Go Them Canes!
We're going to the fi-naal...
UPDATE: On Saturday morning Josie interrupted my shower to say the game was on the tele in the hotel breakfast room. She knew the significance of this - I haven't seen a minute of the Super 14 all year. The picture quality was of a quality we could almost say I still haven't. No surprise the Canes got no ball and spent about one and a half minutes in the whole game in the Crusaders half. I picked the result - and ended the season (note please, after not having seen a minute of a game before the final) in the top 5000 out of 140,000 players in the Virtual Super 14. Quite a come back from being something like 79,000th after three rounds.
UPDATE II: Check this out. Third in the highly competitive Russell Brown Public Address virtual super 14 contest - without seeing a game!
If Graham Henry needs any help picking the ABs, just email me here.
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Tuscany
18/05/06 01:56 |
Beautiful
things | Permalink
Stade de France 7.45PM tonight: Before the storm
UPDATE: Damn.
In a couple of weeks the continent will come to a stop. Nothing is more important than global football supremacy. Millions will travel to Germany and most will watch their team leave empty-handed. For all but one, dreams end in despair. Failure is the destiny of the contender.
Tonight, the best clubs in Europe preview the excitement and skill of the World Cup in the Champions League final. The club-level skills may be a little better than the national teams; the clubs pay what it takes to bring together the best in the world.
Tickets can be bought from touts for €2000.
Apparently the city is full of ticketless Arsenal fans. Win or lose, they will be a model of behaviour post-match don't you think?
Maria and Carlo were recruited to the Gunners cause at birth by their uncompromising uncle. They both own Arsenal shirts and there might be a Thierry Henri shirt there too.
Let the cannon sound.
World class
Chap walks into the BBC for his job interview. In IT.
His name is Guy someone and he has a bit of an accent
because he's from the Congo. Receptionist hears the
name 'Guy' and thinks he's the chap named Guy who's
here for a live on air interview. So Guy is trotted
into the studio, and he sits down thinking it's some
kind of strange BBC thing where even the IT people
have to do a screen test.
His face when he realises he's on air is priceless. And then he bravely tries to carry off the interview.
UPDATE: In excellent follow-up journalism, glass-house occupants like the Times (and countless others) pronounce the interviewee was a cabbie. He wasn't
His face when he realises he's on air is priceless. And then he bravely tries to carry off the interview.
UPDATE: In excellent follow-up journalism, glass-house occupants like the Times (and countless others) pronounce the interviewee was a cabbie. He wasn't
Cool Beemer
16/05/06 00:05 |
Beautiful
things | Permalink
Gone but not forgotten
"Got everything?"
"Got the presentation, got the laptop, got the tickets, got the camera, got the iPod. Yep, got everything."
"Got your passport?"
"Oh. Shit!!!"
And so Josie left for ten days. Free at last.
We stood at the windows and waved goodbye as she passed on the street below. Then the kids ate dinner sweetly and bathed obediently and went off to bed like little lambs. If it stays like this I could get used to it."
So look for frequent blog updates. Because you know talking to the computer is almost like talking to real live grown ups.
Saveurs
On Friday afternoon I went with a friend to Saveurs,
a gourmet food expo, where tiny independent producers
show off their stuff in a converted underground car
park in our Porte de Champerret neighbourhood.
It takes a while to get past the stands vending aged cheeses, exotic salami, fois gras, wine, spices, breads, sweets, preserves.
The scent of the place makes you stand still and just breathe.
We got merry sampling wine from small ancient producers. I bought a case of light and breezy champagne and a very expensive bottle of sizzling buttery armagnac. Then there was a mixed case from a part of bordeaux claiming to be the best white wine in the world.
The top end whites are not as sensational on the tongue as a New World wine, but the after-taste lingers and seduces dreamily like no wine I have ever been able to afford before. I asked about the wines as if I knew anything and a saleswoman, pouring me a glass of Château Margaux, sternly wagged her finger at me: "No. We do not like it when you talk about the grape. We only talk about the soil!". Anyone can sell the grape; only they can sell the soil. (Margaux is one of the 'first growth' old chateaux of Bordeaux, like Lafite-Rothschild, by the way. Just, you know, to let you know how I spend my Fridays).
I bought a huge piece of old Beaufort cheese. It's like a dryer, more complex gruyere-parmsean cross, tasting like pineapple.
And there was an exquisite bottle of Morrocan massage oil.
