggers and don't even get me started on heating bills.

But, of course, everything doesn't have to be necessarily bad : this October marks the release of a new album by the Godtastic, smashtonesque and downright pretty good beat combo Rammstein from Germany. I ogle its artwork every time I walk past Tower Records and feel happy all day long. It is titled "FlugZeug Rekorder", which shouldn't be too difficult to translate is it (er… alright, then: "flight recorder" -Ooh er, I smell controversy…). The very fact of knowing of its existence fills me with the kind of elation that I haven't experienced since I last submitted to the mind-expanding powers of a whole bottle of whisky poured into a pack of four Coca-Colas! (That will have been this morning, then, in order to face the reality of work…) Anyhow, the 'Stamm boys -as noone calls them- are back with a new long player that promises to accompany my whole autumn and winter.
Mine, and probably my neighbours'.
I yielded to the temptation the other day and treated myself to a blast of the single included in the aforementioned (on a listening post down the shop). Subtle, understated, this amusing tale recounts the story of the German gay guy who volunteered to have his, er…, appendage eaten by his lover and would have been rejected by Pantera for being too brutal as well as by The Melvins for being too heavy. I walked off the record shop feeling a bit wobbly and simply HAD to fortify myself with a shot or five of whisky to recuperate. (Feel much better now, thank you for asking.)

Nick Cave -and his Bad Seeds, too- also released a new record ("The Ephemeral Lyre Of The Abattoir Blues Apocalypse Dionysos Something"). In this double album, He whom some poor souls still call a mere man offers a new re-interpretation of the meaning of Music, twatting gods like mere flies and spitting in the eye of Beethoven, Leadbelly and Captain Beefheart all rolled into one as he thunders along to Salvation and beyond, ably supported by a black choir on Angel Dust. (In fact I didn't like it much as first hearing but that wouldn't be so funny to write about.)

What else, I also made use of my UGC film card and went to see various films including "Resident Evil 2". Pah! I can only recommend the producers' ingenuity in making Milla Jovovitch look like a karateka fighting machine: ultra-rapid editing, multiple close-ups, deafening sound effects et… voilà! You don't get to make out any action clearly whatsoever / howsoever -it goes so fast- and before you know it, she has knocked out a whole army. Preferably in the dark too. -Oh, aye… You also have to admire the way she fights her way out of yet another bio-weapon lab straight out of "Alien" with only one hand, …as she protects her modesty with the other (clinching a strategically placed towel). But the film is not entirely useless, all you lads out there will be glad to read that, should you stay awake throughout, you do get to finally glimpse her breasts near the end. (Mine are bigger, frankly.) Strange career, this miss Jovovitch (aka ex-Mrs. Besson, that revolting national traitor slug): she didn't spend her entire career shooting Satday nite exploitation flicks for spotty teenagers and expat professional malcontents -oh, there is even a "Nikita" would-be in-joke reprise in "Rodent Knievel 2"-, she once starred in "Dazed And Confused" -now, THAT was a seriously good film ("American Graffiti" without the saccharine), painful as a repressed teenage ambition… To be fair, "Repeat Dribble 2" did cause me to jump at one stage: there is an out-of-the-blue car crash that caused me to spill my egg-and-tomato sandwich all over my shirt. I was not best pleased.

Also thought I would go and…, like…, check out my ex-screen partner: Aishwara Rai (ex-Miss World), in the new Bollywood comedy "Bride And Prejudice". Imagine my horror when I discovered that this is a bastardised product designed to woo an American audience that won't make the effort of paying attention anyway: some musical numbers are in English! Nooooooooooooooooooooo! Most amusing is the male lead's accent. Martin Henderson is his name (whoo-ooh, he's quite dishy, too!) and he is supposed to be American. Yeah, right, "g'day mate" is what I say… After verification on the Imdb database, it turns out that he is in fact a Kiwi… but came to "prominence" in this modern classic called "Home And Away" (you know the one, the soap with the Penelope Cruz lookalike ohmy ohmy). Thought so. To this day, I'm still quite unsure as to what nationality one of the other protagonists is supposed to be: the lanky curly-haired girl who clearly secretly (-Well, not to some people's attentive eyes, eh! -But enough about my loud companion.) pines for the male lead, only to see him falling for Aishwara -Bah!- at the first flutter of her exquisite eyelashes -Pah! Hmm… English-American-Indian, I guess…. Her own accent keeps wavering all over the place faster than Robert Pires anywhere near a defender (oops, sorry Jim.)

Oh well, all in all, the film was nevertheless OK-ish (massive spoiler: it ends well, would you believe it).

"The Guardian"'s Peter Bradshaw can't help himself (he writes for "The Guardian"). He has to go and compare "Bride And Prejudice" to "Bhaji On The Beach" and "Moonsoon Wedding" which are, basically, British (italics) films, by Indian-English, about Indians and Indian-English, and for a mainly English audience. Comparing "Bride" to these two films is about as relevant as comparing, say, hip-fests for "Arena/Loaded" readers such as "Trainspotting" or "Lock / Stock / Barrel" to Mike Leigh's oblique critique of Victorian times in "Topsy Turvy"!
Which is not to say that Bollywood, this epitome of innocent escapist entertainment, is devoid of any cultural signifier. Far from it.
On a cultural level, it is amusing to note how, true to (Indian) fashion, the divine miss Rai (whose autograph I got, eh!) never gets to kiss her partner onscreen. It always amuses me how Bollywood characters pledge eternal love to each other (lines like "when the moon is hidden, your beauty illuminates the sky", aaahh….) without getting anywhere near "deep down and dirty". Sometimes, the film ends with the newly betrothed couple succumbing to their first ever (italics) kiss -It's not even the case here.
There is also a -explicitly sign-posted, too!- swimming pool scene in which the American male character and his (er…, Anglo-American-ex-Indian then) secretary are allowed to parade in swim-suits; Our Aisha? Chastely up to her neck in water and then additionally covered with a sari just to be on the safe side.
India, eh… the country that gave the world the "Kama-Sutra" and where religious extremists put the Miss World contest under pressure (can't remember whether they actually stormed it as they threatened to do).
Life is complex (as the estate agent likes to say).

The big story here -after the Kerry and Bryan divorce naturally- concerns the Olympic doping scandal threatening to strip Ireland off its only gold medal (if I'm not mistaken) (which usually means in Loix speak, something I am sure about). Basically, not one but two of the winner's horses tested positive for a banned substance. Get off your high horse, Cian / the horse was on grass / Cian O'Connor comes acropolis / you're in for the high jump, mate / his condition is now stable / did you re-horse your apologies in advance
Etc.
Etc.
Etc.
I contributed more of the same to a radio show which had a caption competition and the FookingBstardFromHell didn't even reward my lame pun with the big prize: a case of medicinal whisky. (Recurring joke here; dear reader, will you be able to spot it?)
Anyhow, everyone is quite upset about the whole thing and some cynical souls even dare suggest that this is indicative of the direction sport has taken lately: dope (strangely enough, a word of Dutch etymology), more dope, doping all round. -As if!

That's it for now; more some other time, I'm afraid. Take care, you all, and read Douglas Coupland's "Hey, Nostradamus!" cos' that's ace.

Loig7, who doesn't need a transmitter hidden in his jacket to think of things to write.

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Loig7 presents… the Michael Mann Drinking Game !

