Pagani in Paris

It's really hot.



Even at midnight it's hot.

We'll be home next week for a few days. Auckland looks cooler.

Her eyes twinkling, Maria whispers in Carlo's ear. Carlo looks up at me with a big grin and says "Daddy you've got a big butt!"

They explode with glee. Carlo repeats his witticism and they giggle uproariously.

"You've got a BIG BUTT Daddy!" Carlo confirms. Hilarious.

They cackle like mad things, their little tummies bubbling with mirth.

"Say it again!"

"Daddy's got Big Butt! Ha ha ha ha hahahaha."

And on it goes over and over. Each repetition is rapturously received by its tellers. It's a line that never loses its freshness. Apparently. They can't stop their faces splitting in giggle fits. Ha ha ha ha ha.

After a hundred re-tellings their fickle minds drift to other stuff. Maria frowns and looks at me.

"Daddy, what's a butt?"

We started this blog when we arrived in Paris in January 2005. We're still going.

Compare that to other blogs in this survey:

Two thirds were not updated in the last two months, meaning 2.72 million blogs have been either permanently or temporarily abandoned.

1.09 million blogs were one-day wonders, with no postings on subsequent days.

The average duration of the remaining 1.63 million abandoned blogs was 126 days (almost four months).

132,000 blogs were abandoned after being maintained a year or more.

So don't be saying we never call, we never write, not even a card, just because I might take an afternoon off now and then in the hot sun.

One of my favourite comms blogs has picked up the story about the National Party's 'making National cool' powerpoint.

Whoever thought it was possible to make a major political party 'cool' should be starring at amateur hour anyway. Name one cool major party, in any country.

Tony Blair's NewLabour came closest. But its effectiveness was in making Labour friendly, responsible, relevant and predictable. The Cool Brittania part of the campaign flopped.

Worrying about 'coolness' analyses the wrong problem.

Honestly, National must make more political communications gaffes than any party I've ever seen. I know I'm a pot calling the kettle black here but National don't seem to be capable of analysing their glaring problems. Not that it's easy to do that in a democratic party.

The enigma of Nikolas Sarkozy seems to deepen every week. He has retaken the opinion poll lead and he is publishing a book - a manifesto really -- to fuel his campaign to succeed the fatuous degenerate Jaques Chirac as President of the Republic.

You can see Sarkozy's political gifts at work here. He says wants to attend to

an economic culture that penalises work; the failed integration of African and Arab immigrants; and a dysfunctional system of government.

All real problems, issues that desperately need to be dealt with and issues where the political establishment has failed badly.

In the last 20 years, he writes, France has plunged from sixth to 17th place in the country rankings of GDP per inhabitant; social expenditure has shot from 20 to 33 percent of output; unemployment is stuck at near 10 percent; and more than half of workers earn less than EUR 1,500 (1,885 dollars) a month.

He will be strongly attacked for saying this, which will suit him because his criticism is true and everyone knows it is. But he glosses lightly over the solutions, almost all of which he either cowers from or, as articulated by him (but probably never to be practiced), would make most of the problems demonstrably worse.

It's a stunning political inversion though to see him described as a right-winger because he believes in affirmative action:

he again praises the US system of "affirmative action" - which he says has allowed millions of black and Hispanic Americans to enter the middle-class. "Positive discrimination is an experience that could inspire us," Sarkozy writes.

In France, the left champions 'equality'. The principle is deeply embedded in the political culture - and in France it means in practice that you treat everyone the same. So, for example, you teach all 10 year olds in France the same maths class at 10AM Monday regardless of their ability because it is unfair and unequal to treat some kids differently to others (okay they don't still quite do that, but it's close enough). The left position in France is actually the Don Brash position in New Zealand. It sits impossibly alongside diversity.

Sarkozy however is a hypocrite. "I abhor racism. I detest xenophobia. I believe in the strength and richness of diversity. I love the idea of a France of many faces," he says. Yes, he loves the many faces so much he banned headscarves in schools to get a better looks at them.