French olive oils are more specialised than Spanish, Italian and Greek. The common flavour is a bit too young, fresh and nutty for me, and I tried enough to get a good feel for the range. I found a very small outlet with a nutty, darkly flavoured, not so green oil that just begs to have fresh baguette dipped in it.
On Saturday Josie and I went back. We must have spent half an hour at the spice place. Quite expensive - about €5 for a tiny 25gm packet of fresh pepper. But oh that pepper. Add some of that, some fresh sea salt and fresh nutty olive oil to an A-grade spaghetti and you have possibly the most delicious flavour combination ever invented and that's including dishes with bacon. This is what was meant when salt and pepper were pioneered. That stale, tasteless pepper we are used to is as different to real pepper as a baguette to a piece of cardboard. The spice girls also sent us packing with varieties of tea I've never dreamt of...chocolate, something with blue flowers smelling like heaven, none of it 'flavoured' tea leaves but proper tea made from wild tea leaves.
There were lunch tables serving oysters and cognac. There was a cheese place that set out dozens of small wooden boxes, each holding a few dozen neatly stacked pieces of the oldest, crustiest, mouldiest cheese, rows and rows of and rows of variety, all hand made and stacked into a rustic visual feast.
New Zealand farmers compete to make the heaviest lambs for the cheapest price. French farmers compete to make the tastiest. I sampled a morsel of lamb with the texture of frois gras.
There were pestos so heavy on garlic they tasted like snails. There were salamis made with fennel, and salamis made without fat so they tasted like meaty, smokier pieces of parma ham.
We brought home biscotti rich with multiple sweet flavours and delicate spices.
The midget thyme and sage plants in the entrance hallway were pungent enough to scent the whole flat in an hour.
Your taste buds come alive in these places, the juices flow.
It takes a while to get past the stands vending aged cheeses, exotic salami, fois gras, wine, spices, breads, sweets, preserves.
The scent of the place makes you stand still and just breathe.
We got merry sampling wine from small ancient producers. I bought a case of light and breezy champagne and a very expensive bottle of sizzling buttery armagnac. Then there was a mixed case from a part of bordeaux claiming to be the best white wine in the world.
The top end whites are not as sensational on the tongue as a New World wine, but the after-taste lingers and seduces dreamily like no wine I have ever been able to afford before. I asked about the wines as if I knew anything and a saleswoman, pouring me a glass of Château Margaux, sternly wagged her finger at me: "No. We do not like it when you talk about the grape. We only talk about the soil!". Anyone can sell the grape; only they can sell the soil. (Margaux is one of the 'first growth' old chateaux of Bordeaux, like Lafite-Rothschild, by the way. Just, you know, to let you know how I spend my Fridays).
I bought a huge piece of old Beaufort cheese. It's like a dryer, more complex gruyere-parmsean cross, tasting like pineapple.
And there was an exquisite bottle of Morrocan massage oil.
French olive oils are more specialised than Spanish, Italian and Greek. The common flavour is a bit too young, fresh and nutty for me, and I tried enough to get a good feel for the range. I found a very small outlet with a nutty, darkly flavoured, not so green oil that just begs to have fresh baguette dipped in it.
On Saturday Josie and I went back. We must have spent half an hour at the spice place. Quite expensive - about €5 for a tiny 25gm packet of fresh pepper. But oh that pepper. Add some of that, some fresh sea salt and fresh nutty olive oil to an A-grade spaghetti and you have possibly the most delicious flavour combination ever invented and that's including dishes with bacon. This is what was meant when salt and pepper were pioneered. That stale, tasteless pepper we are used to is as different to real pepper as a baguette to a piece of cardboard. The spice girls also sent us packing with varieties of tea I've never dreamt of...chocolate, something with blue flowers smelling like heaven, none of it 'flavoured' tea leaves but proper tea made from wild tea leaves.
There were lunch tables serving oysters and cognac. There was a cheese place that set out dozens of small wooden boxes, each holding a few dozen neatly stacked pieces of the oldest, crustiest, mouldiest cheese, rows and rows of and rows of variety, all hand made and stacked into a rustic visual feast.
New Zealand farmers compete to make the heaviest lambs for the cheapest price. French farmers compete to make the tastiest. I sampled a morsel of lamb with the texture of frois gras.
There were pestos so heavy on garlic they tasted like snails. There were salamis made with fennel, and salamis made without fat so they tasted like meaty, smokier pieces of parma ham.
