Elegy/Apology

Dad used to love telling the story of the time he took my brother and I to see Marcel Marceau. I’ve always been a bit mystified by Marcel’s choice to tour Australia in the 70s, and by Dad’s decision to take two toddlers to see him, but I guess French mime was seen as incredibly sophisticated children’s entertainment back there and then.
The story goes that we were each bought a box of Jaffas (just in case Marcel failed to excite us, it was thoughtful to provide a crunchy sugar/chocolate rush as well).

All the Australians reading this will know exactly where it’s going.
After a silent rollercoaster ride of gesture and expression, walking against the wind and feeling along invisible walls, Marcel was working up to his final image of exquisite pathos. The hushed audience edged forward in their seats and held their breath as time seemed to slow... and then… and then… a shattering candy cascade was unleashed as hundreds of Jaffas bounced and rolled deafeningly down the aisle.
Dad maintained that Marcel never truly recovered, and would wake up in cold sweats at the memory of that fateful Sydney show.
I’m sorry Monsieur Marceau. I don’t really remember your show, but as far as the Jaffa incident is concerned, I’m sure it was my brother’s fault.
I hope now you’ve found quiet. And peace.

Trying times

It’s Rugby World Cup time in France, and the oval ball is everywhere – even on the Eiffel Tower, transformed into giant goalposts for the occasion. Everyone has jumped on the rugger wagon, and you can’t turn a page or a corner without seeing an oval-shaped object: chocolates, phones, books, hats. Everything is fair game (I kill myself). This being Paris, you can even pop into Chanel to get your gear on the way to the game.
Every company, brand and institution is falling over itself to prove its close ties to the game. There is Société Générale, the financial partner of the IRB; Toshiba, official TV provider; Eden Park, official clothing brand of the French team, and Vivien Paille, official provider of dried pulses and vegetables. (True.) My favourite advertisement, however, is this one: You know the World Cup is in France when rugby has its very own foie gras. Initially unconvinced by this tenuous link between ball sports and duck liver, my skepticism is blown away by the logic of the copywriting: "rugby and foie gras, two expressions of the same terrain". Of course! Rugby is really popular in the south-west of France, and that’s where they force-feed poultry to make foie gras! Crystal clear. That’s not drawing a long bow at all. Or, to use a more appropriate metaphor, kicking a very, very long goal.

Pavarotti's Botti

The sad death of Luciano Pavarotti yesterday reminded me of my favourite apocryphal story about the great tenor. It seems he was being interviewed on a live satellite cross as part of a televisual tribute to our very own antipodean diva, Dame Joan Sutherland. When asked what special message he would like to give to the soprano, in front of millions of viewers, his loud, effusive and heavily-accented reply was:

“I would like to give her a big kiss from my bottom…”

Cut to a frozen-smiled Joan, blinking to camera. Pan to a mortified host, silently sweating. Pull back to a bemused studio audience, holding its breath. And gingerly cross back to Luciano, finally ready to finish his sentence:

“…of my heart.”

Considering where it came from, that’s a BIG kiss.

Bravo!