Yup it's been hot this week.

So hot that it felt like a small relief today when the temperature topped out at 30. The evening peak at 37°C was brutal and with temperatures not going below 25°C before midnight the kids have trouble getting to sleep.



The best anti-heat device ever: the Evian spray can. A fine mist of pure water directly on your face, it's sensuous as well as cooling. (And it probably has a built in manufacturer's resale programme with all the hydro-carbon aerosol pumps into the atmosphere.)

We're sucking up Evian like it was umm tap water. The kids take 'swimming pool baths' in cool water a couple of times a day. The wind rattles through the apartment because we've flung open every window to cool down. It's tough to get work done because the heat saps our energy. At creche Carlo runs around with his shirt off and kids have their heads doused in cold water regularly.

Those with apartments that don't cool are suffering. In many it soars over 40 every day. People faint in the streets. Possibly that's only when they see my pale white legs emerge from hibernation.

Maria has been playing around with my new MacBook and took some great photos of her self.

Check out the slideshow here.

As a discarded very small-time smart-arse lefty pundit one looks with the deepest envy and admiration in the direction of the king of all smart-arse lefty-pundits, the smartest least discarded of all: Michael Kinsley.

Last week he had brain surgery.

Imagine having the grace and wit to make your 'first words' on coming round from brain surgery:

"Well, of course, when you cut taxes, government revenues go up. Why couldn't I see that before?"

Haw haw haw.

As a devout Catholic Yousef Youhana averaged in the high forties in test cricket, which was not bad. Since he converted to Islam and became Mohammed Yousef he has averaged over 90.

Give the Black Caps copies of the Koran at once.

At least it would strike terror into the Aussies.

The sky sparkled red, white and blue and then shattered into millions of sparkling golden flecks. The boom of fireworks thumped into us.

Maria cackled with pleasure and Carlo stared, mesmerised, then put his fingers in his ears without for a moment breaking his concentration as the massive balls of fireworks seemed to hurtle towards us. The Eiffel Tower switched colours through familiar grey, black, red, orange, golden and then sparkling like a champagne bottle.

Early in the day the kids giggled excitedly at the low flying jets, watching them approach on television and then looking out the window to hear them roar and see them hurtle low over our apartment as they swept on down to etoile and over the Champs Elysees. Maria thought the best bit were the jets trailing the French flag - blowing long trails of red, white and blue smoke. Carlo mimicked the marching soldiers. Whatever else one might say about the French military, there is no question they have the smartest uniforms.

In the afternoon we played La Marseilaise and Zizou y va marquez one more time. When Maria and I play football in the park (which is against the rules but we play anyway), she announces she is France and I am Italy. She hammers the ball past me with brutal force and I can either sting my shins trying to stop it or admit that at five she is already a terrifying striker.

Late in the day we dined at Gallopin where the windows are painted like the label of Perrier Jouet champagne in baroque flowers.



When I told Maria to wait in French, she rolled her eyes like a teenager and mocked my accent. "Patientez! patientez! What is 'patientez'? I don't want pasta, I'm not having pasta Dad." How will she be when she is fifteen?

The Metro from the brasserie down to the Eiffel Tower was packed. Tens of thousands, if not hundreds of thousands, were already picnicking in the park on red wine and baguettes when we arrived an hour before the fireworks began. Most of the audience seemed to be speaking English. Real Parisiens have left town for the long weekend or for the summer.

The show was a spectacular half hour set to opera. After the fireworks ended the kids fell asleep lying on top of each other in the pram. It was warm and there were people everywhere so we decided to walk home. The Seine was bustling and brightly lit as we crossed the historic, pretty Pont L'Alma. Every bridge in paris seems historic and pretty. We pushed the pram up the small hill to Etoile, circled the arc de triomphe and slipped down the sidestreets through the Paris seductive fete national midnight air to home.