According to the forthcoming rules, if “Heat” put you in an ethylic coma, “Collateral” will book you a fortnight at the Priory. Also relevant to “Thief”, even though I saw it about ten years ago (and have therefore hazier memories).
Here goes…

-For every blue neon lit scene: one gulp of Budweiser (light beverage for girls and Americans)
-L.A. by night? Check! : one fistful of peanuts allowed
-Off-centre Cinemascope framing: quick Gin-and-Tonic
-Every shot of an empty street / avenue (at night): a measure of Pastis. (Empty trash-cans / car boots to be discounted: after all, they are not (italics) meant to contain dead bodies.)
-Empty building: aha, a double measure of Gin
-For every helicopter shot of the megalopolis: a thimble of Port
-Focus on car / car-chase / car fetishism: a simple gulp of Irn-Bru (don’t overdo it with “Thief”, I trust you…)
-Lisa Gerrard kicking off her haunting Banshee wailings on the soundtrack, or somesuch ambient post-Goth (this includes Tangerine Dream for “Thief”): a quarter-pint of Carling will do (don’t want to put you under too soon do I)
-Top-of-the-range surveillance equipment / hi-tech robber’s gear: a cheeky quarter-pint of Bass
-Thief / killer proficiency: now we’re cooking on gas! Let’s keep it to a tea-spoon of, say… Absinthe. No small-time punk allowed in a Mann movie, or then, narratively bound to cause trouble and derail the typically slick scheme.
-Big men –preferably in suits- with even bigger guns: a half-pint of Caffreys
-Tattoo / Piercing on man: a shot of whisky will do
-Manly sunglasses: another shot
-Pro-actively sought -but yet messy- mass shoot-out: a family-size pack of crisps
-Token woman cameo, thereby introducing sentimental issue that threatens the testosterone equilibrium. Wimmin, eh? Who needs them –Certainly not Mann (note the name) characters. Such complications might include: coupling; being a son of in one direction; wanting to look after a kid in the other; being distracted. Full pint of Guinness deserved!
-Ethnic casting taking into consideration the famed “Melting Pot”: including Latino, Oriental, African-American (er…black, that is, in English), European-American (i.e. white, then), Italian…: one whisky shot
-Existential macho neo-Nietszchean outlaw philosophising (“Life’s a game of dog eat wolf, man… You’ve got to roll with it and burn it to the ground.” Or somefink.) : Bingo! Another full pint of Guinness.

And now let us try to apply these rules to “The Last Of The Mohicans”, shall we.
Ahem… Mind you, at least there must be some exciting hairstyles in there… ahem...

(posted on imdb forums for "Heat" and "Collateral" to not unexpectedly total indifference. If innarested or at least intrigued by more rantings of mine, it is a good idea to search imdb for my various contributions, on "Irr'eversible", "Onibaba", "Ju-On", "Bad Boy Bubby", "Elephant" etc.)

Or check out the index to my pages at: http://members.aol.com/loig7 .

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------around the 15th of Oct.---------------

Barely able to open its blood-streaked beady eyes encrusted with sleep dust and the bristle remnants of the shag carpet on which it spent the night, the beast raised its world-weary head and blinked in the direction of the magic box: its computer. -But enough about you, a few more words on my adventures as The One Whom Nobody Reads attempts to spoil ten more minutes of your time.

Is it because I'm cool? I don't know but people like to salute me; why, this morning again, someone asked me "How are you?". "Well, eh… Hmm… (pause) ...er... I… …. … Huh, you put me on the spot here! … I… …. Ahem… -Phew, I wish you had submitted that question in advance, ha! … er…. Hmm… Say what? Loig7-is-fine-thank-you-very-much-indeed. "

Now that this is out of the way (one can never denounce the American election thief enough, even though it thankfully looks like he just might be about to get his comeuppance -Let's keep everything crossed!), let's get to the point -If there ever is one.

I would just like to announce to my British colleagues that The Republic, along with the European states (-slight dig here? Surely not!), will have a "bank holiday" next Monday (to celebrate the end of WWI or somefink). Now I understand that this is not the case down your end. Oh dear, so sad is it not… To think that you will be toiling away when the rest of us will catch up on our hangovers… (Cough, cough, splutter.)

Footy: the French team, showing about as much bite as Victoria Beckham at her dinner table, gloriously vanquished who was it this time -Ah yes, the might Cyprus- with a hard-fought 2-nil victory. The fact that the Man Of The Match was our goalkeeper says it all (loooong sigh). Still, eh, three points in the bag! We woz saved by the Olympique Lyonnais player Wyltord, a real find. Now, I'm not quite sure where this guy comes from, but whoever let him go clearly knows nothing about football.

Moving on swiftly.

Also watched the Madri' match on Sat.: the sight of these grown men (Zidane, Ronaldo, Carlos, Raul, Gutierrez and co.) studiously refusing to pass the ball to Michael Owen who busted his balls to get himself in as many goal-scoring positions as physically possible was a joy to behold.

Morning scene: people running to work flat-footed, trying not to ruin their smart office shoes.

One of the current Irish radio talk-show favourite topics is traffic congestion. 'Parently, it has become impossible to travel by car in the town centre anymore. And everyone secretly suspects what is bound to happen, here as in many British cities: a congestion charge. Oh yes, Red Ken certainly suspected that his unpopular-but-inevitable initiative was being carefully monitored, and not just by Londoners, when he introduced it. I believe that Edinburgh too is about to follow suit. Well, as you can imagine, talk-shows callers here are up in arms as to the prospect of coughing up once more. The scheme has not been confirmed, but traffic in the capital, everyone quite agrees, is becoming a complete 'mare in prime-time rush-hour. The jury is out on this one -if only it could find the door.
Good thing that I turn up for work at the crack of eleven, eh! See, I am being tactical here.

Another real hot topic of discussion concerns recycling domestic refuse, with a strong nod towards German efficiency, but unless I can manage a clever transition from the engrossing subject of rubbish to Olympique Lyonnais or Man United, I don't see quite see how I can bother mentioning it… (-Mind you, Arsenal Football Club, on the other day…)

Show-biz: Tom Waits 's concert in London -his first in, what, twenty-odd years- sold out in… two minutes; I almost forgive James G… for not having got me a ticket.
(Which I would have sold right back on eBay, naturally.)

Just as I finally manage to open an account here, another study published this week shows that Irish banks, probably profiting from the relative absence of foreign banks (such as Lloyds), register the biggest profits in Europe. Customers -you won't be surprise to read- are not too happy about it. In fact, "rip-off Ireland" is a distinctly common expression, closely following the "Celtic tiger" brand, with special regards to the catering industry and services. Indeed, every week-end, tens of thousands of Brits come down to drink and revel -with the emphasis on drink- in the town centre and all relevant business are sure not to miss a trick when it comes to fleecing any potential punter! The local notorious hot-spot is called "Temple Bar", by the quay.
(Quick aside: I find the name of the quay on the other side most intriguing: "Bachelors Walk". I have been assured that, no, this doesn't have any ambiguous meaning whatsoever. I am still not convinced… Maybe we should send Big Gay Al to investigate?).
Anyhow, back to Temple Bar: imagine Friar Street ten times over ...with about as much class. Hen nights of all ages, orange gibbons in boob tubes, baffled gentlemen of uncertain disposition and rugger-bugger beer tankers rub shoulders on the cobbles -in a manner of speaking-, singing along to buskers who at least have better taste than to sing Oasis dirges-anthems, while the Gardai (pronounced 'Gardee") patrol on foot, getting ready for closing time action.

On the subject of drinking (cf. earlier posting) and the increasingly frequent accusation of "Nanny State" aimed at Our Bertie (the Taoiseach, pronounced 'Tee-shack") and his government (bear in mind the astounding -and ferociously enforced- total smoking ban in effect since March), the well-meaning authorities have found themselves in a bit of a creek with their knickers against the wall as they attempted to pass as Law a decree simply forbidding the presence of children in any establishment selling alcohol. Right, …what about restaurants or cinema complex, then? And who will look after the children while any of their parents goes down the pub? (I am surely not the only one to sniff the spectre of ensuing sexism raising its head here...)

Which reminds me: when I was a very lickle boy, we had this dog, right?, that pursued people on bike. We had to take the bike away from him.

Kerry (the two and only): so. Is she continually in fits of tears or is she having a ball without Bryan? I NEEED TO NOOOOWW!!!!!!!!!!!!!11 One day, the papers breathlessly report that she is on suicide watch, the next she is waddling down the road with not a care in the world, flicking her tongue at photographers who just happen to be there (particularly when she is curiously wearing nowt but a tight vest even though it is cold oop Noorth).
The plot thickens. (…And I am tempted to add something at this juncture, believe me, but will -with commendable restraint- refrain from following my natural instinct and type what's on the tip on my keyboard, out of regards for my less insalubrious readers; thank you, Loig. Phew, that was a close shave!)

More media outrage as The Human Error With A Typewriter (aka julie burchill) effortlessly shifts her apologetic praises for slobodan milosevic -he's in fact a hero, you know- to margaret thatcher; she really should join George W. Bush's team, she'd be perfect.

