Bastille Day has, Parishioners,
passed without incident.
This is not an acceptable state of affairs
and I vow to Do Better next year.
Each Bastille Day I have an excuse to look back at this –
I was surprised to see that it is from 2005!
Here’s a reprise:
lifted directly from Open Brackets (sadly, no longer with us):
Which leads nicely into one of my favourite things about the French: because of their endless passion for debate and self-examination, there’s probably nothing you can say about them that they haven’t already said themselves. And, should you come up with a new salient point, you’ll probably get invited onto one of the slew of talk shows to sip wine while sprawled on a couch, sparing off with a band of the country’s professional intellectuals.
Now, should you think, oh, yawn, here’s a little something that happened on a much fluffier show not long ago.
It’s a nightly talk show where a sort of random group of guests – actors, singers, writers and politicians with something to peddle – sit perched round a large bar-height table to babble about things important and really not. One of the guests on this show was Djamel Debbouze (an increasingly ubiquitous personality here, and known to most as the one-armed grocery clerk in Amélie Poulain). When the host announces that the next guest is Kylie Minogue, Djamel says that he speaks English, so can act as interpreter.
Now Kylie’s come out and settled in her stool, and the grinning host oozes the usual bland question about her latest album, then Djamel turns to K to provide the translation.
“Kylie,” he says, “I want to fuck you.” Three seconds of absolute silence, then the audience goes wild. Kylie sits there in close-up for a small eternity, just staring, mouth open and tears welling up in her eyes. Then she lunges from her stool and runs off stage (at Olympic speed!), oh-ohing! and weeping.
Now the guests are all laughing their faces off as the very flappable host begins to berate Djamel, and plead with him to apologise. Things are getting out of control. Finally, Djamel says, okay, okay, bring her out. But she won’t come out; she’s sitting in the greenroom waiting for an apology. So close-up now on a remorseful Djamel who peers into the camera and says, “Kylie… Kylie, I’m sorry. I want to fuck you.”
On Thursday, May 26th, at 23:43 e.s.t, Brother B said:
This demands Further Enquiries. One of the few references I could find:
The war between Cauet and Arthur (which hates it) feeds the gazettes regularly. With the origin of this fight, remarks made by Cauet in 1995, with the antenna of Radio operator Fun, on the concentration camps. “I was 21 years old, I caught the large head, carried a little in a spiral where the bad choice is made and where nobody does not accompany you. With time, one becomes more considered.” Today, the brawl slipped on a more professional level. But of the guests skid regularly in plate (like, lately, Jamel saying to Dannii Minogue: “I want to fuck you”, which made flee the singer). The media speak about it, the public also, and that done of the advertizing to the emission. The young people find Cauet rebellious, the old men have the feeling of encanailler. And everyone looks at: “It is estimated that 60% of the televiewers fall at one time or another on the Cauet Method, Frederic Degouy underlines, of Mediacom. The advertisers of the emission are also principal market: of all the talk-shows, it is most federator.” A well ground method.
* * *
On Friday, May 27th, at 11:58 e.s.t, Le Rev Dr said:
A comment on the above post reads:
Gainsbourg did almost the exact same thing with Whitney Houston sometime in the late 80’s. Very funny moment, I remember that it was in the “best of” clips shown just after his death.
Jamel didn’t invent it, just resurrected an oldie. But kudos to him for it!
SO we go searching
41. Serge Gainsbourg tells Whitney Houston that he’d “like to fuck” her
Serge Gainsbourg, ugly bastard though he was, was nonetheless possessed of the kind of sleazy charm which certain women (Bardot, Birkin, Bambou, and scores of other French hussies whose names begin with B) found irresistible. Not so ’80s pop screecher Whitney Houston, who at the time of this meeting was yet to descend into every tabloid’s favourite pop casualty, but was a squeaky-clean purveyor of hi-octane, big-hair power ballads.
By a curious quirk of fate, both were invited to perform on the live French equivalent of ‘The Des O’Connor Show’ in the mid-’80s. Whitney hollered her way through a number, then sat down next to the, er, somewhat soused Monsieur G, ready to be interviewed by the show’s host.
Halfway through the sterile chinwag, however, Serge suddenly mumbled, “I want to fuck her.”
Whitney – unable to believe what she’d heard – exclaimed, “What did he say?” The flustered host, trying to intervene, blathered, “He wanted to offer you flowers.” Serge was having none of this: “Don’t translate for me,” he growled, obviously heavily pissed-up on booze. Then, just to clarify matters: “I said I wanted to fuck her.”
Whitney, for perhaps the only time in her career, was reduced to silence. Nice one, Serge.
We have been great admirers of Mr Gainsbourg for some time…
BONUS! YouTube is here!
As a furthur bonus, l’enfant terrible shares some influences
Joyeux Quatorze Juillet!
Le Rev Dr