It is now almost exactly six years since I left Paris, after three memorable, often crazy years - where I, along with a combination of like-minded individuals, deluded romantics and idiot-geniuses contrived to have as much fun as possible on £3000 of British Student Loan.

So much has changed since then, but I still feel a pervading sense of nostalgia for a place I once called home.

When I finally left Paris in 2002, it felt that it was the right time to go, but ever since i have wondered how I would feel to return. I have so many memories tied up in places, people and music from my time there, that I am somewhat caught between excitement and fear at my impending return.

I should get some good writing out of it.

Next week i'm back there for a few weeks, doing some editing work for this erstwhile magazine.

If you're around and want to catch up then give me a bell.

I hear The Bowler still does a good pub quiz.

Chris

You would think that by your mid-20s, you would have had enough life experience to both manage and/or end relationships without resorting to euphemism or cliché.

The top five euphemisms that have been used on me are…

“Its not you its me” (well, obviously)

“I need to discover myself” (That wont take long. You are quite dull.)

“I need stability in my life” (So you are wrecking the one bit of stability you have?).

“You are really special to me”(So special, in fact, that you are doing this to me in public?).

“I think we should see other people” (I am…)

I think the worst part of breaking up is that it usually happens when you least expect it to. You meet for a drink, she is nice to you, normally complements on your hair or clothes and then BAMM moves in for the kill. There follows an awkward silence and then the inevitable moment when she cries. This is not for your benefit. It is a carefully stage-managed thing that women do to dispel any rumours that she is being a heartless cow. Then you sit, make small talk and you bumble on about nothing.

Some men choose to storm out in a theatrical manner. Some men chat up the barmaid or text their pretty female friends for hugs and sympathy (‘cos you know that’ll piss her off). Me? I choose the dignified option: introspection and Brown Ale. The worst possible time to be broken up with is just after a trip to the bar, because you have to sit and mull over all of the pain together until you have drunk up and can go your separate ways…

An Ipod is a useful weapon at this point. When she heads to the bathroom for tissues you can delve back into your favourite albums to offset the tears. Unless of course you were listening to The Smiths on your way to this rendezvous only to pick things up halfway through Morrissey crooning “I Know It’s Over”. You feel a salty taste in the back of your mouth and so hastily head to the bar.

You go through a myriad of emotions over the subsequent hours. Pain, hurt, anger, depression. You question how it has got to this stage? Is it something I said? Was it something I cooked? Is there someone else involved?

Until you finally reach acceptance, attempt to be positive and delve into the World of literature…

The concluding part of The Dolls House would be so much better if instead of falling to his knees and begging Nora to stay Torvald went, “actually…fuck her. Now I can watch Match of the Day in peace and put a dartboard in the spare room”. Ibsen was missing a trick there. The final act could end with him posting an advert on Gumtree,

“WANTED. Nubile flatmate. Preferably in blonde. No tarantella dancers please”.

Chris

I am now officially a professional writer.

I am open to interesting offers of writing work as well as translation (English, French, Spanish), proof reading and copy editing. As people closer to me will know this is a decision that I have been wrestling with for a short while, and is a big step into the unknown. However making a living out of what I love doing is a tantalising prospect!

If all else fails, I should get a decent book out of it!

Provisional title: Memoirs of a Pauper

So if you are interested in working with me, please email me here and we can discuss it further. My rates are negotiable and will vary from project to project. As I am making a living out of this I have to assess proposals on a cost/benefit basis however I will give every offer my due consideration.

Cheers

Chris

It seems that you cannot pick up a newspaper or watch the news without encountering an item on immigration. If the proclamations of doom springing from the pages of the Daily Mail are to be believed the The British Isles, so overburdened by the weight of illegal immigrants, will soon flip on its axis and capsize - leaving millions of Brits clinging to bits of garden furniture and desperately trying to make it to the safe haven of France.

That's assuming that the French let them in of course...

Reflecting on this over a quiet pint in my local pub, my attention was drawn by a rather plump, obnoxious woman in (possibly) her late 30s. From the way she was dressed I would assume she would be on a reasonable income, but the idiotic things she was coming out with just go to prove that intelligence and financial security are not inextricably linked. I was so amazed by her rant, I took it upon myself to transcribe it for posterity.

"I don't think these immigrants should be allowed to come over here. I mean many of them do not speak no good English. They come over here, take our jobs. This is our country, this is our language and they should be prepared for that. And I don't care if they are escaping torture, they were born there and should stay where they are. I pay my taxes to help British people, not scrounging asylum seekers"

A few minutes later she piped up again. By now the conversation had turned to buying property in Spain (yes it wouldn't be Britain without talking about house prices). "I'd like to live there" proffered our portly commentator, "but they would have to speak English because I wouldn't want to have to learn Spanish".

Thankfully they were so engaged in conversation, they didn't notice the smug-looking man in the corner writing all this down and smirking into his Guinness.

I recall reading some years back that male sex drive, testosterone and fertility rise at times where a man's sports teams are doing well. So, whilst the Favelas in Rio become even more overcrowded after another Brazilian masterclass, by the year 2100, should trends continue, the population of the British Isles will be around 27. Watching the Rugby in the pub tonight I will bite my nails down to their wick, shout myself hoarse and should we win will walk around with a huge grin on my face. However as the clock ticks around to eight o'clock, I am filled with a deep sense of foreboding and cynicism, angst and a general malaise. A condition symptomatic of any seasoned, patriotic Englishman.

I just know, in the great English tradition, that they will f- it up and grab defeat from the jaws of victory.

Tis the English way.

