Kill my banker online game

And it gets worse...

I have a closet litigator within who likes to make an appearance every once in a while when Disco Dorothy (that's my inner gay man to you) is at the spa, she's the yang to his yin if you like.  Anyways, she tends to man up only when absolutely necessary, and today she had a field day...

In the last hour and a half on the phone to HSBC in both France and the US (I'd add in the 'Premier' part but that would be false advertising) I have spoken to Jackie, Melanie, Renee (haargh really, that's my bad date code name, and people are actually called that!), Edgar, and some dude in India whose name I never got.  After receiving incorrect information from France re the US and the US re France,  I found myself having a transatlantic three-way with Jackie and Edgar (and no, were it to involve activities of a horizontal nature you'd not be giving it a ten).  Given the length and depth of their incompetence there was a beauteous moment where I just gave up and looked elsewhere for ways to amuse myself, and thus, a search on google was born.

First shot was this:  banker duck shotgun game which netted the following result Duck Hunt

Then as their dithering stagnated into backtracking (fully against the commandments of Gallego) I cut to the chase and tried this:  kill my banker online game which spat out this work of art:  Spank the Banker (click on the image below to play)

 

 Really, could you ask for anything more whilst on hold? 

Anyway, at some point whilst I was getting ever closer to splat power 400, they transferred a huge wadge of cash to my new landlord and well, I am now a Venice (that's CA, not EU) resident.  Adventures in house p$rn will surely follow; clean ones, about decorating...

Paul Haggis Vs. the Church of Scientology: newyorker.com

On a more serious note re Scientology...

Paul Haggis Vs. the Church of Scientology: newyorker.com

Newton's Law of Cab Music: what comes up, must come down...

Following many years spent in taxis on both sides of the Channel I can confirm that there is a conspiracy against positive thinking after midnight in the back of any taxi.  That is unless you are too drunk to remember, in which case, just remember to pick your knickers up off the back seat...


In a bid to rekindle my bond with the rest of civilisation, this evening I took up Ms Lynch on her request for wing-man duties for her gig-seeking rendez-vous, sought out underwear for the first time in four days and extracted myself from the fug of sweatpants and a variety of hooded tops that serve to keep my brain warm at 5am when trying to convene with Don Draper.  (To those of you that I met for a glass yesterday afternoon, I hope you are not reading this and if you are, just be thankful I was wearing trousers...)

The Swan Bar is pitched as a New York Jazz Bar in Montparnasse.  For this, may I just suggest that you default directly to New York proper and go to Brandy's Piano Bar.  Job done.  The Swan, as lovely as it is, was tonight torturing the collective memory of Judy Garland and a not quite as yet dead Liza Minelli (despite Sex and the City 2) for the best part of an hour.  With accessories.  With the utmost respect, were the bowler hat and hot pink feather boa really essential?  Just a thought.

We escaped after the first set to an oasis of two euro beers served on a dirty cafe table with some not-so succulent olives.  Sometimes that's all you need.

Which brings me full circle to my point about taxis after midnight.  You can guarantee that they'll either be streaming MagicFM (London) or CheriFM (Paris), and that after a great evening of session lagers and cigarettes those tunes will always pull you back into a post-romantic fug like a stale pumpkin.  At least I didn't lose a shoe...

In which we may or may not give France a good shoeing

I've been thinking a lot about identity recently; having gone from Londoner, to Euro, to the impending weirdness of some transatlantic California hybrid (see Isadora Watt's Transatlantic Tales on this one, she's got it covered).

In anticipation of the census, the BBC (may god bless her and all that sail in her) are running a series of programmes about British national identity, putting questions to the nation that are far more telling than what religion you practice or what ethnic group box you tick on the form. It's fascinating.

Vanity Fair on the other hand explored the American sense of self this month in its 60 Minutes/Vanity Fair Poll that included interrogative gems such as: 'Which surname would you least like to have - Bin Laden or Hitler' and 'Prince William is tying the knot in April with Kate Middleton. Which of the following best describes your interest in the royal wedding?'.