We brought home biscotti rich with multiple sweet flavours and delicate spices.
The midget thyme and sage plants in the entrance hallway were pungent enough to scent the whole flat in an hour.
Your taste buds come alive in these places, the juices flow.
Father Ted
On Wednesday night we went to La Java, to see Ardal
O'Hanlon, who apparently starred in the sitcom
Father Ted, not that I ever watched it.
The venue is a smokey, groovy little underground jazz bar where to get in we walked past old men sitting around smoking from big hukka pipes, those big bongs that emit clouds of steam and they take an individual hose from a large shared bowl. Ick.
Inside we sat at tables and sipped drinks beneath the low ceiling and the faded belle epoque décor
We sat and giggled for an hour or so. Not side-splitting. The act was too messy. It felt like he hadn't really written show, but just penned a series of gags. He began by asking a woman in the front row what she did in Paris and she told him she's an opera singer. "Go on then, give us a tune," and he handed her the mike. "I don't need a microphone," she declined sweetly. Strike one to the diva. Then she stood up, drew breath and emitted a strong, room-filling perfect note, completely upstaging the comic.
Ardal has fantastic timing and he is funny, though he takes no risks. There is no edge, he's not vulnerable, can't riff. As Josie said, laughing is such a basic human need and it's so rare to just go and laugh for a night.
His last joke of the night: "The hardest part of learning to roller blade is telling your parents you're gay."
The venue is a smokey, groovy little underground jazz bar where to get in we walked past old men sitting around smoking from big hukka pipes, those big bongs that emit clouds of steam and they take an individual hose from a large shared bowl. Ick.
Inside we sat at tables and sipped drinks beneath the low ceiling and the faded belle epoque décor
We sat and giggled for an hour or so. Not side-splitting. The act was too messy. It felt like he hadn't really written show, but just penned a series of gags. He began by asking a woman in the front row what she did in Paris and she told him she's an opera singer. "Go on then, give us a tune," and he handed her the mike. "I don't need a microphone," she declined sweetly. Strike one to the diva. Then she stood up, drew breath and emitted a strong, room-filling perfect note, completely upstaging the comic.
Ardal has fantastic timing and he is funny, though he takes no risks. There is no edge, he's not vulnerable, can't riff. As Josie said, laughing is such a basic human need and it's so rare to just go and laugh for a night.
His last joke of the night: "The hardest part of learning to roller blade is telling your parents you're gay."
Property
We thought it would be nice to think about buying a
flat here. We could rent it out when we went back and
then in our dotage have a little place to come back
to in retirement for a while, which we could then
sell and have a little retirement pot. Seemed like a
good idea.
Then we went out researched the market. Ouch.
Right off the bat the notary takes up to eight percent just for doing the title search and transfers. So that's NZ$80,000 on a €500,000 flat, and that's about the cost of a tiny two bedroom thing round here.
Mortgage repayments are roughly twice the current market rents. Once you have a tenant in, you more or less can't put up the rent until they leave, nor can you make them leave unless you sell.
So thinking about the economics of that. Hardly anyone moves, meaning the number of available apartments is minimal and that keeps sale prices high, so high they massively exceed the yield. If the financing cost of a property far exceeds its potential return, then prices must be due to fall. Only the distortion is keeping prices up. That and Americans who put their money in here as a hidey-hole against the falling greenback. It's still cheaper to buy a place if you are going to live in it over the full period of the mortgage. If you buy a place and then rent it out, rental income exceeds the interest over the life of the mortgage but we would have to foot most of the capital repayments. We would get the capital back when the place was re-sold in say 25 years, but that would be a lot of cash gone west in the meantime with a slim return for the use of money and the risk (the risk that prices might fall).
So there goes that dream.
Then we went out researched the market. Ouch.
Right off the bat the notary takes up to eight percent just for doing the title search and transfers. So that's NZ$80,000 on a €500,000 flat, and that's about the cost of a tiny two bedroom thing round here.
Mortgage repayments are roughly twice the current market rents. Once you have a tenant in, you more or less can't put up the rent until they leave, nor can you make them leave unless you sell.
