Le Franco Phoney

Tractor doing a wheelie at the start line

Today, I went to a tractor-pulling-stuff competition. Conveniently, it was on the way back from Dijon, where I had been to visit friends. Fellow author and now friend, Francesca, alerted me to the competition here, so off I went, expecting, as she did, flabby men pulling tractors. How wrong we both were! It was actually the tractors that were pulling a heavily-weighted trailer that grew more resistant every second it was being pulled. With front wheels hopping off the ground and a lot of smelly tractor fuel smoke (definitely not nitrous oxide), some of the tractors bellowed down the field, covering us all in a lot of dust, on their way to the finish line, while others puffed to a halt after just a few seconds.

It’s actually a very technical sport: there were ground-wetting vehicles (tractors) and ground-flatteners (also tractors) to keep the course in good shape between each go. Contestants were judged on how fast their tractors were, presuming they reached  the ‘full pull’ (the finish line). Each winning contestant did a wave of victory from their tractor as they returned to the start line. I was lucky enough to be standing near the family of the contestant driving the Rêve Rouge (red dream) tractor, which was red. His first and second runs were great! He had a winning time! As he approached the finish line for the third and final time, his tractor coughed and stopped with a bang. The family, who had been waving and clapping, were now upset and questioning what had happened. Swearing and lots of tutting commenced until they realised he was still the winner in his category with the fastest time. The group consensus was a problem with the radiator. No problems; he was towed away (by a tractor), still able to do his victory wave.

Driver of Rêve Rouge does his victory wave before breaking down

Although this event took place in the Swiss village of Tannay, it could well have been right here in La Clusaz, with a raclette cheese stand, beer tents on each side of the course, and very little else apart from some empty truck trailers which were deliberately used as raised viewing platforms. The event was almost anti-Swiss, with officials letting the public break the rules: I  managed to walk inside the non-public tractor parking lot twice to get to where I wanted, and then across the start line when the competition was over, with an official actually lifting the rope for me to exit while some other tractors were still driving on the course. There were no how-to-pee signs (like this one) in the portable toilets either. Cars parked where they pleased rather than in the large, half-empty field for parking, and to top it all off, I heard Lilly Allen’s F*ck you very much between races, with little kids dancing and bigger kids singing along as if it were a nursery rhyme.

I was chatting with some friends the other day who said they were in the supermarket when an English song started playing on the overhead radio. It wasn’t just any song: it was Lilly Allen’s F*ck you very much. French families and teenagers were wandering around the supermarket while Lilly was singing expletives. Nobody batted an eyelid apart from my English friends who chuckled at the situation. I understand from living here that not all French people speak English, but many do — and very well too, and surely someone at the supermarket’s head office — where the songs are, I presume, chosen and approved — must have seen the song title and realised that even though the swearing is not in French, it’s still not something customers would expect to hear when picking up their cheese and bread.

It reminded me of the time I was in the waiting room of a medical centre in La Clusaz. Music was playing and I listened to various French singers crooning on the radio about l’amour and les oiseaux (because the French always sing about birds). Then a Nirvana song came on. There I was, sitting with little French kids, listening to “Rape Me”. I shouldn’t be surprised, as this seems to be the most popular Nirvana song on that particular radio station and it was inevitable that it came on, but I when I thought about hearing that song in a waiting room in England or Australia, I also imagined the station quickly being switched by the receptionist. Meanwhile, here in La Clusaz, the song was only interrupted by a doctor calling my name.

Yes, this is France and French is the national language. No wonder nobody changed the radio station! But when I try to speak the language, I’m often greeted with frowns or shrugs from those who don’t have any tolerance for my bad French. When I visited the local vet the other day and tried to describe a tube of liquid that my itchy-eared cat, Bruno, needs, the receptionist frowned upon hearing my accent and my inability to remember the name of the product. I guess she figured this was going to be hard work. Her expression seemed to say (in French, of course): “Find another vet.” But before I’d said more than ten words, a kitten ran over her desk and I found myself gushing at how cute it was. She too started gushing like a proud mum, explaining that the cat had been dumped in a bag at the front door and that she thought he colleague would adopt the kitten when she came back from holidays. We had a ten minute chat about the kitten before I finally explained Bruno’s needs. She came back with the right medication and we wished each other a good afternoon before I left.