But where does that leave my true sense of self?  Really, it's a simple sporting litmus test.

Look, I am even being nice, I picked a photo where France have the ball...

For the uninitiated amongst you, here's a flavour of how we Englishmen perceive our relationship with the French. 

That, my friends, is a thousand years of history right there.

So please, do take sides.  Kick off's at 17h London, 18h Paris, 8h Los Angeles. You have no excuse.

I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips,
Straining upon the start. The game's afoot:
Follow your spirit; and, upon this charge
Cry 'God for Harry! England and Saint George!'
Henry V, 3. 1

Come out come out wherever you are

I knew it! They can smell the fear, that's how they got Robo Katie. So this morning, as I was checking the mail, I found myself face to face with this:

Now what do you think when you see this apart from an overwhelming sense of intellectual inferiority and perhaps a tinge of regret regarding your time spent in a frat house? Let's take a closer look:

hmmm Einstein and Ron Hubbard in the same sentence, that could only mean one thing: the delusionals are trying to sell you something! Preying upon feeble weak-minded writers who have written mere words in the past few hours and are dying to know how to use the other 90% of their brain that is apparently going to waste. How did they know where I lived?! For 20 euros you can acquire some CDs on which to waste your already over-strectched mental capacities and when you are really broken, you can just hop off to the Church of Scientology for a free personality test! Let me save you some time Scientologues and be straight with you, this brain harbours a perverted cast of Glee and a slave-soothing Mariah Carey. What that says I don't know but it sure as hell does not make ideal wife material for Tom Cruise...

And just to be clear, the title could be taken to be a Ricky Gervais-esque tongue in cheek jab at certain Scientologists but it's not I assure you, it's a reference to a song from the Wizard of Oz...

Yes, currently that's the level of acting my screenplays are aspiring to...

Not today, no

The only thing happening today is this:

 Whilst it looks very nice, does it really scream fabulous screenplay waiting to happen to you?  I suppose if it was something starring Julie Walters maybe, but in the grand scheme of Hollywood coming to the table with anything less than a hot rod, some violently bastardised ancient Greek myth, and a selection of brassieres I could wear on my head just seems well, weak.

So we are back at the drawing board, literally, drawing doodles on the 'free' paper from my last salaried employment trying to avoid writing a screenplay about a lawyer who meets a gruesome end.  They say write what you know but really, getting sued or jailed is not part of the plan... 

Moving on to Plan Z, a dark romantic comedy set in Paris (cliched, mais non...)  which actually seemed fine when I started planning it out and then I took a break and went and saw the movie 'Sex Friends' and now I am in a world of despair.  It's good, I mean really good, droll even, and quick dynamic, witty; many props to Elizabeth Merriwether who wrote it.  At my wits end, I call up FruitCrate in London.  'Why are you even bothering?' she says, 'It's got Nathalie Portman in it, of course it's going to be good.  You need to start at base level and watch something really crap, like just take anything with Jennifer Aniston in it and go and watch it, then get your ass back to your desk and crank that shit out, why aim for the stars?'  And to think my first screenplay was a drama inspired by The Godfather Trilogy and the greatness of Francis Ford Coppola.  Oh how the not so mighty have fallen...

I was about to say that I think I know what the person who wrote 'Thor' must feel like (a complete and utter sellout) but then as I watched the trailer I realised that Nathalie Portman is in that too.  What?  I know having a kid is an expensive business but really?  Did you trip and bang your head or something or are you going to blame it on the pregnancy hormones?  Because it's a long and slippery slope from Black Swan to this:

Be British, mock marriage

So it's a very auspicious time for the institution of marriage right now as two delectably charming gentlemen - the Hopa and ONW (the One that's Named after a Wine) - have dropped a knee and succumbed to the charms of their future good lady wives.  Unfortunately they now have to suffer the months of dreaded WED-min.  It's a term invented by two accountants I know.  Nuff said.

