This Is ‘Allo

This week finds me abroad, with only the ‘Best of Blur’ for company. For reasons which I won’t trouble you with, I’m on the French Riviera. And as you might expect, very nice it is too. Or so it seemed. We flew in Sunday (November 5th) to find the locals enjoying a typically English summer’s day complete with little fluffy clouds, warm sea breeze and gormless ice cream guzzling pensioners (albeit ones with considerably better dress sense than their slightly less Gallic Blackpool and Bournemouth-based counterparts).

Anyway, so far so tres chic thinks I – a nice few days away from a drowning Britain is on the cards and is most certainly not to be sneezed at. Some hope. Monday dawns and the merde has really hit the fan.

It’s teeming down with rain. Umbrella sellers are laughing like that toothless Oriental pet shop owner in that online share-dealing advert. Ducks are standing under bus shelters moaning about the weather. Experienced Frenchmen have forgotten how to shrug non-commitally and are sprinting for the last train home. Yannick Noah’s running around terminally confused because he can’t find another Yannick for the ark he swears he’s been told to build. In short, il pleu to the max.

So what are we going to get from le Continental Monsieur Stuart this week,I hear you cry? I bet he’s going to connect all this French malarkey to the weather at home and ramble on about pollution, global warming, excessive car use, the destruction of the environment blah blah blah. I bet there now follows three hundred and fifty words of unworkable left wing tedium on how we should all live in solar powered caves and how the optimum mode of transport is a family sized bright orange space hopper.

Well, maybe there could be, maybe there should be, but thankfully for your coffee break, there won’t be. What would be the point? We’re all soaking wet through and only require some soothing music, a hot towel and a damn good sit down. I’m old and my skin is cold. Besides, as Leonard Nimoy said in The Simpsons, my work here is done.

In a week where Nice airport has been closed due to it now being in the sea, where the ancient inland Roman capital of York is only accessible by boat, where respectable Sunday broadsheets commission weighty articles about the possible onset of a new Ice Age, where even Tony Blair has decided that he might, perhaps, possibly, make the environment, you know – maybe – an electoral issue, why should I further numb my freezing fingers and your saturated brain by adding some more wet nonsense to the
whole Icelandic saga?

Exactly, so I won’t bother. Although honestly I did have a closing paragraph but it got wet in the rain and I lost it. And the dog ate it, Miss. Anyway, in place of those sixty or so
words, why don’t we have some music? And into the sea, goes pretty England and me…