Hello
Buoys & Gulls
The date: August 2003
The place: France (population 59 million).
The
Tosser: Simon Walsh (population 1)
There comes a time in every man’s life when he must travel 800 kilometres across the heartland of one of the oldest developed nations on earth in order to record stupid noises and sleep with a girl. Your intrepid artist is no exception in this matter, and a few weeks back, I undertook this task with no small amount or trepidation. I’m happy to inform you however that I emerged transformed from the other side of this ordeal with a disk full of beautiful memories and testicles like dried raisins.
I travelled from Toulouse to London in a Fiat Panda that smelt of air freshener and Jaffa Cakes, beside a lovely woman who claimed not to care about my fear of flying or my love of the Electric Light Orchestra. Women like these are hard to find, so I drugged her immediately and took her limp body back to my lair in order to feed. The next day (after collecting many, many belongings), said girl and I climbed into the above mentioned Panda and began to speed Northwards at a heady 30 kph.
Our route would take us through the heart of France, close to the extinct volcanic mountain range that once used to belch forth boiling hot lava but have since adjusted their marketing strategy and now produce mineral water instead. The journey through this breathtaking terrain was very quiet, which was a sod really, as I was attempting to record interesting sounds on my minidisk. However, you'd be amazed the kind of sounds a sheep can produce if you tie a skateboard to each hoof and tow it behind you for a while.
Claremont nestles deep in the centre of France and boasts the finest collection of knees in the western world. I have never seen so many people in shorts and mini skirts. It is my opinion that the leg must have been invented here (or somewhere near here). The city of limbs also played host to the heaviest storm that I have ever been subjected to. The sky turned almost literally bible black, and proceeded to chuck both rain and hail of similarly biblical proportions at our little car. My driver (who shall be known from this moment forth as Betty) and I had to pull over and shelter under a tree to escape the golf ball sized hailstones. Cue romantic music and use of birth control…
Vichy passes us by without incident or indeed any interest whatsoever.
The next day Bet and I arrived in the city of Reims, home of Champaign and birthplace of the kingdom of France. In fact it is said that no French Monarch can be legally crowned unless it in Reims although this is disputed by some of the more oiled bastards that live there. What is not in dispute however is that the Cathedral is very beautiful and the public toilets close at 6.00 pm.
By this time, my minidisk was starting to fill with wonderful sounds and rich, exotic atmospheres. My heart lifts as it looks likely that this trip is becoming a rich source of inspiration for the next album which I shall cryptically entitle ‘France, Your Food is Beautiful But It Makes Me Constipated’. Betty gives me long sideways glances as I lean out of the car at intervals in order to record passing, but profound, conversations on street corners, or livestock as they munch and fart their way to the end of their day. My life, it seems, contains both in equal amounts.
Onwards we craw toward Calais and the coast. Betty and I take turns to pee behind various bushes and walls as the kilometres tick away and threaten to turn from Metric to Imperial measurement at any moment. I notice that Bet is beginning to realise that she will have to drive on the other side of the road soon. The term 'shit scared' does not do her mood any justice whatsoever. We motor through Sangatte with worried expressions as the town seems to be full of nobody. The TV has been full of stories over the past few months about all the asylum seekers housed here at the infamous camp but all we can see are two kids arguing over a rather shabby red bike. I’m trying in vain to look for a metaphor in this but the inspiration is just not there. Instead I hand Betty a toffee and we munch in silence.
Calais seems to be full or roads that lead nowhere. Betty and I both find ourselves trundling around them looking meekly for signs to the port. Eventually we see a piece of cardboard taped to a sleeping peasant that reads ‘Go home English. Straight ahead and don’t come back’. Dutifully, we gun our little mobile home towards the cranes and the smell of seaweed.
The ferry is full of stupid people that smell and are rude. It’s great to be back among the English again. I snoop through the tax free (yeah, right!) shop deciding if a non-smoking, non-drinking half breed like me should buy some fags (that’s cigarettes for you Americans) and booze just because it’s cheap. Nah.
Finally we arrive in England. The roads are jammed as usual and I talk Betty through the first few terrifying minutes of driving on the correct side of the road. I tell her that if the Australians have mastered this, then she should have no problem. Apparently, she informs me that this advice is of little help. However by the time we hit the M25 orbital car park, she is leaning out of the window and yelling abuse at the other road users like she’d been living here for years. That’s my girl.
So that, as they say is that. France is 547,000 square kilometres in size and with my crap navigation we saw about 4 sq km of it. Everybody we spoke to spoke excellent French and rubbish English which is coincidentally the exact opposite of my language skills but as a fiend of mine once said. ‘You don’t need to speak a word of any foreign language if you can point and then pay’
He’s dead now of course.
Take the greatest of care Buoys & Gulls. I’m off to prepare for a headline gig in Camden on the 12th of September at the Spectrum Club in Camden. There is a rumour that ex-Men Are Dead guitarist Jim ‘Make Tea Not War’ Sanders will be playing along side me along with Rob ‘Hit It Until It Works’ Ramsay. Be warned, there might be a lot of sex, heavy drinking and fighting, especially if some one turns up.
I remain, as ever, locked in the toilet,
Simon Walsh