Boys, behold a sanity check I see before me...

hmmm, mouthwatering fish tacos and margaritas in a tiny restaurant on the first floor overlooking the cathedral in Mexico City; the most sumptuous plate of parma ham I have ever eaten in a trattoria in Cannaregio, Venice; squid fished out of the sea straight onto the boat deck, thrown onto the grill, salt, pepper, lemon juice, whilst watching the sunset over the volcanic Aeolian Islands, Sicily...

Would you mind awfully if I asked you to pass the maple syrup?

So far when I think of the people I'll frequent when I move to California I think of nice, civilsed, cultured, a bit hempy and overly-green individuals (San Francisco I'm looking at you), with a smattering of hot surfer boys thrown in for good measure.  And then I see a thing like this and I am inclined to return my visa.  (I know it took place in Chicopee, MA, but even so, the fact that there are a mere 3000 miles and a shit ton of rednecks between me and this slice of Americana is not reassuring...)

At least this clears up the mystery re who buys the Pajama Jean; if you're going to bitch-slap someone to the ground you sure want to be comfortable...  Anyway, all that remains for me to do is present you with the moral of this tale, for which I will defer to the eternal elegance of my daily source of all breaking global news, Dlisted:   "Give a bitch your maple syrup or the entire Internet world will see your thong."  Indeed.

La Presidente of France: My Plan B

I've been thinking of this for a while now.  I mean, every responsible failed artist needs an alternative career path and really, how hard can it be?  Plus, I think I'm pretty qualified for the job:  looks good in heels, check; can multitask with everything and a cocktail, yes; able to cope with punishing vacation schedule, oui; rockstar shagability, indeed; ability to govern a number of pricks at any one time, affirmative.

Anyway, apart from the incredibly taxing (ah ha ha really, my irony knows no bounds) range of skills listed above, there is also the small matter of looking good whilst tapping a cow's arse to take into consideration and no, I am not talking about Carla Bruni.  Take exhibit A:

Or the old school version, from someone refreshingly not at the cow's eye level:

Thus it was that this Sunday I enrolled myself in pre-Presidential training aka Le Salon de l'agriculture (it's officially got 'international' in the title, but I just can't give that a pass), where a number of mysteries were solved:

- contrary to the urban legend, there are ugly women in Paris, and it seems they are all ring-fenced here

- as a result of the above, this now explains who buys the rainbow eyeshadow colour palettes they sell in Monoprix on the Champs Elysees

- at last Mireille Giuliano I have definitive proof that French Women Do Get Fat so please, go home, and take that bloody book with you

On second thoughts, not many presidential campaigns were won on this level of honesty.  Scratch that, ladies, you all look shit hot:

Oh, and btw, if you were looking for the 'international' element, blink and you'd miss it:

And in case you are still not convinced of my truly excellent credentials for the job, see below:

See, I told you, I'm a natural.

P.S.  Lenny Kravitz, if you're reading this, I think you'd make an excellent first lady.  There's even a music room :)

Piet Mondrian: an exhibition

Piet Mondrian.  Without wanting to denigrate one of the masters of neo-plasticism, let's go ahead shall we?  

Ciné-Club has bust her leg skiing, so this afternoon we decided to avail ourselves of the disability services at the Centre Pompidou and rent a wheelchair.  I know, she's never been in a car with me, that's why.

I'm going to tell you that the architecture section is very interesting, and I have the utmost respect for someone who is said to have influenced architectural legend Mies van der Rohe.  However, based on the way Mondrian meticulously placed his squares in each of his paintings and even throughout his apartment (reproduced for your perusal as part of the exhibition), I'd put money on the fact that this is not the kind of man whose going to bend you over the kitchen table and ravish you. I'm just saying, on Valentine's Day he'll be folding his socks in the corner whilst you prance around the kitchen in your underwear.  Kind of how I imagine having sex with an accountant, which is pretty much what this exhibition felt like.