"Went to bed last night but my moral code got jammed
Woke up this morning with a Frappucino in my hand" (Nick Cave -"Abattoir Blues")

Still not convinced by the new Uncle Nick album, apart from the awesome title track. Interpol's second track: contender for best song of the year this side of the past, present and forthcoming single by Rachel "Sex Club 7" Stephens (-but that's a different story!). It (title unknown) is brilliantly frustrating, fading away at the precise moment when any band would have it soar majestically, leaving you with no option but to play it again; like Joy Division "Excise One" or Hüsker Dü's whateveritscalled on "Candy Apple Grey". Kicks some serious arse, I believe is the accepted term of recommendation.
But of course nowhere near as much as the megatastic sonic warfare of Rammstein (whose name is mouthed -not even uttered- in awe and terror by faraway nomads, fearfully looking over their shoulder as they do so).

Next week, in fact, will see the first Nick Cave concert in London that I won't have attended for the last fifteen years. I obviously try not to think about it.
But it's hard.
If this is not a valid case for asking for a pay-rise, tell me what is… (You still reading, Reg'?)

And on these words, keep it up, you all! Spirits may rise as well as fall, terms and conditions apply.
Next week, I shall probably check out the Korean movie "Old Boy", watch "Bride And Prejudice" again, and stare in disbelief as Young Wayne once more fails to direct a single shot on target in the Champions League match. (The script is written: hat-trick on his debut, no more goal for the rest of the season.)(So let's indulge in a bit of reverse psychology, shall we.)

PS three days later: and he did, too!! (Young-Wayne.)

Somewhere in Texas, a village is missing its idiot.

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Text text text. This is not about fancy lah-di-dah page lay-outs.

-------------------------------------------------------------------- 20 Oct.---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Yes, yes -I know.
Strange squiggles seem to appear in the middle of my text; I will now try to save it in a different format.
-Oh, you meant "Not again!?!"!?!

David Beckham: lovable prick or misunderstood little weas… -Hang on, that's not the right one. Let me start again.
So. David Beckham. Did he let his country down (at O.T.), or did he let his country down (at Saint-Et…) -Hold it now, not so fast, that's not I meant to… Er…, let's see… Gimme a sec', I'll be right back.

Further to my earlier communication on the fate of the only Irish gold medal hanging by a thread -in a manner of speaking-, crucial developments have occurred lately, with the exclusive interview given by his trainer (the horse's that is, not Cian O Connor's). The man, whose name I can neither pronounce nor remember in the first place, told the TalkRadio DJ that doping would have been out of the question, and this for two reasons. First, because he "knew Cian very well (and therefore could not believe Cian would do such a thing)" -which is reassuring for Mr. O Connor, as it seems to suggest (but then, I may be dumb) that he is not all alone in this cruel cruel world, and that one person at least knows him; and secondly that it would have been inconceivable for Cian to "take such a risk at this level" -let me remind you that we are talking about competing for the Olympic gold medal-, the logic of which escapes me somehow…
The horse -in fact, two of them- was unavailable for comment.

To use a technical term, my plumbing is fucked. Not only does boiling water come out of the blue-signed "cold" tap and the pipes threaten to explode at night, now water drips from the ceiling whenever I run a bath (admittedly not very often being French …and therefore preferring to take showers at the gym where I exercise four times a week, ha!) (Thought you had me here, eh, well you did net). Those of you from the Gale Group will remember how our cistern burst through the ceiling one night. Do I not fancy that…
The landlady -or is it her daughter officially in charge?- is unavailable for comment.

Have you seen Cantona's latest advertising clip in Engerland? (for the Euro Lottery or smthg). Stunning and genius in equal measure, it is a work of stunning genius. The Big Man, now sporting a rather fetching beard and long flowing locks, strolls though the mean streets of North Dublin, extolling the virtues of p#ssing your money down the drain -with incredible style. Although I must confess to being a bit miffed he didn't cross the Liffey to come say "Hi" to me at the Library. But, hey, my sense of pusillanimity being legendary, I forgive him.

Talking of, George W. Bush's legacy will have been to actually bring into existence the oft alleged "snuff movie" medium, what with the DVDs regularly released by the Muslim fanatics of Baghdad. What a triumph, eh, stupid w#nker… (W. for "w#nker"). True to form, the main executioner turns out to be an ex little thug with an alcohol and drugs history, now turned into a would-be saviour for his religious persuasion. Any resemblance…

Hard as it is to follow on the last paragraph, we'll try nevertheless.

Halloween -doesn't it start earlier and earlier every year? (Back in "and-another-thing" territory.) Shops are full of tat -for a change-, we are required to feel festive, and idiots have started blowing their fingers off -like young Boris Eltsin- in earnest. I could never understand the appeal of fireworks, but then there are lots of things I don't understand. And a pedant is sure to add: ah yes, but Halloween is originally a Pagan European tradition; to be sure, and this is exactly what it is always synonymous with, eh… Olde Europe… !!?!??!!
Halloween, the only time when "The Simpsons" cease to be funny.

Oh yes, David Beckham. Endearing captain of Burglary-capped tat-knuckled yobs or… -Hang on, no, still not what I meant to… er…, hmm… -Gizzas a break, will you!

Footy section. (At long last.)
What do I read this morning: Leeds United's ground will be turned into a casino. Insert insensitive puns about throwing money about, "living the dream" and so on at this juncture. Ah… Leeds United… "Yorkshire Ripper" songs, leg-breaker hero Bremmer, rape suspect (not once but twice) Jody Morris (now at… Millwall), Woodgate and Bowyer on a night out …and a prone unconscious Asian, wife-beater Lee Chapman, racist bating in Istanbul resulting in the stabbing of an unparticipating passer-by, death threats against Rio Ferdinand, chants wishing cancer on Brooklyn Beckham, Combat 18 links, etc. -couldn't have happened to a nicer bunch.

You also really have to feel for Adrian Mutu. Handsome, young, gifted and stinking rich, what better way to thank Fate than to snort one's career down the drain? A few billion people living in abject poverty -not least in his native Romania- must really sympathise with his plight. This being said, the coincidence of his positive testing with Chequebook's self-confessed intention to get rid of him is too amusing to be passed over…
-Not that Loig ever suscribes to any conspiracy theory, obviously.
Cf. also George / Georgie Best, Lee "once better than Giggs" Sharpe, Paul "Gazza G8 D1ckHead" Gascoigne, Diego Armando Maradona, Ronaldo, Sidney er… "Sidney" Govou, Charlie "Charlie" Nicolas, Kieron Dyer, Nicky Weaver, Mark "Flying Pig" Bosnich…

Finally, when is Jon Snow's autobio out? He's my hero. Well, one of many. I miss him dearly, here in Ireland, along with "Daddy" John Peel.

GoldenChav. Brilliant football kicker or complete wan…-Ah, forgedit!!!

Richard wants to know whether I'm all "loved-up" yet. No, Richard, Loig does not do "loved-up"; Loig does not do drucks and he does not do "loved-up". What he does do, though, is conduct elaborate misguided short-lived liaisons that are bound to end up in histrionics "faithfully" put to paper later in his bedsit. Hey man, you kidding, girl-friends are no good for street cred'! Did Mao ever brush his teeth? (No he didn't.) Does Roy Keane ever sign autographs outside O.T.? (He doesn't either.) Loig is an unshaven lone wolf 'casts no shadow who is working darn hard on his legend -A girl-friend, I ask you… the very idea!?!!! My love life is a grey zone verging on black with a few sunny spells and occasional showers on the Northern front.

(Though it would be nice, at least once, before I shuffle off the famed mortal coil…)

Irish joke: 70 % of Limerick men have sex in the shower; the other 30 % haven't been imprisoned yet. (Easily adaptable to Liverpool / Marseille / Dundee according to country…)

Etymology: to "plagiarise" comes from the same Greek work as to "kidnap".

Finally, reader James Grice Esq. got in touch to mount a spirited and well-argued defence of Arsenal Football Club. "Dear Loig," -he writes- "love your brilliant reports: they are brilliant" -oh Jim, you shouldn't!- "but to be fair," -I'm afraid that's all we have time for today. Thank you Jim for your message -always most appreciated-, and keep them coming, eh.