Awesome haka. Tell me that didn't terrify the Aussies.


Maybe if France had one of these, they might have won.

All day we have been singing Allez Les Blue and Zizou Y Va Marquez.

It will be thrilling if France win.

But in the end, blood counts.

While I've had my own dramas with an extracted tooth, Maria's second front tooth has been wiggling progressively looser for a week or so - accompanied by far less complaining and feeling sorry for herself.

On Friday, with the assistance of her nanny who has a less timid approach, the tooth left the gum and was held aloft in triumph. After being excitedly exhibited it was placed in a small dish for the tooth fairy and Maria went to sleep that night confident the tooth fairy would correct her ways from the disappointment in England - when the fairy inexplicably forgot to leave any large denomination coins.

The tooth fairy giggled about it all happily that night but absent-mindedly never got round to her collection and replacement duties.

On Saturday morning when the kids woke up, Josie shot out of bed and grabbed the tooth bowl a second before Maria could see inside, carrying it away cooing 'Ooo that's a lot of money', just a step or two in front of Maria who was shouting 'Lemme see! Lemme see!' Lucky for her the bowl magically filled just in time and Maria was delighted with the bounty - although she noted the fairy had suspiciously left the tooth behind. 'Must be someone else's that fell out of her bag."

In gratitude Maria spent the day constructing a beautiful present for the fairy. It was a colourfully decorated house for the faily, with a small door to enter and a bed. She water tested it to see if it would keep the rain out, and when the odd drop got through she built a roof and attached it. The she filled it with presents and wrote a note to say 'merci.'

It was a lovely thought and a full day of effort. So imagine the guilt with which the tooth fairy had to despatch it to the downstairs wheelie bins under cover of darkness.

At least this time, though, the fairy generously left sweets, more money and a thank you note.

In the Marais they were spilling out of cafes onto the street twelve deep, everyone on tiptoes to catch a screen.

When Zizou scored the triumphant roar shattered the night. We knew from the moment the penalty was awarded it would come home. There is something in the cool hard eyes and the calm self-control of Zidane that leaves no room for uncertainty. He has as much leadership charisma as anyone on earth.

The happy joyful chants at the end filled the bars and drenched the streets. Revellers thronged around every passing car, they hung from car windows, waved flags standing on the back of Vespas. They danced.

We stumbled to the Bastille. And in the symbolic heart of the French republic, French pride burned. Kids climbed all over the Julliet column in the centre of the giant Bastille roundabout. Crowds swept across the cobblestones, threading through the massed, honking traffic. Flares and skyrockets painted the sky in reds and blues and silvers. Happy, happy people leapt and whooped. They gloried in being French. It felt like the most impressive nation in the world. Maybe it is.

And we sang.

We sang Allez Les Bleus a hundred times.

A thousand times we chanted Ole Au Finale - if that is what the chant was meant to be.

And we chanted Zizou, Zizou, Zizou.

He comes to score. Zizou y va marquer.

The First Post, likening Zidane to a brooding impassive hero of a Sergio Leone spaghetti western, says he is France's most admired public figure...modest, dignified and socially aware, devoted to his extended family.

France football shirts are usually rare in the city. But they were ubiquitous and most were emblazoned across the shoulders 'Zidane'. Seeing a Zidane shirt, revellers would call out 'Merci Zizou!' Then I heard someone repeating 'merci Zizou' the way someone else might say 'Praise the Lord.'

I went out in the morning and bought copies of newspapers to keep as souvenirs. Le Parisien claimed 500,000 people celebrated on the streets, though no one would have any idea.

How many times in your life are you going to be in the capital city of a country that has just made a world cup final?

On Sunday it is bleu contra bleu: Italy v France.

I have wanted since 1982 to feel a repeat of Italy's glory, the first time in my life I realised I had Italian heritage. And yet we've also been swept along in the joy of the French charge. It's a euphoria I want to go on and on.

