Nose-strip and Detoxifying mask

Miss Lizzy and Favorite Mr. B taking good care of me and my greasy T-zone.

Instructions: Apply cream to clean skin. Wait 10 minutes in relaxing silence or with soft music in the background. Let time stand still and your thoughts drift cheerfully. Rinse with clear water. Your skin is detoxified and your face smooth, as if you'd just strolled through the countryside.

Frogreetings

Dear all,

I just wanted to wish you a Merry Christmas, to you and you and yieu, to my friends, new blogging pals: my dyed-in-the-wool moffies (*wink*), Favorite Mr.B, my family ('cos some of them read this blog, how embarrassing!), Santa (I've been a god boy so bring me a digital camera) and I'll stop here or it's going to turn into a cheesy Oscar ceremony speech. Finally a very special kiss to the pour souls who are alone this year & have nothing to do on Christmas but read this stupid blog.
I'm leaving early in the morning to go there and then there. Will be back in the City of Lights on Wednesday.
Until then, Joyeux Noël.

How gay is a hotel in London?

A few weeks ago, Favorite Mr. B called and said he'd found the following add on the internet:

Travel to London for the weekend and stay at cosy little gay hotel, charming, centrally located, gym, sauna, 3 stars, not recommended for families/children. Exclusively for gay clientele.

We were intrigued by what staying at a gay hotel would entail and started making various suggestions: Is it a place where a leather sling hangs in every room? Glory holes betweens rooms? Pink carpeted floors and flower arrangements? Special room-service: Food served in your room by half naked waiters in jockstraps?

Our expectations were high and we just couldn't stretch our imagination further, plus we really wanted to go to London so without further ado, we decided to book the trip.

We departed on a cold Saturday morning to the British capital. After 3 hours only and some kind of tunnel, we were in another world. A tiny little ridiculous 3 hour trip and you arrive in the land of the ennemy, aka La Perfide Albion, Roast-beef land, Green-food heaven, FFRON (Formerly French Region of Normandy)..., the country that we love to hate but that we hate to love since we love it more than we hate it, although we hate to admit it.

Most of us frogs first got acquainted with the U.K through horrible school exchange programs when we were kids/teenagers. We all hated the country where the food sucked, where the people were ugly and pale, where all the girls were named ugly names like Sharon or Bernadette and all the boys played weird sports that we'd never heard about before. Furthermore, the "before the Chunnel years" ruined the reputation of La Perfide Albion forever in our hearts and especially stomachs. The never-ending 7 hour ferry trips from Le Havre to Portsmouth on a killer sea always gave a bitter taste of vomit as a first impression. Baked bean based breakfasts served upon arrival never really helped as an introduction to the country either.

However, most French people have a special relationship to the land on the other side of the Channel. It was indeed in England and during these culturally revolutionalizing study-trips that most of us French experienced freedom away from our parents, got drunk, high, laid and pregnant for the first time and in that order.

*Fond memories*

But back to our trip: Here we were then, back to London after so many years! What a fantastic experience it was to see this place again, as a grown-up (or kind of) and without a group of 150 vomitting French exchange students around. The city has changed so much and for the better only! The sun was shining, the grass was green, the orange and palm-trees swayed, oops, but I'm getting carried away here...

Anyway, since we could only check in at our adorable little hotel in the afternoon, we decided to start our intensive sightseeing program of the day, after which we would go and relax at our tiny, quaint and charming little gay hotel on the prairie.

Favorite Mr. B had never been to London so we did the regular tourist trap tour, never a disappointment though, (although Buckingham is actually duller and smaller than I remembered it, Lizzy should perhaps start a serious upgrading process or move house to something a bit more glam).

I have been to London several times but I never get tired of sightseeing there, visiting museums, taking corny pictures and having bangers and mash at local pubs.

After our tour, we were completely knackered and decided to go and relax at our cute, cosy and charming little gay hotel. We were very excited about that and already pictured ourselves receiving massages by Brad Pitt's look-alikes and sipping a cocktail on a terrace by the sea listening to Cilla Black. (well, our imagination really got out of control, I must admit).

When we saw the hotel, we thought there must have been a mistake on the brochure, 'cos what we had in front of us, was not cosy, quaint, cute and even less gay (whatever that means)!

Instead we were standing in front of this!