"Tell me lies" -Fleetwood Mac, "vessel in vain" -Smog, "Comme ils disent" -Charles Aznavour, "Gymnopédies" -Erik Satie, "Broken Home Broken Heart" -Hüsker Dü, "Mein Teil" -Rammstein, "Manifesto for the weirdo evolution" -Butthole Surfers ("the freak don't want protection from the normal man, the freak want total separation from the normal man").
So long! (and this time I mean it; will probab' put an end to these -customarily rejected by filters- messages and set up a blog instead.) Frances Bean WILL have her revenge.

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I"ll have to quote the entire lyrics of the "Manifesto for the freak etc.": quite brilliant.

And the Unabomber's Manifesto, too. Very impressive, let us be honest. Shame about the violent attacks on the individuals concerned, obviously (let's be clear about that, OK!).

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Post annual Old Trafford battle.

No, no, Mike Riley was quite right in blowing his trusted whistle for a penalty. It is very dangerous, very dangerous, to bundle over young players like Wayne... Who knows, he could have been hurt in the process, or even be injured! No, no, this will simply not do... The refereee -the voice of reason we all could do with listening to, sometimes- simply has to make a stand against barbarism and declare, once and for all "enough is enough". He was right to give a penalty, a brave decision -in my opinion, entirely justified too-. What would have happened if young Wayne -still only 18 until midnight- had got injured, eh? At such tender age, anything is possible, and his fragile body surely can do without being thrown about by big burly men with a cowboy moustache! No, let us be fair brothers and sisters: Justice has to prevail, and make no bones about it.

Loig must add that he hasn't actually seen Wayne's shocking foul that outraged the sporting community and had impartial spectators falling about in tears of laughter. -Er... that is, the shocking foul that outraged the sporting community and had impartial spectators falling about in tears of laughter committed AGAINST Wayne.

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Wed. 26 October, a shocking day: John Peel RIP. When someone dies, we always tend to feel guilty; and I do, for not having always listened to him... You can't get Radio One in Ireland and all that time, these last two months, I haven't been able to catch him; always meant to play him over the Net... and I never did. So when the news came, was absolutely gutted. (The man I called "Daddy".)

Spent the night -well, four, five hours- listening online to Radio 1's tribute, fighting back the tears "at the back of my throat". Still haven't had a good cry, 24 hours later -am due one, surely; would feel better, but one thing is sure: from now on, "Teenage Kicks" will be nigh impossible to hear ever again.

Trying to pay tribute the great man, I played the Darling Buds to get a taste / reminder of that "C 86" vibe (no "Tommy" near at hand). Ah, Andrea, wasn't she the little indie darling, with also Stacey or was it Tracey from The Primitives... Anyway, out of curiosity, opened the CD booklet and, sure enough, whose name turns up in the list of thanks... John Peel of course.

Some Peel discoveries and Moments: The Would-Be's "Hardly Ever Wrong"; Babes In Toyland; Silverfish; "the Birmingham School of business schools"-The Fall; The Orb's "ultra vibe from the centre" etc.; Big Black "Kerosene" ("the first time I played this, an aghast BBC producer ran down the stairs to ask me: "you're not actually playing this live"?!!!); the Jesus Lizard; the exhilarating Diblo Dibala and Melt-Banana; Extreme Noise Terror; "Why - are you - so -reasonable now"-The Wedding Present; some oldie goldie "Doo Wap" or whatever it's called; 70 Gwen Party; the Pixies; the young PJ Harvey; Consolidated in session ("and we are honoured to welcome them"); some kind of hypnotic dub remix of Blur (good Lord!!!) "out of time"; an Idian version of Abba hits; Yo La Tango; LaBradford; Bark Psychosis; Leadbelly; Guided By Voices; Mega City 4; Leatherface; Long Legged Something , a Butthole Surfers by-product; Ivor Cutler; moaning about the difficulty of opening a new Melvins CD; King Tubby and "the house of dub"; Fun-Da-Mental; Cat Power in session; the Heads (Bristol); Flowered Up; Sonic Youth; the first hearing of Curve's "10 little girls" (introduced as "And now, the record you all gonna get crazy about"); he just had to play the most obscure instrumental on the new Fugazi album at the time; Boards Of Canada; Low; Melys; the usual "fading away into nothingness" comment / seal of approval; Unsane; Palace Brothers; actually playing a Queen record ("Crazy Little Thing Called Love") in tribute to Freddy Mercury; playing the same faceless-techno-bollocks record at different speeds, "just to try", and finally deciding that it sounded good on both (sure didn't at any); DJ Dave Clarke; Neko Case, "The Big O Motel" by that 4 AD band; "Geek Love" Bang Bang Machine; Half-Man Half-Biscuit; Vive La Fête "Noir Désir"; Aretha Franklin's preacher father; The Ragga Twins in session; Loudon Wainwright the Third "father and son"; playing Kylie's "Especially For You" at the Reading Festival; a touching near-complete ignorance of cinema; slagging off this "shoe-gazing" band: ChapterHouse, whom he actually kicked out of a session, ha ha ha; the Sundays's fresh voice; keeping faith with Morrissey; Forehead In A Fishtank; Orbital's final gig splitting up live; (obv. The Smiths, Joy Division and Cocteau twins but I was still living in France by then) etc. etc. etc. I loved his hand-overs to Gilles Peterson (who never failed to thank him) and Mary-"sexy lips"-Ann Hhhhhobs. Used to go like this: "So. ... Mary-Ann. (quick chuckle) What have you got in your programme today?" "-Well.(exaggerated pause) John. (giggling like a schoolgirl) We have an exclusive set by (whatever risible heavy-metal band)."

I would make it a point to always wait for the end of his programme in order to hear his customary greeting "(The news at twelve-midnight,) As always, thanks for listening." Thinking back about this habit, I now realise that, in its own way, it was sort of being kissed "good-night" by a parent... -there you go.

John Peel's actual achievement; a lesson to draw?

I was trying to analyse in what respect he mattered so much, apart from his voice, personality, mannerisms, laconic dry wit and other personal attributes, and I came to this conclusion: "John Peel" the concept, i.e. his amazing career in that he had carte blanche over his programming, is a rare (unique?) example of utter dedication, enthusiasm, intellectual curiosity, encyclopedic knowledge -in one word: Culture- being given a lasting chance / respected for what it was -and ultimately paying off. Think about it. There was, for once, someone with genuine dedication to his task (which could be presented as tracking down and promoting original music) being allowed to pursue his mission ...and coming up trumps, with logical and outstanding results. Now compare to the fate and value of normal, run-of-the-mill, contract-bound, pre-digested DJs forced to play the latest commercial "play-list": who will remember them after they've been forced off the medium conveyor-belt in favour of an unavoidable "hipper" version (in other words: a younger DJ)? And what effect does this have on the product itself -i.e. the music-, if not , in a vicious circle, to enhance conventional, predictable, saleability / bring on more of the same derivative variations to the detriment of actual artistry and talent?

Surely / let's hope there is a lesson here: namely that risk-taking does pay off, when allowed and supported; and that enthusiasm / genuine love for Art will bring about ever greater Art, by encouraging budding artists to stray from the beaten paths and experiment, thereby stumbling upon genuine epiphanies of ground-breaking genius (think My Bloody Valentine, Cocteau Twins, The Smiths, Melt-Banana).

Rock In Peace, "Daddy".

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Bought the soundtrack to "Dead Man's Shoes", or whatever it's named, on the strength of its opening track: "Vessel In Vain" by Smog. As the man -his voice is killing me- gets us started with the promising line "I can't be held responsible / For the things I see", you know you're in for a real treat. Will Callaghan (aka Smog) sits -quite comfortably, I daresay- somewhere inbetween Lou Reed and The Voice Of God (Kurt Wagner), in terms of delivery and tone -with less philanthropy than the former. His sandpaper voice, carefully enunc-i-a-ting his ruthless lyrics like a world-weary Neil Tennant, never really deigns get to second gear. Lyrics-wise, the source of Callaghan's incorrigible alienation from his surroundings is never quite clear (one remembers "there are some people... in this town... saying terrible things..."), unlike El Stephen Patrick, whom he once was likened to by the NME, who, typically clutching at last straws, tried to present him as the American counterpart to Morrissey. Poppycock! Callaghan is quite clearly the spiritual son to Lou Reed of this so-called "neo Americana" genre (Lambchop, Palace, Sparklehorse, Handsome Family etc.). Anyway, "Vessel In Vain", all diabolic banjos, metronymic drum-beats, slapped guitar riffs and subterrenean bass-lines, unravels its intoxicating beauty over a succint couple of minutes, hinting at terrible secrets, to climax in a rousing chorus, Palace-style of "my idea(l)s got me ON THE RUN". I was sold.