So thinking about the economics of that. Hardly anyone moves, meaning the number of available apartments is minimal and that keeps sale prices high, so high they massively exceed the yield. If the financing cost of a property far exceeds its potential return, then prices must be due to fall. Only the distortion is keeping prices up. That and Americans who put their money in here as a hidey-hole against the falling greenback. It's still cheaper to buy a place if you are going to live in it over the full period of the mortgage. If you buy a place and then rent it out, rental income exceeds the interest over the life of the mortgage but we would have to foot most of the capital repayments. We would get the capital back when the place was re-sold in say 25 years, but that would be a lot of cash gone west in the meantime with a slim return for the use of money and the risk (the risk that prices might fall).
So there goes that dream.
We're all fourmi
Carlo's language has suddenly developed. No longer
content to refer to himself in the third person
(Carlo come here! "No. Carlo cooking.") he moved to
the second. ("You carry you.")
Now he has begun to tell long, complicated stories. Unfortunately, no one can understand them.
Speaking to Joey on the phone he launched into a long, emphatic rave before farewelling his brother and passing the handpiece back to me.
"Carlo's talking gibberish," Joey observed.
Getting ready for bed that night I sweetly told him, 'I can't understand a word you're saying."
He giggled at me. "Carlo's English! Carlo Anglaise!" he laughed.
This is why no one understands him in his view. Some of his speech may be a stab at speech. He has already developed that difficult, smoky 'r'. He seems to follow the videos expertly and understand his teachers who speak only French.
Maria saw an ant and said, "Eww yuck, fourmi!"
"What is it, Maria?"
"Umm, I don't know what it's called in English."
Now he has begun to tell long, complicated stories. Unfortunately, no one can understand them.
Speaking to Joey on the phone he launched into a long, emphatic rave before farewelling his brother and passing the handpiece back to me.
"Carlo's talking gibberish," Joey observed.
Getting ready for bed that night I sweetly told him, 'I can't understand a word you're saying."
He giggled at me. "Carlo's English! Carlo Anglaise!" he laughed.
This is why no one understands him in his view. Some of his speech may be a stab at speech. He has already developed that difficult, smoky 'r'. He seems to follow the videos expertly and understand his teachers who speak only French.
Maria saw an ant and said, "Eww yuck, fourmi!"
"What is it, Maria?"
"Umm, I don't know what it's called in English."
Rules for living in France (#415 in an ongoing
series)
Russian posters
05/05/06 19:12 |
Beautiful
things | Permalink
When Josie went to Finland last year she found these
mega-hip, ultra-retro Soviet realist mini posters.
More here.
More here.
This is how to sell an iPod.
I know you don't care. But I'm fascinated and it's my
blog. (Managing this stuff on a micro scale is partly
how I make my living anyway).
Anyway, I posted last month about the new Apple ads. The focus of them was the huge number of songs you get on an iPod. That missed the point - the iPod works because of the enjoyment of the songs, not the number of them. It's the enjoyment you want to buy.
So I see Apple has changed out the ad. This one is groovy. Possibly it's perfect.
Anyway, I posted last month about the new Apple ads. The focus of them was the huge number of songs you get on an iPod. That missed the point - the iPod works because of the enjoyment of the songs, not the number of them. It's the enjoyment you want to buy.
So I see Apple has changed out the ad. This one is groovy. Possibly it's perfect.
Nerd corner
I'm posting this at 1.02.03 on 4/5/06.
Slightly disappointed the counter doesn't quite display that way. And I'm glad I'm not American and I would have missed the date altogether because it would be in June.
Wonder if I'll be round to blog it again next time that this time and date come around - in one hundred years.
Meanwhile in June I promise to post at 06.06.06 on 6/6/06
Because I can...
Slightly disappointed the counter doesn't quite display that way. And I'm glad I'm not American and I would have missed the date altogether because it would be in June.
Wonder if I'll be round to blog it again next time that this time and date come around - in one hundred years.
Meanwhile in June I promise to post at 06.06.06 on 6/6/06
Because I can...
Dinner
On Friday visitors Trish and John from NZ took us to
dinner. They're regular Paris hands with a few
contacts here, so they rang around to get advice on
the most highly recommended brasserie to take us to.
It was to be a surprise.
It turned out to be Brasserie Balzar. They were slightly disappointed we had already been there. It's famous. A review in the Guardian the other day said it was modern in that it has a website where you can book online and traditional in that when you arrive they have no record of the booking.
Adam Gopnick wrote about it in Paris To The Moon. He described it as the most definitive, best brasserie in the world and described a very French confrontation when a new owner bought it. Customers plotted with waiters to organise a protest.