I feel like I have two tickets in this race. Both my teams have made the final, though my head tells me Italy will win. 1-0.

Damn this is the best world cup ever. Merci Zizou.

Two-nil, twooo-niiilll, two-nil, twooo-nilll.

Allez Azzurri.

(I realise this will likely now mean for us the living definition of blue on blue fire for the final).

It's hard to see why the Germans are even going to turn up tonight, other than I suppose, Italy need to have some meat on the spitroast.

Consider these persuasive details:

Italy have conceded only one goal at this world cup - and that was an own goal. No one can score against the Azzurri.

Italy has not been beaten in 23 consecutive matches.

During this unbeaten run they have faced Germany - back in March. Italy won 4-1. Count em. 4-1.

Italy and Germany have played four times in previous world cups. Italy has won twice and two games were drawn. Check that: Germany has never beaten Italy in a world cup. Today's not looking good for them either.

In four previous World Cup encounters, Italy have won twice and drawn twice.

Let's not forget 1982. To tell you the truth, I haven't forgotten 1982, not for one minute. 3-1. 3-1! To us.

Also, fate is on our side because Italians are cooler. Ask anyone.

Is it only me that gets driven to apoplectic fits of rage and thoughts of homicide when otherwise sane people use the term, "hat's off".

"Hat's off to this." "Hat's off to that."

Hats? What hats? Who the hell wears a hat now? Who takes their hat off to show appreciation?

Honestly, of all the armoury in the English language that might be used to express appreciation or admiration, is there anything lamer?

That is all.

This is ... why you shouldn't be using the Internet.

Meh. It's 30 degrees outside and nine o'clock at night. Too hot to do any work.

What's your excuse?

Check out this video of what it was like on Saturday night.

Gosh that global warming is terrible, isn't it?

In unrelated news I see NIWA says New Zealand had the coldest June since 1972.

Outside at the moment on a clear, beautiful Sunday afternoon, it's about thirty degrees.

What a night.

England were rubbish. Complete rubbish. They were very disappointing, and Rooney is an angry, over-rated thug.

One of the commentaries said the rest of the world will not be disappointed because England and their fans have so little grace and joy in their football. How true. To see the raving after the game explained a lot about English football hooliganism. It's all the ref's fault. It's the fault of the Portuguese! Well, yeah - that's in the nature of competitive sport. The other side aren't meant to help.

Out they went on penalties again.

Then France looked spectacular. Zizou was amazing. The French sparkled. They were dangerous attackers, commanding midfields, rock solid in defence. Barthez is a football giant. But Zidane performs magic with such effortless cool he makes it look like he is out for a stroll.

Before the match Carlo stood on our balcony calling out "allez Les Bleus". And Josie found him there with neighbours calling back to him from half a dozen apartments over the street. "Allez Les Bleus. Allez Les Bleus." The same neighbours erupted when Thiery Henry nailed his goal and then drenched the street in noise and excitement at the full-time whistle. We jumped and cheered and hugged and punched the air. The Paris streets filled with honking cars and cheering fans.

Joe told me the Brazilian goalie lived next door to him - Next Door! - in Auckland this year for a few months on an English language exchange. So Joe told me he was supporting both France and Brazil.


France should get past Portugal in the semi. If Italy beats Germany, we will face a dark test of national loyalty in the final.

Meanwhile, I'm up to 82nd in the world cup daq, with a million pound payout to come on both France and Portugal. Damn the money isn't real.

If a wisdom tooth is brutally wrenched from one's gum -- leaving a gaping wound requiring stitches, painkillers, anti-biotics and sympathy -- is one less wise?

There is a reason for asking.

Owwwww.

3-0. Led by Totti, the Azzurri sparkled with little backheels and clean, crisp passing combinations.


We're in the semis.

Meanwhile I've moved up to 185th place in world cup gamble:



I got a huge payout last weekend, so my percentage gain - and thus my overall place - will fall quickly this week unless both Portugal and France go through.