How could I have ever forsaken him! (I did, after the rather tepid -methought- "Rain On Lens", which best track -admittedly terrific- lasted about 90 seconds. Its entire lyrics go something-like-this: "Rain on Lens... I think we should part.") Welcome back, Will!

The author of one of the ten greatest albums recorded this last dozen years: "Knock Knock" (1999).

Some crucial albums of the last fifteen years: Talk Talk "Spirit Of Eden", Leatherface "Mush", Kate Bush "Hounds Of Love", Lou Reed "New York", Smog "Knock Knock", Lambchop "Nixon", Alain Souchon "C'est d'ej'a 'ca", the Blue Nile "hats", My Bloody Valentine "Loveless", Japan "Oil On Canvas", Siouxsie "Juju" or "A Kiss In The Dreamhouse", Radiohead "The Bends" AND "OK Computer".

Signed: "Mike Hunt" (yeah yeah, I know, puerile -henceforth never fails to amuse me.)

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Mischa Barton ("The OC"). Swoon.

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Having been reconnected to TV-Land, I've had the chance -in the English meaning of the term, certainly not the French one- to catch some American television. It is of course revolting. Any time I chance upon it, it invariably features a oh so naturally bronze six-pack type with biceps the size of my head set against a blue sky, posturing in front of a pneumatic blonde shiny with make-up, frowning to her -to the sound of some schmalzy guitar- how in fact he's, like, y'know, misunderstood and all and, well, he's got Issues, Issues to deal with, like, cos' nobody is ever truly appreciating him for his innersoul (he's been so hurt in the past). Either his words or hers, same difference. Incredible. Either that, or some rappers flapping their arms about the way they do (palms inevitably ending up pointing towards their crutch), impressing a honey casually strolling about in bikini and high heels, in awe of the massive gold chains threatening his balance. (Maybe that's why he hardly moves his feet and, instead, merely gestures about.) So - fuckin' - demeaning -Oops, 'do beg your pardon: soooo totally empowering for African-Americans etc. Examples: "Temptation Island", which simply makes me want to cry out of desperation for the human race, or "Punkd", so obviously faked -do its American producers think we're stupid? Well... yes, American viewers of this programme are stupid. Note by the way the recuperation of the term "punk" and weep some more. Is it what Conflict, Subhumans, Dead Kennedys, Berurier Noir, Fugazi, The Ex etc. fought for? Anyway, it is a rather distressing sight and I never spend much time staring at it in horror.

A typical US programme is all "bling-bling", with special attention (read: hype) paid to mansions, cars, jewellery and-what-not. Millionaires can't just be millionaires, they have to own a faaaaabulous house with swimming pool inside their helipad and equal-opportunity smily lackeys. Endless features on material opulence are only shortened by incessant advertising (Consume! Consume!) breaks.

Quick note aside: back in the eighties, scores of desperate Albanians attempted to escape to neighbouring Italia, from whence Berlusconesque TV channels were broadcast. Imagine these poor souls, shackled by decades of ultra-orthodox backward Communism, who only knew of modern Europe through the programmes presenting Italia as a Shangri-La peopled by bikini babes, gameshow winners, Pop singers and what-have-you.

But back to Fox-like scheduling. This is why the abovementionned "OC" occupies a strange place I haven't quite yet figured out yet. Is it sort of trying to be subtly subversive (every episode follows the same pattern: rich people lead a glamorous life and work out a perfect scheme ...which ends in total disaster), or is it yet another example of brain-damaging lucre-worshipping eye-candy? (...Hmmmm, probably the latter, I sadly suspect.)

But, going beyond the first objection -after all, many other things make me lose the will to live-, I think such corrupting cult of money, machismo and hypocritical mawkishness is in fact quite revealing: symptomatic of what "values" the US networks force-feed to their doped-up audiences. Surely this is no accident if, after that, Americans tend to see themselves as the saviours of the world, bearers of a supreme culture that others, less fortunate, can only be jealous of and want to copy -I refer, of course, to "geo-politics". If NYC got attacked in Sep. 2001, Bush revealed, it's because non-Americans were simply jealous. Ah.

I'm not gonna come up with the usual line about the absence of irony etc. -especially after having had the pleasure of watching "Mystery Men", an American film indeed, that refreshingly pokes fun at this culture of super-heroes. See, I am NOT anti-American per se: there are countless numbers of worthwhile, interesting, intelligent, brave, dedicated, generous, upstanding, moral, ground-breaking, exciting, witty, erudite, curious, creative, tolerant, open-minded, endearing and so on Americans who deserve not to be tarred with the same brush as the usual muppets. Amongst them miss Claire Forlani (...who is mighty cute).

Rosa Park, Billie Holiday, Ralph Nader, Noam Chomsky, Steve Albini, Martin Luther King, Bobby Kennedy, Mohammed Ali, Don DeLillo, John Steinbeck, Malcolm X, Nina Simone, Michael Stipe, Michael Moore, Hal Hartley, Walt Whitman, Jackson Pollock, Alan Lomax, Jimmy Baldwin, President Roosevelt, Bruce Springsteen, Andy Warhol, Lenny Bruce, Chuck Palahniuk, Louis Armstrong, Orson Welles, Adrian Sherburne, Donald Trumbo, John Carpenter, Russell Banks, George Gershwin, Philip K.Dick, Benjamin Franklin, Jello Biaffra, Richard Wright, Spike Lee etc. we salute you.

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(For imdb forums.) Half-baked yet niggling remarks on the current Japanese psychological horror cinema genre. "Of deceptively empty domestic spaces". Warning: spoilers ahead. / To be developed.

What strikes me in "Chaos" is the use of space: how a supposedly safe / enclosed flat turns out, in several instances, to be treacherous.

First major shock: when the "kidnapper" returns to find whom he imagines to be his victim murdered, all of a sudden, this place, which was supposed to have been safe for their game, has been violated by another mysterious assailant who had access to it, and got in on the action. Or so it seems, as the story at this juncture suggests. (We will learn later that this is not what happened.) First betrayal of this apparently quiet and sacred space.

It is not so much a rebellion but a betrayal by the flat (its nature, as it were): as he goes on finding out what happened, the handy-man discovers whose flat is really is.

Then at the end, he phones the husband who discovers (SPOILER), in the bathroom, the corpse. And remember that this has to be a rather tiny appartment. New big spatial surprise.

You could also argue that the burial place itself -the ultimate logement- yields a twist-defining surprise.

Now. Isn't this somehow typical of the new breed of subtle psychological Japanese / Korean horror, examplified by ("Into The Mirror"), "The Grudge", ("A Tale Of Two Sisters") or "Dark Waters", where you have all these buildings turning against their inhabitants? These apparently empty, enclosed, spaces which are not what they seem, holding secrets / corrupted by Man's evil.

I am not going on about the classic Goth, isolated country mansion, "haunted house" trip. There is something else here, stylistically: more modern, streamlined, minimalist design.

I couldn't help wondering about it, especially if you bear in mind the housing conditions in Japan, or the density / repartition of its population (concentrated in a tiny proportion of the island). these teeming masses forced to cohabit in cramped since ultra-expensive houses (cf. the notorious Tokyo land- rates). What happens, then, when you can no longer find refuge and safety in your precious shelter which you assumed empty, private, restful...

I don't know, this is just a hunch... Anyone got any comment?

The fact that this primarily anodyne flat (nothing fancy about it, no darkness, no elaborate baroque architecture) is constantly redefined according to the protagonists' designs... Not least in the first place by the lovers, who made it their supposedly secret love-nest, only to get found out / surprised by the wife's intrusion, and where they re-create the married couple.

