There’s graffiti, and then there’s graffiti. Under the viaduct Voie André Malraux, Poitiers.
Always good to start the week with some good news. There’s a story in Le Parisien this morning about Félix, a homeless person (in France, an SDF – sans domicile fixe) who has just been awarded damages against the magazine Paris Match because of a photo that appeared in an article about crack addiction. The photo, taken in a metro station, shows some crack-smokers with their faces blurred out. Unfortunately, the face of Félix (not his real name), seated nearby, was left untouched. Friends of his had recognised him and alerted him to the photo. Félix, who has never smoked crack, was concerned that his family in France and Guyana might see it and be worried about his well-being. He was put in touch with a charitable association, whose lawyers sued Paris Match on his behalf. Félix was awarded €10,000 and the magazine was told to remove the image from their website and app or they would be fined a further €2,000 for every additional day it appeared. An administrative cock-up left it on the app for a couple of weeks, and Félix eventually received €40,000. Le Parisien gleefully points out that former Prime Minister Manuel Valls only received €8,000 when Paris Match published a front-page picture of him with a new partner.
It’s good to know that it’s not just the Beckhams of this world whose image rights are protected.
Through our patchwork of vaguely dodgy software, we watched the BBC’s Line of Duty last night. Madame is an addict, but I think it probably peaked around the third series. Nevertheless, now that Engrenages (Spiral) is finished, it’s better than anything currently on French TV.
The first episode was certainly gripping, but I was baffled throughout by a strange word being used. Was it ‘chiz’? Perhaps the writers were trying to get a new word into the dictionary? After all, according to some sources, this is how the similar-sounding ‘quiz’ is said to have been created. In 1791, a Dublin theatre owner named Richard Daly made a bet that he could introduce a word into the language within twenty-four hours. He then went out and hired a group of children to write the word ‘quiz’ on walls around the city. Within a day, the word was being talked about everywhere, and as nobody had a clue as to its meaning, it was taken to be some sort of test. Daly had won his bet.
Or maybe, God help us, it was ‘jizz’, now being relaunched as an item of police terminology. Maybe the writers were following the example set by the team working on the Daily Mail diary in the 1980s. They had dared each other to get the term ‘moist gusset’ into print, and eventually one of them invented the dashing Swiss playboy Moi St Gusset. Tales of Moi’s romantic escapades appeared regularly, until his creators killed him off in a skiing accident.
The truth is more mundane. The word was the acronym CHIS, which stands for Covert Human Intelligence Source. At least I wasn’t alone in my ignorance. People were googling frantically during the programme, trying to establish its meaning.
Two questions. If it’s so common (someone seemed to use it every couple of minutes last night), why had it never been heard in the previous twenty-nine hours of the programme? And what’s wrong with ‘snout’, anyway?
Two extracts from letters recently read. The first is an illustration of how novelists can bring passion to the page. The second shows that they can also have a more practical approach to life:
I want to gorge you with all the joys of the flesh, until you faint and die. I want you to be astonished by me, to confess to yourself that you had never even dreamed of such transports. I am the one who has been happy, now I want you to be the same. When you are old, I want you to recall those few hours. I want your dry bones to quiver with joy when you think of them.
Gustave Flaubert, Letter to Louise Colet, 1846
My affectionate & most excellent wife is as you are aware still living—and I am proud to say her health is good. Nevertheless it is always well to take time by the forelock and be prepared for all events. Should anything happen to her, will you supply her place,—as soon as the proper period for decent mourning is over.
Till then I am your devoted Servant.
Anthony Trollope, Letter to Dorothea Sankey, 1861
Every week there seems to be some new evidence that the current UK government is determined to destroy the BBC, aided and abetted by those who would benefit most from its demise. For now, though, we enjoy it while we can. One of its little gems is the charmingly eccentric Round Britain Quiz, which has been running since 1947. Two-person teams, mostly writers and broadcasters from different regions of the UK, compete with each other in answering absurdly complicated questions, most of which have been sent in by listeners. A new series started this month, and we listened to an episode last night.
Here is a sample question:
Who is missing from this list? Yellowcoat Gladys; the most recent Amy March; a Lindisfarne saint; Top Cat’s nemesis; and the maker of the Greenwich Observatory telescope?
Yellowcoat Gladys is Hi-de-Hi!’s Gladys PUGH.
The most recent Amy March was actress Florence PUGH, in the film Little Women.
A Lindisfarne saint is St CUTHBERT.
Top Cat’s nemesis was Officer DIBBLE.
The telescope maker was Howard GRUBB.
Younger readers will of course realise that Pugh, Pugh, … Cuthbert, Dibble, and Grubb were members of Trumpton Fire Brigade.
So the missing person is ‘obviously’ BARNEY McGREW.
I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry when I realised that I actually knew the answer to this.
Things I’ve learnt this week:
There are six villages in France called Silly, twelve called Billy, and two called Prat.
During the 1962 World Cup match between England and Brazil, a dog ran onto the pitch and urinated on Jimmy Greaves.
The Brazilian player Garrincha adopted the dog after the game.