In which I wrestle with my inner gay man

You see I say that, but really, I only know one gay man that might actually have this dream, and he choreographs the dance routines at EuroDisney, so it's an unfair tarnish on the collective wonderfulness of the gays by imagining that their brains could even produce this shit.  It's just my inner gay man that clearly has an obsession with high-school dance-offs and overweight past it divas.  Which segways nicely into what I dreamt of last night:  Mariah Carey.    I know, and it gets worse:  Mariah Carey singing in a slave drama about a bad white farmer who beats a slave girl who then has a vision of Mariah Carey descending from heaven with a choir to 'sooth' the victim with her music... Googling 'lobotomists London' now...

Oh God I really am going to miss Italy...

Just as Berlusconi's life is going down the toiletta (I can't even get out the smallest violin for that one), let's revel in the fabulousness that is bad Italian television.  They do it so so well.  Note at what points the audience applaud the performance.

Tanti baci to the Silver Lake Gay Mafia for the link.

No no no no no

That's it, I'm going home.  This cannot be happening to me.  Really, it's a deal breaker, I want to divorce my own brain right now.  I just had a dream about Glee.  Yes, that's right, that dancing show that seems to be a quicker route to the comprehension of American culture than the Constitution.  I wouldn't have necessarily been repulsed by a dream about the Super Bowl (team dependent), but this just feels like the CIA infiltrated my brain.  Is this the beginning of the end for The Euro?

P.S. I am writing this to the tunes of Surfer Blood in the hope that it will some how wash away the candy coating on my brain but knowing my fucking luck I'll probably wake up having dreamt of Twilight...

Lesley, Tammy, Renee: please, no 'phone numbers

I want to share with you what we did last night but I am not entirely sure that the symbiosis of The Twinkie, The Yank and The Euro is entirely fit for public consumption. Needless to say at some point in the evening I was sitting nonchalantly sporting a pair of oranges in my bra that gave a very er 1950's curvature to my t-shirt. They were stolen from the fruit-bowl on the bar, which is, I suppose, a step up from a bowel of peanuts on the bar, which would, of course, have been a whole other look.

The photographic evidence will not be making it to a screen anywhere near you soon.

On the potent lure of advertising and why I should not buy a hot rod

A little background folks.  The last time I owned a car I totalled it into a tree somewhere in the region of Nantes.  But with good reason - a teenage tryst, champagne, and sex on the beach - which, I'm sure you'll agree, is a way better justification for trashing your vehicle than 'because I was on my blackberry'... (Los Angeles, I'm looking at you)

Anyways, I hate reason right now:  it's totally fucking with my American dream and I don't like it,  although you can probably understand why my gentleman entourage (note to self, must use this term more often) are strongly against this idea:

It all started when the Americano played me this, the latest commercial for Dodge:

Then I made like a good Angeleno and started surfing for car p$rn. This is always a mistake because, first and foremost, it takes you away from the primary task in hand (writing note on the back of a post-it  an Oscar winner) and secondly, because you realize that actually if you are going to do this country you really ought to do it right (a phrase that is, by design, left open to interpretation...).  It also does you the added disservice that you start judging men on the basis of their vehicles and so, another pillar in your European moral sensibilities falls by the wayside.  Anyway, here are my top five fantasy cars du jour:

1957 Porsche 356 A Convertible

1959 Cadillac Fleetwood

1960 Chevrolet Corvette

1968 Dodge Dart

1968 Chevrolet Corvette

As for the things America does well beyond cars and freedom, answers on a postcard please. I am after all conducting a survey.

Oh and FYI, the Americano has suggested sausage (the foodstuff, not the innuendo).

In which wanna-be Disney fucks with Tuscany

Really, there are no words.  So all I am going to tell you is this.  Some dude, let's call him Dario Sattui as that's what it says in the brochure, decides 30 years ago that Nappa Valley wasn't beautiful enough au naturel and gave it this back-yard Hollywood face-lift in the form of a reproduction Tuscan castle:

which is the countryside equivalent of the face of the Bride of Wildenstein.

Yes, absolutely, I knew you would see the rassemblance.

Anyway, in order to treat this project like the banged out back street whore that it is, they also have a gift shop:

I have no more to say on this matter.