Bonjour dear neglected blog, it’s been a while, and as I write this in just my underpants, the sky groans and lightning whizzes about my head and I suspect the heavens are threatening to wash Paris away. If I was the sort of chap to complain about the weather then I would go on for ages about how we’ve had no summer and why didn’t I move to somewhere where the sun actually shines and if it gets any muggier then my head might just burst, but I’m not and I won’t. Hopefully this storm – about the ninth in as many days – will clear the air and then finally I’ll get some sun on my back.
I’ve not really been anywhere this last week, I’ve just been here writing and being bitten to shit by parasites, who are taking the liberty of inhabiting the same space as me uninvited, the little bastards (I’ve provided some article links below, by the way). Excitement rose to fever pitch when we were able to walk right up to the statue at Place de la République last weekend. The whole area has been trussed up with scaffolding and ugly fencing restricting movement seemingly for an age, but now there are lovely slabs of shiny asphalt for people to promenade and flaneur and, er, walk upon.
It’s just a shame when the middle aged men on rollerskates descend. It’s not an uncommon sight here, a stubbly chap with his belly hanging over his belt, swishing through the streets like Jane Torvill. It could be that here it’s cool and back home it’s really not cool. Well it’s not is it? Personally I imagine said hirsute homme whizzing back to his bedsit which has a My Little Pony bedspread as centrepiece and pictures of Justins Bieber and Timberlake all over the walls, with maybe some dismembered heads in the fridge. It’s one of the few reasons to be thankful for this biblical weather, not seeing fat blokes on rollerskates.
So here’s a blog I wrote on The Guardian‘s website about Kings of Leon and obtuse album titles.
Here’s one about Cher Lloyd becoming an unlikely focus of adoration here in France which I wrote for Noisey.