So, it seems that kittens build bridges between locals and strangers. Thanks Herisson (the kitten’s name — Hedgehog because his fur was spiky). I’m not sure Bruno is all that grateful when he feels the gush of yellow liquid in his ears, but I am at least.

That’s not a spelling mistake. The other night, I went to a meuhriage. Pictured are the bride and groom. Notice anything odd? Yes, that’s a man dressed up as a bride, with black fishnet stockings on, marrying a man in pink glasses. They’re both actually straight.

So what was this all about? I wish I could give you a satisfactory answer to this question, but I’m at a bit of a loss myself, apart from having a great time on the night. I received an invitation to the event, which required us to dress up for a real marriage, from the lovely people at Radio Meuh — a local radio station that plays funky music and is played in shops in La Clusaz and beyond thanks to the wonders of the internet.

The bride is Tedeo. Ted used to DJ at a local club here before hanging out with the Radio Meuh crew. The groom is Arnauld. I’m not actually sure what Arnauld does. Tedeo’s “dad” for the day, Philippe, is the brainchild behind Radio Meuh (no photo I’m afraid — sorry Philppe). I probably should have asked him what the meuhriage was all about, but he was busy DJing while the bride and groom did their thing.

Without hearing it from the horse’s mouth, I can only presume that the Radio Meuh crew figured this would be a good marketing campaign. It worked: a photo of the happy couple made it into Le Dauphine newspaper the following day. However, it wasn’t a real wedding: there were no embarrassing, long-winded speeches by drunk family members, the bride did not fall over, spill food down the white dress or cry at any point of the day, and the music was far too good despite their attempts to cheese it up with typical wedding numbers.

Take a good look at this image below:

What do you see? Let me explain what’s happening. The 14th of July is Bastille Day in France, except it’s only the non-French who call it that. The French call it Fête Nationale, and it normally involves fireworks after dark and some form of entertainment before darkness. Also, the celebrations shown above actually happened on 13th July. Why? I’m not entirely sure, but it seemed appropriate, given that lots of workers were given a four-day weekend. So here we have some locals and some tourists in a little village called Chinaillon, which is just up the road (and part of) le Grand Bornand ski resort, neighbouring La Clusaz. The firemen are dressed in their old outfits and they’re using an old pump to show how firemen used to put out fires. As you can see from the photo, the firemen are actually more intent on spraying the crowd with water, and although they did so countless times, the crowd always replied with a thrill and a cheer. After watching the fire ‘fighters’ and some traditional dancing—including a local dance that showed good men (who knelt to their partners) and bad men (who turned their backs on their partners) to show that people, good and bad, can come together to dance—I headed back towards La Clusaz, and stopped in St. Jean de Sixt to watch some fireworks with some more friends.

Not satisfied with ending the night with a bang, the locals put on a ‘bal’ which traditionally, would have been a ball, but on today’s standards, it was two blokes playing instruments and singing songs such as Macarena and I Will Survive. The advantage of speaking English meant that I knew all the lyrics to these songs, while a French friend asked me about the lyrics to YMCA:

French friend: “What’s that bit say?”

Me: “Young man…”

French friend: “Oh, I’ve always sung ‘Yoplait’.”

Now, who would have thought a dairy product would ever make it into a Village People song? However, she had the last laugh when a song called le Madison came on. Supposedly an American line dancing-style dance, it’s certainly something that never caught on in Australia or the UK while I was there. While my French friend busted the moves at all the right times, the English-speaking crew were left bumping into people and turning in the wrong direction.

Of course, this all happened on Monday night, which meant we did it all over again last night in Annecy—a town that celebrated on the public holiday rather than the night before. Two nights of entertainment for one public holiday. You’ve gotta love the French!

