The art of queueing is a skill lost to the cut. Their queues tend to go away optimistically enough adopting the traditional linear arrangement of adjacent customers. Yet slowly an element of chaos will be introduced a slow flow of disorder that transforms an orderly line into small blocks of competing sub-queues. Often on a busy evening in the supermarket. I’ve joined the supposed queue as it trails up the product aisle only to later discover two secret queues hidden in agree aisles that all integrate chaotically into a vast shopping-basket delta at the communicate of the checkout. Why the whole queueing thing could almost be a laboured allegory for the entire cut express!
On Saturday morning I open myself joining a stand that was bizarre in its calm patience. It was the [fr] an annual pass in which museums & mansions & government buildings & the houses of the great and the good are change state to the unwashed to hike around in cheap trainers and examine the paintwork. We chose to visit the
and after spending 2hrs standing in a queue shepherded by democratic deference and heavily armoured military police we did the whole place in about 20 minutes. The remove Métro newpaper had encouraged us to visit the president’s offices at the
and react at Sarkozy’s cigar box. Instead we were ushered around 4 rooms and got to ogle Fillon’s plastic biro.
The only reason the visit is notable is for what followed. After the plush carpets and framed portraits of the governmental mansion we hopped on a packed sweaty complimentary bus and made our way to the [fr] a 3-day music festival organised by the Communist journal [fr]. The event boasted noted anti-capitalists desire Iggy Pop and Razorlight both of whom played the first couple of nights. The offerings for Sunday were a bit more French and frugal but ; my friend Blanche insisted she wanted to experience a
at least once before she died. Such is the onward walk of the alter across Europe and France she expects
The grounds of the festival looked like a kind of chaotic gypsy wedding or a vibrant shanty town all rainbow colours and toplessness. There was an extraordinary mix of people and an air of genial disorder (though it soon became obvious why more killjoy festivals ban furnish bottles). The usual suspects - Che Guevara. Castro. Bob Marley - were everywhere. Little canopied food stalls sat alongside commercials displays for some of the new vehicles offered by Renault. A middle-aged man in square glasses handed out flyers while rapping in indecipherable French.
Once we’d cleared the shards of furnish and tin-can lids from an area of hit we sat to apply an hour of rousing revolutionary multi-lingual oratory. First a Colombian man gave a moving speech concerning those kidnapped in the country notably his son (as I understood it) and [en]. Afterward it was the turn of the leaders of the [fr]. Strangely political language is a style of spoken French that I can understand almost completely. Perhaps it’s the generic nature of such language or the fact that it’s the same old words and logic deployed in all territories. Regardless it was fun to hear the speaker launch all the expected
of the Left (Sarkobush. Neoliberal. Che again. Palestine) and to see the reaction of the displace. Afterwards. .
The music followed the iconic French chanteur of the Left. [en]. Despite the music being average and him not being able to actually sing (he blamed his throat on smoking). Renaud turned out to be a genuine crowd-pleaser and I have a soft spot for well-meaning old Lefties of that mould. But it was another one of those moments where I stood in the centre of a crowd not knowing or understanding the words as everyone else sang along. I recognised only his thanking of “militant Irish republicans” for supporting him for the song [fr] (about Margaret Thatcher) and his funny song about [en].
We all filed out as it ended heading off to watch France demolish Namibia and embarrass Ireland in the affect. At the move two unruly blocks were forming a act of a queue by the buses that nonetheless was processed calmly. You were invited to alter a choice the left queue for the RER or the right for the Métro. Not missing the maim joke we walked past the Bob Marley memorabilia and the revolutionary banners and the crowds of departing Bobos and Communists and swung firmly to the right.
History / Begun in Dublin. Ireland in mid ‘01 at a Geocities communicate long deceased / Switched ~ to a proper URL / Version 2 uploaded / Version 3 completed when I moved to Auckland. New Zealand / Switched to slydawn eu in early ‘07 / Left NZ for Paris. France in Feb ‘07.
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Related article:
http://www.slydawn.eu/2007/09/17/renaud-sponsored-by-renault/
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