It isn't the best brasserie in the world, though it may be the most perfectly typical. The menu is onion soup, steak tartare, duck, steak bernaise, chicken and chips, profiteroles, crème brûlée and every other cliché of Paris brasserie dining. The décor is wicker chairs, mirrors and dark wood with pretty chandaliers, the waiters (les garçons) wear black aprons over white shirts, the tables aren't big enough...It was all a bit ordinary and I think Trish and John were a bit disappointed.
On Sunday we set out again, this time to find some funky bars. I did something I haven't done before - I researched some options. So for once instead of aimlessly wandering around the Marais and ending up somewhere sad, we discovered three of the best bars I've been to in Paris.
Art Brut at 78, rue Quincampoix (3eme arrondissment) is described as "Déco à la "Têtes Raides". Whatever that means. It is funky, small, just the right noise and feel. Very cheap.
A bit further down the same rue, Le Troisième Lieu at 62, rue Quincampoix (4e) looked promising. When we got there a sign said tonight they were having electronic headphone karaoke so we didn't go in.
Instead we headed down the Marais, going completely the wrong way for a while because I misread the address, but eventually found ourselves at a place described by some - including the Economist magazine (and economists know stuff mang) -- as 'one of the best bars in the world': The Lizard Lounge 18, rue du Bourg-Tibourg (4e). The crowd was spilling out the door so we didn't go in. Looks funky though. 'Stead we went a few doors down to La Coude Fou, 'the crazy elbow'. It was outstanding. Brilliant decoration - big murals, Frenchy light fittings, not too smart, cool noisy, good menu. And reasonable. I think it cost about €100 for the four of us to eat and drink a couple of bottles of very good Bordeaux. The waiters don't dress in those French waiter uniforms. Just good atmos, and fun to be in. One of those memorable dinners you don't forget.
Now I have researched I have so many more bars to see. We may never leave.
It turned out to be Brasserie Balzar. They were slightly disappointed we had already been there. It's famous. A review in the Guardian the other day said it was modern in that it has a website where you can book online and traditional in that when you arrive they have no record of the booking.
Adam Gopnick wrote about it in Paris To The Moon. He described it as the most definitive, best brasserie in the world and described a very French confrontation when a new owner bought it. Customers plotted with waiters to organise a protest.
It isn't the best brasserie in the world, though it may be the most perfectly typical. The menu is onion soup, steak tartare, duck, steak bernaise, chicken and chips, profiteroles, crème brûlée and every other cliché of Paris brasserie dining. The décor is wicker chairs, mirrors and dark wood with pretty chandaliers, the waiters (les garçons) wear black aprons over white shirts, the tables aren't big enough...It was all a bit ordinary and I think Trish and John were a bit disappointed.
On Sunday we set out again, this time to find some funky bars. I did something I haven't done before - I researched some options. So for once instead of aimlessly wandering around the Marais and ending up somewhere sad, we discovered three of the best bars I've been to in Paris.
Art Brut at 78, rue Quincampoix (3eme arrondissment) is described as "Déco à la "Têtes Raides". Whatever that means. It is funky, small, just the right noise and feel. Very cheap.
A bit further down the same rue, Le Troisième Lieu at 62, rue Quincampoix (4e) looked promising. When we got there a sign said tonight they were having electronic headphone karaoke so we didn't go in.
Instead we headed down the Marais, going completely the wrong way for a while because I misread the address, but eventually found ourselves at a place described by some - including the Economist magazine (and economists know stuff mang) -- as 'one of the best bars in the world': The Lizard Lounge 18, rue du Bourg-Tibourg (4e). The crowd was spilling out the door so we didn't go in. Looks funky though. 'Stead we went a few doors down to La Coude Fou, 'the crazy elbow'. It was outstanding. Brilliant decoration - big murals, Frenchy light fittings, not too smart, cool noisy, good menu. And reasonable. I think it cost about €100 for the four of us to eat and drink a couple of bottles of very good Bordeaux. The waiters don't dress in those French waiter uniforms. Just good atmos, and fun to be in. One of those memorable dinners you don't forget.
Now I have researched I have so many more bars to see. We may never leave.
Why Mac owners are so smug
If you surf the Interwebs on a PC, view this and weep.
Did I mention Mac's don't get viruses?
It's possible, of course. It's just that it has never happened.
Oh what the hell, check them all out.
Did I mention Mac's don't get viruses?
It's possible, of course. It's just that it has never happened.
Oh what the hell, check them all out.