Watch "The Grudge" and you will also see a banal house, like there must be tens of thousands similar in Japanese cities. Cream-like colours, geometric cut, and so on. And yet... these walls record the horrors committed therein and won't let go of them.

If you want, I'm hinting at some kind of deceptive emptiness. I don't really recall sensing that in European movies. Is this a graphic objectification of "Zen in motion", where opposites meet and co-exist to impose a new logic? ...Just wondering...

("Ring" is different, obeys a well-established narrative logic: the chain one has to escape.)

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More on the Irish Olympic horse doping scandal. Fancy that, but it turns out that the all-important "B" urine sample, needed to either corroborate or infirm the incriminating "A" sample... has been stolen! 'Trestingly, the theft has been discovered on deadline day: a second test can be required up to 21 days after the first result. How most extremely strange... I daresay, and if you imagine that I will comment this latest d'enouement with the words that it is a case of someone taking the piss, you have surely read me far too often.

And by the way, how can they write that Mutu or Crystal Water (that's the name of the horse) failed their test -on the contrary, they quite spectacularly passed it, I would have thought! ...Just to be on the pedantic side. Hair-splitter, moi?

"They make prizes of ships that are not at peace with them."

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5th of Nov.

Right. let's get down to it. Don't want to spend too long on the subject, but...

Spent the night watching History unfold, on that fateful 2nd of November. I hardly need tell you how appalled, dumbstruck -literally- and downright depressed I was the next day. Various conclusions / remarks spring to mind. It's just not good enough to call 52 % of the American electorate a bunch of blinkered neo-fascistic, religious fanatical morons (which they are), let us try to understand why. Why it is that such a painfully obviously irresponsible cretin has been given four more years at the helm of the most devastating national power in the world... What happened?

First remark: quite clearly, they - just - don't - care. Americans don't give a fuck, they couldn't care less, they have no interest, they don't give a monkey, they turn their back and raise a finger, "drop battery acid in the rivers and complain when they can't swim" in Lou Reed's famous words. In keeping with their disregard for the Kyoto Agreement, they (the biggest polluters on Earth) simply have no consideration for the rest of the world that, in any opinion poll, quasi-unanimously (apart from Israel, what a surprise!) prayed for a Kerry victory. Let's unearth the usual statistic about the fact that 75 % of Americans don't have a passport and move on.

Secondly, what transpired as their main, self-confessed reason for electing -with enthusiasm, too!- GWB is -and here I quote- "moral values". Yes, moral values. Camp X... Abu Ghraib... the non-ratification of the world treaty on anti-personnel landmines (the only other country in the world not to sign it? Somalia.), not to mention the two and a half million jobs lost in their own backyard... is clearly something else altogether, of no clear nature. No, what Americans mean by "moral values" is a typical circumlocution (i.e. some hypocritical, issue-evading play on words) for religion. Yes, religion, in the self-proclaimed -and arguably generally regarded as- prime world-power; and in the twenty-first century too. Let us recall at this stage that two Americans to one prefer the theory of creationism to natural evolution, and that local authorities (in the so-called Bible Belt) actively promote the former in education. And so you have it: basically: on one side, religious militants who butcher hostages, enforce feodal cultures oppressing women children and gays, repress education, and so on; and on the other, well, religious militants who piss on the Geneva Convention, ignore the UN, and reward millionnaire drink and driving kids.

Thirdly, the "guy next door" schtick. First blame to be appointed: to the Democratic party. How can they have failed to draw the lesson from the precious fiasco starring Al Gore? An obviously very brainy guy, but austere, tall, technocratic (this is a term of insult in the USA), not prone to malaproprisms, public blunders (such as cursing with his mike still on) and pathetic waffling when required to respond to an unscripted question. Hard to warm up to, then. Who do they replace him with, this time? An obviously very brainy guy, but austere, tall, technocratic, not prone to malaproprisms, public blunders and pathetic waffling. Enter GWB. A continual look of utter panic in his eyes, but a topic-evading joke or three up his sleeve, some -oh so- unrehearsed labsus linguae at the ready -Gee, ain't he just... fun? The kind of Regular Joe who probably watches US football on the box eating snacks -and, byGollyGoddammitholdmebackThelma, he does, too! (and passes out, unable to even chew a Pretzel properly -but that's another story). The kind of clown who winks a lot, used to -y'know, nudge nudge- have a few beers before hitting the road, wears a Stetson and plants his feet on the Oval Office's desk. In other words, a riot! Homer Simpson, anyone? (No disrespect to the outstanding series here, this would be a total misreading of the point I am making.) All of a sudden, I don't find his apparent very public lapses of concentration not so innocent. But the MacDonald chomping, beer drinking, pick-up driving, xenophobic redneck who elected him -look at the political map- fell for it big time, forgetting in the process -but, hey, let's be fair, that would constitute an effort!- that this Regular Joe in question is the son of a petrol multi-millionnaire, who actually spent his entire life being bailed out from his continuous business fiascos by his Daddy's rich friends. And here comes an amusing parallel: Jacques Chirac, who based his presidential campaign on appearing as a -even compassionate, too- Regular Joe. Doesn't le Jacques like to drink beer, watch footy on the telly, tell blue jokes and swear like a trooper? Sure does! (He also happens to have married a multi-millionairess and legally lives in one of the most spacious appartments in the whole of France.) Bluegrass Bush/Chirac electors, one born every minute...

I must also mention a theory which I had held for some time, and which rather somehow prepared me for the outrage of Bush's "re"election: I do believe that, on a repressed unconscious level, Americans must have preferred to keep their country on the path of wanton war and shameless human rights outrages rather than concede they were at fault from the start. A bit like a relationship one can find oneself trapped in: the worse it feels, the more you want to sustain it regardless so as to defend / validate your initial commitment. (Until one can no longer carry on the pretence anymore, and then the awful realization of the terrible mistake one has committed hits really hard.)

In the end, Americans rushed to the rescue of whom they saw as a bit of an embattled figure, patronisingly snubbed by the snotty intelligentsia (another term of insult in America) and -inexplicably- the near-entire outside world. Adding to the -comprehensible- tradition of not deserting one's president in time of war. (And who cares if the war against Iraq -sorry, the War On Terrr'r- was declared "over" by the Prez himself six months ago?) After all, statistical chances are, it's gonna be a bunch of black soldiers getting slaughtered there, a bunch of foreigners being taken hostage, and of course a -simply UNACCOUNTED FOR- huge bunch of savages getting "wiped out" / "taken care of" / "get back at" under any other appellation on the battlefield / under bombs / and in various top secret, unregulated prison camps. Voter clearly did not know what to think of the challenger's tactically obscure plans for getting out of the Iraq mess (and, hey, did Kerry himself knew?!); at least with Bush, you know what to expect, eh... The expression "better the devil you know" springs to mind.

Historian Simon Sharma, in The Guardian, picks up on the startingly eloquent political map of what he calls the DSA ("the "Divided States of America"). Take a look at it: ........just about every more advanced, more educated, less religious, area in the land voted against Bush, be it East- or West- Coast. Bush got elected -with great fervour, too!- by the huge Bible Belt in-between.

Doesn't it make you think?

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Crybabies 1 -MUFC 3. Loig salutes the magic of Wayne "Wayne" Rooney.

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"Last night, I was lying in bed with my wife. I was lying to her, and she was lying to me."

Happiness is... "Teachers". Oh, and bring back "No Angels" too!

Headline writer for hire. The old dream of encapsulating the world in just a few words...

So many topics to tackle, in particular this exciting trend of deconstructing stereotypical narration demonstrated in "Memento", "Mulholland Drive", "The Lady In The Lake", Faulkner's "As I Lay Dying", Robbe-Grillet, "Groundhog Day", "l'Appartement", "l'Avventura", "l'Annee derniere a Marienbad", "Irreversible" etc. Chronology messed up, our attention being challenged. There is a hole in the usual whole (an episode missing in the story), some logical element that has been deliberately left out, it's up to us to fill in the blanks. Need to come up with a "Memento" / "Groundhog" hybrid for a larf (if only I could think of one!). We need to challenge our acceptance of conventions (cf. Barthe's hatred of accepted wisom): why should we abide by hackneyed stereotypes?