The place was predominantly populated by very ugly Spanish families and their very ugly kids! (not recommended for families, my ass!) And gosh these kids aren't well-mannered at all! The corridors leading to the rooms were about a mile long each and looked like some dodgy student dorm corridors from the mid 70's in F#&%-ing eastern Poland! It all looked like a huge factory with carpeted walls and anti-suicidal windows (annoying since you can barely open them to have a smoke).

I am nice but stupid and a little bit stubborn too so I had to find how on earth the travel agency could describe this place as being charming and gay. Perhaps they meant gay, as in happy, that this place was only recommended for happy people, 'cos only happy people could stand staying over in such a dump. But that wasn't it!

I looked everywhere but I didn' find anything that ressembled pink floors, slings or peep-holes. But suddenly it all became clear when I saw this:

THE detail that surely made the travel agency think that this was a gay hotel. It is indeed slightly kitsch, cute and charming. We contemplated the beautiful picture for a while, 'cos birds are nice, and mentally started writing our complaint letter to the travel agency.

"Dear travel agency, we were promised a room in a gay hotel and look at us, we ended up in Cherno-fucking-byl in Spain! We want a refund blah blah...". and then it's as if one of those little birds told us to think a bit.

How would we react if 2 straight guys were complaining about about the fact that there are too many gay people at their hotel? We'd certainly think: what a bunch of narrow-minded losers! Right?

So we stopped writing our mental complaint letter, went down to the store, bought fizzy vodka based drinks, Madonna's latest record and started gayifying our room instead.

The Andrew Lappin mystery started when we returned. Read more below. It's almost as if Rob7534 and Sirpelina were there with us!

So, what is a gay hotel? I mean apart from a hotel managed by gay people receiving lots of gay guests ? 'cos I don't know. Any experience you want to share?

We had a terrific time in London by the way. Next month: *Prague!*

On boycotting French products

This morning, I heard on the radio that the Slovaks have decided to boycott French products for some obscure reason that I didn’t quite catch. The only thing I thought then was… “Oh no, here we go again!”

::sigh::

Part 1: How a boycott throws you out of the embassy.

As you know, a few years ago, some people in Florida decided to boycott anything that was French e.g. cheese, wine, even French fries had to be renamed freedom fries, etc… (since it’s ok to not boycott the product as long as you boycott its name).
I wasn’t too surprised as it wasn’t the first time it had happened. Australians, New Zealanders, Brits and many more have boycotted French products throughout the years.

I moved to Sweden in 1995 to teach French. I got there right when our dear president decided to show off with France’s nuclear power skills for one last time in the Pacific Ocean. You probably remember that this brilliant idea created a gigantic anti-French wave across the planet and suddenly EVERYONE had to boycott France and French products. It got totally out of control when my Swedish students decided to boycott my French lessons and potential lovers boycotted me as soon as they heard about my nationality (that’s the reason they gave anyway). Despite my being boycotted, I was in favor of a drastic action against the French government’s useless and dangerous practices. (after my communist phase, I had just entered my environmentalist phase, both lasted a couple of weeks but still…)

That same year, Majken, a Swedish friend of mine and I went to the French Embassy in Stockholm to celebrate France’s national day with my fellow-citizens. Indeed, I had heard that rivers of free Champagne were flowing there on that day, hence the little trip to the embassy with Majken who was to play my wife in order to be allowed to enter the fancy and glitzily- decorated official building.

But when we arrived, a huge demonstration against nuclear tests had been organized by the Swedes in front of the embassy (the Swedes never demonstrate, so when they do, you can tell they’re really angry) and demonstrators were preventing French guests from entering the place unless they accepted to wear a badge that said “Fuck Chirac” (pardon my French!).

So we did wear the badge, drank liters of champagne, pigged out on the delicious finger food and started to sing dirty songs. I gradually collapsed on a Louis XV armchair at the foot of a majestic Empire-style golden mirror. Later, I woke up with a banging headache and realized that Majken was standing on the piano, lifting up one arm in the air, resembling a Eurovision Song Contestant, singing her last verse. She looked great! Majken and the piano were in the main hall, singing the Swedish national anthem with a French accent under a classy crystal chandelier while an 85 year-old man was playing the piano whispering to Majken how much he was in love with her.
I decided to join Majken on the piano and as I was attempting to escalate the instrument, two big guards appeared, grabbed us by the belt and threw us out of the embassy like old garbage onto the sidewalk, and a man behind them said what a shame we were for our country, showing up with rude badges and confirming all the clichés Swedes had about the French being alcoholic!
Instead, the Swedes welcomed us outside the embassy in a wave of applause and Majken and I left the place feeling like national heroes coming back from the battlefield. There must have been about 20 demonstrators left on the street by the time we left the embassy, but in my drunken haze, it really looked like a whole stadium filled with fans. I loved it.