Okay, okay, so it might offend some people to put a drug-wrecked singer, who has probably hacked off his fellow/ex- band members from both Stone Temple Pilots and Velvet Revolver more than most singers, in the same category as someone as creative, innovative and talented as David Bowie. But to be honest, I think Scott Weiland has those same qualities and could be so much greater if he just laid off the drugs. And Bowie certainly has had his fair share in the past anyway. Weiland has sneak-previewed two of tracks from his up-coming second solo album and I just can’t help thinking of David Bowie when I listen to these two songs. I think it’s the combination of melody, chords and production, together with Weiland’s singing style in Paralysis more than in Missing Cleveland, that reminds me of Bowie.

Anyway, I know it’s completely off my usual topics, but it had to be said. Maybe the lovely people at RadioMeuh here in La Clusaz will start playing his stuff…

July 14 — Bastille Day — in France is just like Guy Fawkes day in the UK: it involves a ridiculous amount of fireworks, entertainment for the kids, a variety of home-fireworks-related injuries, and it has something to do with independence from the monarchy.

I headed down to Annecy early and managed to go wakeboarding before the festivities began. While we were on the lake, we saw a windsurfer: a rare sight on the calm Lake Annecy.

Before the fireworks began, the kids (including us big ones) were kept entertained with wandering minstrels playing various household items as drums and rollerbladers in crazy outfits, along with fire-throwing clowns and an Indian band with twinkling costumes. The fireworks were the typical mixture of some really brilliant or pretty explosions slotted in between a range of mediocre ones, which leads me to wonder why anyone bothers with the ‘stocking filler’ standard fireworks when they could just do ten minutes of amazing stuff and save everyone about half an hour of staring at a sky filled with the same old same old.

When the fireworks finished, the ‘party’ began. This mostly involved teenagers trying not to take their eyes out while lighting bangers and other small fireworks in amongst a crowd of people watching a band on the makeshift stage in the park by the lake. I took a photo of the band. They sounded like a German Octoberfest band but they looked far cooler with their green laser lights. They even managed to attract some dolphin balloons along to watch. We went for ice cream instead.

This weekend marked the annual Fete de la Musique — a national day of music in France. I headed down to Annecy with my camera, ready to snap some of the lovely ambiance that’s so much easier to describe with pictures than of words. Alas, my camera battery had run out because I had been taking photos of the moon the night before (pictured – spooky!).

So, here’s a description in words instead. Annecy was packed with locals, tourists, and even a few hens’ nights (complete with sparkly hats/bunnies ears/t-shirts with names on them), and as the sun went down, the party atmosphere increased. There were 22 stages and some wandering minstrels. It was a hot night. I think the ice cream shops were busier than the pubs. My friend and I watched Spanish flamenco dancers dance to a band that really didn’t sound Spanish to me. We saw a teenage group that consisted of:

• a singer/guitarist who had the facial blankness of Marilyn Manson, the hairstyle of Russell Brand and a fair bit of talent on lead guitar and vocals;
• a girl bassist with an amazing voice and no specific ‘look’ apart from slightly nerdy in a bad way;
• a guitarist who wanted to be in a metal band but was not; and,
• the singer’s dad on keyboards — their drum machine.

Despite not having a real drummer and being forced to play music from the dad’s teenage years (‘Stairway to Heaven’ era, apparently), they sounded professional. In fact, they sounded better than the metal band we saw on another stage.  They were alright, but the singer wanted to sing death metal while the others wanted to play hair metal. Not all was lost: four little girls — all under 10 years old — were standing at the side of the stage like groupies, watching the rather cute singer, and two of the girls had a go at headbanging. It was glorious! In fact, they seemed better at headbanging than one of the band members, who recovered his coolness by taking off his t-shirt to appease screaming teenagers in the mosh pit. The fact that a mosh pit was happening in the centre of Annecy was pretty surprising in itself, but hearing girls scream at the sight of a six-pack-hiding-underneath-the-layer-of-flab chest just topped it off.