Also my hunch that, frankly, mass-media has basically turned anything and everything to mere spectacle. Yes, we do eat our dinner while watching the latest genocide or famine on the news and no, TV would not have prevented the nazi genocide of European Jews. Every new episode of media exhibitionism / exploitation cinema / TV-reality simply pushes the envelope ever further off the table. The truth is, we have now not only become accustomed to seeing the latest atrocity but actually expect to watch it. Abu Ghraib tortures did not put 'Merkins off their hamburger, in fact they ("re")elected Bush! Visual validation means nothing anymore, in fact it has just become part and parcel of crypto-sadism media broadcast, simple as that. Whatever happened to "Band Aid / Feed The World", eh! So-called "compassion fatigue" has actually turned into increasingly sanctioned televisual / Internet voyeurism. How many hits did the online beheading of Kenneth Bigley get? (For the record, I did not look at it.)

Definitions:

Saturday night: the first step in the countdown towards next week-end.

Edwige Fenech: not afraid to catch a cold.

Jesper Carrott / Lenny Henry / Chris Moyles / Frank Skinner: the poor man's poor man.

The pub: fun contained in imperial measures and licensing hours.

Eyes: without a face.

Gudjohnsen: not half-bad. (See what I've done here?)

Alcohol: no excuse.

Newspaper: forty pages to fill in every day.

Train station: place where books are bought.

Zen: where opposites co-exist.

Serial killer: kept himself to himself.

Government spokesman: chose not to comment.

Society: ruled-and-regulated loneliness.

Fault: someone else's.

Man United: Football Club. (Not yank fat cat investment.)

Open window: car starts right outside.

"High Street" magazines: page after page after page of glossy advertising that punters part with their money for. See also: clothes / brands.

David Beckham: sells papers.

Pillow: substitute.

(Nick Cave: God.)(But then we already knew that.)

Loig: disappointed.

Love, Al Green once informed me, is a wonderful thang. Now, I wouldn't know about that, but languages certainly are. "Morbide" in Italian? Means "soft". "Comodo" = commode (Fr.) / convenient (in English). The inventors of cinema? The Lumiere ("light") brothers of Lyon(s). Mortgage, after "mort" (cf. mortician, mortal, etc.) : literally "death pledge", what goes to someone (else) in case of death. Coffin = caisse = casa = same root (box); cashier as well, I suppose.

Headlines section. Newcastle 1 - Fulham 4. "Stainless Steed puts Newc. to the sword." Great frontpage by The Independent after Bush's election: "four more years", with photos of Abu Ghraib, polluting factories etc. The Manchester derby: "the tightrope artists survive the golden goose".

Daniel Craig ("Sylvia", "Layer Cake") for "James Bond"! -He would be perfect, exudes a rather menacing sexual presence.

Blin 182 "Blink 182" still best album of the year (played about 400 times by now): says it all about the piss-poor quality of this horrible (John Peel RIP) year. No outstanding album at all! This being said, need to check out Richmond Fontaine's, Explosions In The Sky's, Eighties 80s Matchbox etc. Disaster's albums.

Various films seen lately: "Jap'on" (Mex. / Fra.); "Eureka" (Jap.); "Cruels jardins" (Fra., bof, sympa).

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Turstay 11th of Nov. (first World War remembrance day).Another day, another social occasion... Celebrating the hundred years of Ireland's most famous theatre. The Cusack family sadly not present (i.e. can't even compare nipples with Jeremy I. but, ahem, let's not get carried away...). Got my photo taken by a newspaper (most embarrassing: for the nth time, amazing how a mere white shirt impresses people.) Didn't pass out, drop a glass or even start to dribble (always my terror when attending public occasions): quite pleased on that count. Almost started a fight with a little dick in the street, wearing a neo-nazi "Ultra Sur" scarf, though. What da...!!?!?!!! And that was before attending the opening of the National Archive.

Need to copy and paste from somewhere my article for the National Library of Ireland newsletter. Quite impressed by the fact that it didn't get edited by a baffled editor (it's, ahem, as idiosyncratic as the rest of this page).

It is estimated that Ireland -aka The Republic, in LoixTalk- lost 20 million to emigration (in two, three, or four centuries?). About 20 million Northern non-Canadian Americans ("Yanks", that is) proclaim themselves Irish. In the eighties, the rate was of 25.000 leaving per year. What with the "Celtic Tiger" economic phenomenom bearing fruit, immigrants of all nationalities, all races and colours, -this will, of course, include me- have recently started to arrive (to toil in the catering sector, as traditionally). And -guess what- some up here don't like it a bit... Only last week in "Dub", a couple of Latvian men were attacked at night in a park, on their way back from a -probably 14 hours'- working day. O tempora, o mores...

Julee Cruise / David Lynch / Angelo Badalamenti: "The Mysteries Of Love"

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First draft of Cinema Awards Of The Year. (Clue: motivated by my watching of "Hero" last night.) Well, there is still time for more remarkable films, or let us hope so. It's been a rather good -if not precisely great- year for cinema, unlike with rock, where's it's been tragic.

Best film: "Hero", ex-aequo with "Kitchen Stories". On the list: "Intermission", "Infernal Affairs", "A Mighty Wind", "Valentin", "Raising Victor Vargas"; does "Lost In Translation" count for this year?; "Roger Dodger"; S"int-Eti"nne 2 - Olympique Lyonnais 4.

Best music: "Hero" -Contender, from a safe distance: "Feux rouges", but then it's Debussy, not an original soundtrack.

Best scenario: "Hero", "A Tale Of Two Sisters".

Best actress: that old black lady in the Coens' surprisingly ultra-enjoyable version of "The Ladykillers", who also appears in "Collateral". Contenders: all three leading actresses of "A Tale Of Two Sisters".

Best actor: probab Christian Bale in "The Machinist" (released next year) ; the Korean star of "Old Boy".

(TV) event of the year: "Angels In America"; contender: return of "Teachers"; "No Angels". Seen-in-2004 cinema event: "Irreversible". Staggered home late last night, came across "Magnolia": not a film -idem with "Fargo", mind- that one can turn off and walk away from. Cue: two more (precious) hours in front of a screen.

Best "cinematography" (i.e. photography): a lot of beauties, once more: "Hero" (turns out to be Christopher Doyle!), "Old Boy", "The Machinist", "Collateral" (more Doyle style), "Eureka", "A Snake Of June" and "Avalon" which would have won it hands down any year, except not actually from this (or "thish" as Radio One DJs would pronounce) one. -Check it out by all means.

Suprisingly-not-so-bad-contrary-to-expectation award: "The Ladykillers" -loved it!; long way behind: "Layer Cake" -dear Lord, Loig, are you turning into a "Loaded" reader?!?; some bits of "Alien Vs. Predator"

Tarantino of the year: trailer of "After The Sunset"; the only thing missing here is the ending; plus you have to admire any film that tries to sell itself on the "strength" of being "a Brett Ratner movie", the guy who committed "Red Dragon"! ; the American retards are at it again: 'parently, there is yet another "Star Wars" on the way; cf. trailer in the cinema ....for a film that won't even been shown before May of next year!!!! ; "Battle Royale II" -interestingly hardly got any promotion; the word must have been quickly out. Remember: these people who go on about "Star Wars", they are the ones who "re"elect George W Bush. Fact.

Babe of the year: Scarlett Johansson oh yes oh yes; Zhang Ziwi (spell???)

Hunk of the year: Gael Garcia Benael, most likely; Pierce Brosnan; Daniel Craig; Tony Leung (the one from "Chungkin / In The Mood")

Sat.