Ah, but what about 2003 people will say. We did Australia in their own backyard. But in the same way that we toasted the 2005 Ashes success, we knew that it was a unique occurence the moment the first ball left Harminson's hand a couple of years later. The English football team messing up in Russia last Wednesday would have riled me more if it had not been oh so predictable. Just at the point you think you can relax and believe in an England team they mess up. It could be worse, and some people say that the English have an overblown sense of their own significance on the World stage. But it is not the losing per se that riles me but the manner in which we lose. An Englishman will invest so much emotional currency in the cause only to be let down. English sporting teams are prick-teasers. You take an interest in them, buy them drinks, subscribe to their inane chatter but when it comes down to the crucial moment they disappear off into the night and leave you to get a taxi home alone.

I was idealistic once, but I think that died when Chris Waddle skied the ball into the balmy Turin night in Italia '90. Two years later, when England were knocked out of Euro '92 by Sweden (the late Brian Moores' commentary 'Brolin...Dahlin...Brolin...oh yes!' still makes me angry fifteen years on). After that match I went to my bedroom and tore down all my England posters. My cynicism that year was reflected in my trick or treat costume.

I went as Graham Taylor.

But England's underperformance continued unabated in the classic fashion. Tabloid logic prevailed. England did not fail to qualify at the next World Cup because of their own ineptitude but by that of a referee in Rotterdam. I wonder if this is a traditional English approach throughout history? After the massacre at the Battle of the Somme, for example, instead of blaming Haig's incompetent strategy was it more a question of the Germans not playing fair with their machine guns?. The next European and World Championsips came around and with every disappointment my optimism was further skewered.

In many ways I crave the innocence that I had as a child. When I cried when England were knocked out of Italia '90 the hot, fat tears that rolled down my 9 year old cheeks were pure and genuine. Like when your first love leaves you for a mate, your emotions flow freely. You have never felt such pain before and have no point of reference to fall back on. When it happens again, you are upset, but in your more cynical mindset you put it down to experience, possibly go out and get drunk and start all over again...

The line between sport and love is an ambiguous one, as in many ways they are each a metaphor for one another.

Come on England, make me believe again.

Chris

Coincidence is a funny thing, and I found it particularly apt that on the tenth anniversary of the death of Princess Diana, I was proof reading a philosophy paper entitled “Life after Breath”. Whilst the paper in question appraised Wittgenstein and posthumous interpretations of Nefertiti, it could have equally looked at the image of Diana – that most iconic of late twentieth century figures.

I in no way claim to be a Royalist, and hold those who fawn uncritically over the monarchy in a kind of pitiful disdain – around the same level as Reality TV aficionados and those who consume their parochial, bitter, hate-infused World view verbatim from the pages of The Daily Mail. I do, however, concede that Diana did some sterling work in bringing the causes of HIV/Aids and landmines to the attention of the wider World. Like many thousands of unsung people do. Furthermore, I recognise that her death was a tragedy – as is that of any single mother having suffered from demons, depression and who embarked naively into an unloving relationship. I am sure many others suffer an analogous fate each and every year, but we do not hear so much of these tragedies as they are relegated to a tiny column on page twenty or the tenth item on a local news programme.

It would be interesting to discover how many of those so enamoured with the ‘Diana myth’ a decade on disapproved when pictures of Diana ‘cavorting’ with Dodi Fayed were splashed across newsstands in the summer of 1997. And how many rubbed their hands in salubrious glee at seeing the pictures that adorned the front page of The Sun newspaper up until the day she died? Lets make no bones about it, in certain media circles there was coverage bordering on distasteful, closeted racism – consternation that the mother of a future king might be seeing a man of Arabic extraction.

But the moment that she died, with a Stalinist sweep, history was revised and theirs became the most tragic love story since Romeo and Juliet. From tabloid fodder, Diana became ‘The Queen of Hearts’, ‘The People’s Princess’ and the inspiration for a thousand more sycophantic sobriquets.

This in turn fuels the Diana industry. A quick look at Ebay heralds a load of Diana-related merchandise, from plates and books to dolls and (bizarrely) phone-cards. What’s more there seems to be no stopping the Diana-brand cash cow. Meanwhile aides, pallbearers and former confidants fill their boots off the back of her untimely demise. It is distasteful and disrespectful, but morality falls by the wayside when you have newspapers to sell and books to promote. In the case of The Daily Express it is an editorial decision to promote every Diana non-story and tenuous conspiracy theory to the front cover of the paper. But the drones lap it up like the lobotomised cattle they are.

Much has and will be written about how Diana’s death changed British society and, no doubt, many of the commemorative pullouts will gush of ‘our grief’, ‘our loss’ and the ‘the pain we all felt’. I objected to this presumptive, facile breast-beating in 1997 and find it equally offensive a decade on. Yes, Diana’s death was a tragedy for her family. And in years to come our kids might ask where we were when it happened, in much the same vein as we might ask our parents where they were when JFK was shot, or Neil Armstrong stepped onto the Moon. But the media reaction to Diana’s death spawned a monster that continues to rear its head and louse up a populous of gullible, emotionally-stunted retards that feel it necessary to react to every unfortunate event with a myriad of minute silences, crocodile tears and fatuous expressions of ‘their collective grief’.

Yet, loathed be the person who questions the intellectual premise of ‘the mob’. We have seen this recently with the blanket coverage of the abduction of Madeline McCann. Yes, it is a tragedy that a small child was abducted whilst on holiday, but the media reaction has been disgustingly disproportionate to the event. I wonder how many children in the Third World have died from preventable diseases in the months since the little Western girl went missing? But wait, isn't that what charity wristbands are for?

Now Diana, that was a real tragedy...

The Three Ages of Blair (Minifig)

In contrast to the situation in Iraq, Blair has been able to organise a well managed exit strategy. With a week to go before he leaves office, you can read my assessment of his time in power here.

I welcome your comments...