Author: Lucy Wadham

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Reality catches up with Loana

LoanaLast night the young woman whom all of France knows as Loana was found unconscious in her bathroom and rushed to hospital.

Loanna Petrucciani, a 31 year old ex-stripper from Nice, with the body of a sex-goddess and the eyes of a young goat, was rocketed to instant fame for being the winner of France’s first reality TV show. The French version of Big Brother was renamed ‘Loft Story’ in a bid to eliminate those dark, dystopian connotations and give the programme the classy overtones essential to the French masses. For by April 2001 when Loft Story was first aired, to live in un Loft was the ultimate in chic.

Loft Story logoThe first group of 12 ‘Lofteurs’ as the contestants came to be known, included Loana, the leggy blonde with a slightly she-male beauty (above) and Steevy Boulay (both went on to become famous). Steevy and Loana were born in that era when it was de rigeur to name your child after a character in the hugely popular American soaps that were invading France, like ‘Bay Watch’ (Alerte a Malibu) or ‘The Young and the Restless’ (Les Feux de l’Amour). Hence the explosion in the seventies and eighties – to the chagrin of those state officials at your local mairie (town hall) whose job it had always been to make sure that your baby’s intended name figured on their list of Catholic saints – of Anglo-Saxon abominations like Kevin, Trevor, Jordan, Jessica, Steevy and Loana.

I remember being glued to Loft Story with my teenage children when it first came out. It seemed to capture modern France like nothing else on television. We watched in horror as the French public showed its true colours and eliminated, first the Arab (Aziz), then the only person of mixed race on the programme (Kenza) and then the homosexual. (Steevy took five years to actually come out. He waited until he had become a successful television presenter before confessing that he was Catholic, Right wing, ecstatically pro-Sarkozy and Gay – which of course no one had doubted for a moment.)

French reality TV, when it arrived, revealed just what a poor opinion the French have of reality. In this country steeped in idealism, reality is something to be avoided at all costs. As a result Loft Story and all the versions that have come since are, compared to their Anglo-Saxon equivalents, shamelessly polished, choreographed and filled with histrionics. The contestants tend to be beautiful all the time and behave in front of the cameras with the woodenness of dubbed American soap actors.

Loana’s life, the doctor’s say, is not in danger.

Here, for your delight, is a video of Loana’s memorable pop song, “Comme je t’aime’

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The French Strike Again (Bless them).

I strike therefore I am.

The French love nothing more than to strike. Even if they don’t actually approve of the cause of the strike, watching their country grind to a halt puts them in touch with their visceral, ancestral selves and makes them feel alive. And who can blame them? Strikes in France are fun. People become uncharacteristically friendly during periods of social unrest. They give each other lifts, talk to each other in bus queues. Against all reason, men and women from every social milieu feel impelled to rally behind the deep, instinctual cry of the protesting toddler in the face of authority: “Non, non, non, non, non!” This explains why, at a time of severe economic crisis for their nation, 69% of French people support today’s general strike (Le Figaro).

President of Sud Rail, France's second railway union, confirmed on French radio that "basically we're practicing class warfare."

The President of 'Sud Rail', France's second railway union, confirmed on French radio that "basically, we're practicing class warfare."

Fighting Talk

“The law is the law,” the French Minister for Education, Xavier Darcos, announced bravely last October. “It (a law to ensure a minimum service for the public sector during a strike) has been voted and validated by the Supreme Court. It must be enforced,” he thundered.

Today, in spite of Xavier Darcos’ promise to provide a minimum service in primary schools, my son’s school is closed. (He is next door shooting his enemies with a very noisy phaser.) Today’s Le Parisien provides a long, long list (which includes Paris itself) of all the towns and cities that will not be respecting Darcos’ law.

Xavier Darcos is what the French call a faux dur (a fake toughie, or someone who pretends to be tough). The French political landscape is littered with the bodies of ‘faux durs’ who promised to push through unpopular reforms and caved in under pressure from the street.

Example of A Faux Dur

While Jacques Chirac was building his political persona, he sought, like most French right-wing politicians of his generation, to emulate de Gaulle’s authoritarian style and grandeur. He did not fool anyone for long, for it soon became clear that Chirac was a bon vivant* pretending to be a dur.

The Real Thing

That, perhaps, is why Margaret Thatcher was such a source of fascination to so many of them. François Mitterrand said of her, “She has the mouth of Marilyn Monroe and the eyes of Caligula,” and although he had difficulty disguising his contempt for her evident lack of culture, he could not help admiring her vision and determination. For politicians like him, Thatcher was the real thing, which may have explained Chirac’s exasperation when he murmured to an aide, during one of her state visits, “What more does that housewife want from me? My balls on a platter?”

* Not, as many English people believe, a bon viveur.

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Something a Little More Lowbrow

Some Useful French Expressions

Elle pète plus haut que son cul
Literally: she farts higher than her bottom (She’s up herself)

Elle m’a posé un lapin
Literally: She left me a rabbit (She stood me up)

Elle est partie comme un pet sur une toile cirée
She left (as quickly) as a fart on tarpaulin

Là, tu encules des mouches.
Literally: You’re sodomising flies (Splitting hairs)

Avoir une taupe a la caisse
To have a mole at the check-out (to really want to do number twos)

Je l’ai eu le doigt dans le nez/cul
Literally: I got it (e.g. passed an exam) with my finger in my nose/bottom (i.e. very easily)

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The Libidinous Dwarf

Last week I sent The Secret Life of France off to Yves Bonnet, the former French spymaster who features heavily in the book. I have been nervous of his reaction. Today he sent me a text saying:

I love your analysis of our President. Be assured that the phrase ‘libidinous dwarf’ is now being whispered in the corridors of power.

President Sarkozy likes to sue people for libel. He has taken legal action six times since he has been in office. Is it libelous to call someone a sex dwarf?

I imagine arguing with the judge:

Monsieur le juge, I meant it as a compliment!

(Which is actually true. Sex dwarves are highly sought after in my family of five – tallish – girls.)

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Guess which of the following statements is true:

  1. I wrote this book about my life in France because I realised that despite the fact that I had been homesick for 25 years I was still there and I wanted to understand why.
  2. I wrote this book as a proper analysis of the French world-view because I was sick of reading so much of the inaccurate drivel that is basically designed to bolster all the old myths and prejudices about our closest neighbour and ultimately prevent us from looking at our own flaws.
  3. I wrote this book because I think France is our alter ego and if we can understand her we can understand ourselves.
  4. I wrote it because I knew that I would have a laugh in the process.
  5. I wrote it because my publishers asked me to and were offering me three times more than they had for any of my novels.

(Answer: All of them)

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Preamble …

Last week I told Matthew, the person who looks after online publicity at Faber, that I wanted to start a blog about this book I have just finished called The Secret Life of France. Having very little experience of the online community I asked for his advice.

This was his answer:

‘Do not, whatever you do, give the impression that this blog is a marketing tool to sell your book. British bloggers are ruthless when it comes to self-promoters.’

And then he went on to tell me about flaming.

Who is he kidding, I ask myself?

Of course the raison d’etre for any blog built around a book you’ve written is going to be about self-promotion. I’m doing this because I want to attract readers. I’m fed up with writing books that no one bloody reads.

So shoot me.