Scraping DNA growths off my face in the cold light of the mirror. Existential despair entertainment-fuelled evasive tactics. Walking in the air. Did nae bother watching the Narf Lahndarn derby. In true local derby tradition, must have finished goal-less anyway... Back from my daily twenty mile jog, switch on the "Old Firm", just in time to see it get decided by yet another beauty by Thomson -trific player who has done God's chosen team proud, time and again. Must say I rather approve of Mourinho's swagger -sorry, "arrogance" according to all English papers. The man's got the right attitude: decisiveness, and of course he has allegedly picked the 30th of April as the date of his triumph in the Engl. league. The 30th of April, eh... what a great day... in fact the day of all days, if you see what I mean. Delish food market in town, outside the National Photographic Archive (the one managed by that lovely young lady). Choose not to lift eyebrow too high at some prices (6 Euros for a quiche of some sort) and plump for some veggie spring roll, generously topped with just about any complimentary olive / spice / chutney I can find. Nishe. Stinking cheese all round, sushi, organic this and that, a huge proportion of foreigners / tourists, the mandatory crying baby in the middle and you have the recipe for a very pleasant half-hour. Re. "Hero": all the better as I now know at least one "Chinese" Chinese word: "hhsheu", for "yes". Expect the inevitable joke: did you see that absolute madness at yesterday's funeral, what with the security guards firing in the air and the crowds storming the coffin? ...Would never have thought John Peel was that popular! (Boom boom.) Question: what did "Foo Foo Lamar" die of?? (Manc trav' figure.) The more coffee I drink, the sleepiest I get. News from this side of here> yesterday saw the collapse of the trial of famous TV / radio presenter Eamon Dunphy who had been accused of "sexual harassment" by... a night-club bouncer. Picture this. Chain-smoking Dunphy, who is about 60 and weighs about half his own weight,had been taken to court for allegedly making obscene gestures and suggesting oral / manual sex to... your average tuxedoed haven-headed tub of lard who must have felt, oh, sooo threatened and officially "molested". A whole country in stitches. No doubt the mean muvver will be inundated with offers of work from now on.

"Woke up this morning, found myself dead"

Had the most surreal conversation with the colleagues the other day regarding the new version of Band Aid, which one could instantly have renamed Do They Know It's Sarcastic Time Again? -and, remember, I'm not one to be usually antagonised by nonsense. With hindsight, should have seen it coming... For a self-declared misanthrope, am so often naive! Have the disturbing and unfailing feeling that their point must be widespread, in a "PopBitch" smart Alec fashion.

My dear co-workers' point went like this: this new version is crap, and therefore (I) won't buy it. ...As if the POINT of "Band Aid" in the first place was artistic!?! Now, I have no particular love for the new version -as a matter of fact, I could not care if I tried to- but A) I understand the point of having it re-interpreted by today's headliners instead of yesterday's men and women -remember the first record was released TWENTY years ago: why should it appeal, for instance, to today's teen, record purchasing audience? and B) I don't find it particularly bad. All of a sudden, everyone jumped on the bandwagon -including the most esteemed Sean Moncruyff- tripping over each other to declare how simply unlistenable the new version is. Well, cf. my point B) in response to that. But let's analyse what exactly such attitude entails... Yes, you're starting to get it:

it's a perfect excuse not to buy what is, primarily, a charity record with a literally global impact. There you have it: on some spurious aesthetic ground, these smart arses find themselves justified not to fork out 3, 4, 5 -whatever- Euros in aid of a massive anti-famine scheme. Call me a taxi and a bleeding heart but, yes, my family did buy the record at the time in 84 and, yes, I will buy this one as well. Even though I will very likely never play it, but this is hardly the point.

Aside: it reminds me of these people who, as soon as you've let out that you are actually vegetarian, will automatically try to prove you wrong and even hypocritical, oh-so cleverly pointing out the meaty taste of some artefact, with the killer rationale: "aha, so you see, your -that type of person usually can't spell- hyppocrit cos' you like meat!!" ...Yes, yes, the point of vegetarianism being situated in one's taste buds. Such people, frankly, I automatically cross off the list of persons worth holding a conversation with.

Anyway, so there it was, the new objection to the Band Aid record: it's artistically less than satisfactory and therefore not valid. I rest their case (on the handrail to ignorance where it belongs). Signed: yours, eternally baffled. (Ever heard the good old one about "I'm not interested in politics"? Fair enough, ...and a couple of years later, you end up with Le Pen in the second round of the Presidential election.)

More on facile excuses: this week's winner of the Ribert Pires School Of Scoring Cheap Points Award: Rio Ferdinand, speaking after the Espana - Engerlund match, chest full ahead, stating unequivocally that he was "ready to walk out" (in protest at the shocking racing chants). Hold him back, Thelma, just hold him back! And as for Captain Beckham, eh, courageously mindful not to alienate his home crowd... respect! Pah!!

For,ca Bar,ca tonight!!!! Against the forces of tyranny, religion and treason (yes, Mr. Figo, it's you we have in mind). Justice shall prevail, arriba (note the linguistic irony here) Xavi Puyol Larsson and 'Dinho! (OK, let me explain: in the bad old days, General Franco used to trumpet "arriba Espana!" in all his speeches, leading cheeky commentators to wonder just how high exactly did he want the country to "rise", eh...?) See, you can't say this blog ain't educational... (Next we'll tackle the art of correctly addressing an orthodox Cope in perfect classic Hellenic.)

Remind me to do a piece on English commentators re-christening Nicolas Anelka "Nicolas Sanelka", Essien "Etienne", Petit "petite", Blanc "blank" FFS, Viera "Vee-yera", "Thierry Henry" Useless Showpony, "Silvestri" Silvestre, and so on.

"When I lost my mind, I knew I'd be gone for a long time..."

A few hours later... the headlines for the occasion: "Camp Now" "Barca Blast" "Real Done By Ronaldinho" "Three Nil To The Good" "Catalunya Calling" "Real-ly Routed" "From Barcelonadinho With Love" etc. Needless to say, twas a joy to behold. The sight of portly Ronaldo, hand on hip rolls, stranded on his own in the other half, gazing wistfully at the celebrations going off at regular intervals all around him, was most amusing. Ah, to be sure, scoring goals for fun against the likes of Levante or Getafe ain't exactly the same...Welcome to reality. (The less said about Figo, the better. Huh. Would get on great with Pires, mind you.) And achieved without the support of Giuly, too.

PS: and what do I discover the next day, unearthed by a Sunday rag? A photo of Figo smilingly posing with an Ultra Sur scarf. Oh the pain indeed... talk about burning one's bridges.

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La suite ne fait que commencer...

Respect, salutations :

Nilüfer Acar; James "Jim" Grice; Rod, Mary et Wee Man; Eleopol, l'infâme-Paul-Delaye et la famille; Will Callaghan (Smog); Peter Strickland and his brother Nick; Eric Cantona / Roy Keane for pissing off everyone -with incredible style; the mighty Rammstein; Noam Chomsky; Ralph Nader; la-mère; Bidulo; Jeremie, Margot, Julie et Valentine; Irène Jacob; l'Olympique Lyonnais dans son entièreté; Rishi Arch; Steve Albini; Film Incoherences; Hüsker Dü; the one, only and eternal Cocteau Twins: the most sublime music you will be privileged to hear in "rock"; Faithless; Stephen Patrick Morrissey; Sir Alex Ferguson; Melissa Hartmann and little Carlos; "Loz Michelle"; Kevin, Ian and Papa Bird, the techno boyz: book your rehearsing / recording sessions at the Great Western Recordings studio in Reading, Berk.; Takeshi Kitano; Pedro Almodovar, quite clearly the greatest director of our time; San-Antonio; Pierre Desproges; The Onion; hunt saboteurs, Mac Smash their fucking windows, José Bovés of this world No Logo: nous ne portons pas de marque et leur pissons à la raie!; the RFT -best cinema in South England-: Reading University; "Notre Belle Italienne Nationale" Monica Bellucci; Sandrine Kilberlain; Harvey Keitel; Matt Dillon; Bertrand Blier. Jacques Prévert, Don DeLillo (the greatest living writer in the English language); Marguerite Duras (my favourite writer); Boris Vian (2nd favourite, what a life he led!!!); Chuck Palahniuk; Hal Hartley; Doug Coupland; Liza Harper; Aurora Snow; Orson Welles; Albert Camus; Koffi Annan; Bruce Springsteen; Rosa Parks; Public Enemy; TapeHead at "The Guardian"; "Le Canard Enchaîné"; Bérurier Noir; Fugazi; Dead Kennedys; Bashung; Souchon; Héloïse De Graeve; Barbara; Peter Greenaway; Louis Thivend.; M. Hulot; "Daddy" John Peel; George Orwell; "TGB" Roland Barthes;

Sabah.

The Scenario Factory; Film Incoherences; Football Fantaisie.