Part 2: How a boycott throws you out of the country

Inspired by our embarrassing but rather dashing intervention at the French embassy in Stockholm, I thought repeating this experience somewhere else would be extremely entertaining.
I went to the US 2 years ago, right when the war in Iraq was going on and right when francophobia had reached its peak, anything or anybody that was French was not popular, especially not fries. I landed at JFK, went through customs and ended up in front of the very intimidating custom agent who grabbed my passport and said:

Agent (threatening look, bad breath): Hm… So you’re a French citizen…
Me (cheerful eyes, great tan): No, Sir, I’m a FREEDOM citizen!

*ouch!*

So no one really knows what's going on through these Slovaks' minds, but if this boycott thing spreads, and I'm sure it will, please boycott anything but not my blog? Ok? Actually if you're running out of inspiration, you'll find great boycott ideas on this lovely site, that must have been created by a very bored person: www.i-hate-france.com . So anything, freedom fries, freedom toasts, freedom letters, freedom kiss, boycott anything but not my blog!

Junky Froggy

Because of my natural addictive tendencies, I have always made sure to not try drugs, well, I have tried a few things but thankfully never got hooked on any of them (if you exclude cigarettes, alcohol, sex, candy, chocolate, biting nails and compulsive TV watching of course, in good company of friends only, whose presence I can blame for my frenetic consumption).
Thus everything was fine and dandy until I found this new stuff. Apparently it comes from some far-eastern country and it is highly addictive. Well someone should've warned me earlier then! The problem for me is that it's too late now, I'm completely hooked on it and I can't get rid of it. It's preventing me from going out, meeting people, I must do it everyday, at home, on the subway, I even hide in the bathroom at work to do it!
But I'm not the only one, it seems that the whole world is hooked on the same shit. In London last week, I saw hundreds of people doing it too! Even my mother is an addict now and she can't stop either!!!
And you're probably crazy about it too, but you don't want to admit it!
Wanna know how to get it for free on the Net? Well check here and ENJOY!

What am I thinking about?

What happened to Andrew Lappin?

Coming soon: a report from my weekend trip to London. In the meantime and in order to keep you waiting, I'd like to set the expectations and make you work a little. Something really bizarre happened at our hotel. We found clothes in the corridor, right outside our room door. A white T-shirt, a pair of faded jeans, an employee name-tag with the name Andrew Lappin on it and a ticket to Madame Butterfly, scattered along our door and wall... What does it all mean? Let's check how far your imagination can stretch, all suggestions are welcome.

Yay!

Guess who's going to London with cute boy this weekend, staying at a gay hotel "not recommended for families" (that's what the brochure said anyway)!

Bordeaux

I'm in Bordeaux. The city looks very different. It looks bigger and cleaner than I remembered it. I had forgotten how snobbish this place is. I hadn't been back for so many years. And yet certain things haven't changed. In a café, I recognized faces from when I used to live here. Same café, same people, same groups of friends, just less hair, a little fatter... The beggars and the whores on Rue Sainte-Catherine are the same, just more grey hair and more hanging tits. Well they survived at least and you can start talking about vocation after so many years! They must have thought the same when they saw me. Especially the part about the hanging tits... Does it ever happen to you that you leave a place for many years and you think that everything stopped when you left it? That people ended up in a frozen frame and stayed like this forever? You become so self-centered that you think everyone disappeared with you? When I used to live in Bordeaux, I was a lazy closet-case student who chose to come out through theater and cheap wine, skipping class, waking up at 3pm after too many beers and not the slightest anguish over my decadent life-style, smoking cigarettes in lieu of breakfast, roaming the café-terraces, playing theater and truly believing I would make it to Broadway... And here I am now, back many years later, for work. The outcloseted corporate geek is back in town. In a suit, too tight to fit his love-handles and too clean to remind himself that who he used to be. Is he happier now? Well, he did make it to Broadway on business trips, still smokes, still roams dodgy cafés, still has trouble waking up in the mornings and still plays theater at work, everyday, showing his ham tendencies to half-motivated audiences who never ask for autographs. Hm... while jogging down memory lane I realized that I too was a tart with hanging tits. PS: Why am I feeling so sorry for myself???