Badaude

70 flavours

Whenever I visit Rome, they're voting.

I was last here two Easters ago, when Silvio Berlusconi and his Forza Italia party were fighting their last election campaign. In 2006 the billionaire mediocrat didn't win, despite his ownership of most of the TV channels. It must have been the effect of his unnaturally brylcreamed and orange perma-tanned portraits posted around the city; that and the competition from a Fox Channel Cable TV campaign which encouraged Romans to Vota Simpsons! and Vota Fonzie!

This time was different with the new Ilpopolodellaliberta - People of Freedom party (Forza Italia plus the National Alliance) winning the largest share of the vote for a single party at about 37.5% and defeating former mayor of Rome, Walter Ventroni of the left-wing Partito Democratico.

The campaigning was different too: not so much Forza  and no Berlusconi pics, but campaign literature featuring rainbows, roses and football teams.

The voting determined the leader of Italy's 63rd government since 1945.

Giolitti, Rome's most famous ice-cream parlour, sells 70 different flavours; just about one for every rainbow-flavoured government since WWII. As I can't think of 70 ice-cream flavours, I'm assuming they include, mud, rat and spaghetti bolognese. The Italian electorate were similarly jaded by too much political 'choice' offered too frequently. In Sorrento, voter Carlo Brunetti was charged with destroying election materials when he ate his ballot paper in protest, perhaps, at widespread accusations that ballot paper fraud provided Berlusconi with his narrow majority.

Do you want chocolate sprinkles with that?

Mr Brunetti is a manufacturer of Italy's famous Limoncello liqueur and might be thought to benefit from frequent election celebrations.

Last night it was impossible to get a table at any restaurant but somehow difficult to catch an actual victory celebration. In a trattoria on the Via della Pace, all the tables were set neatly, each with cutlery, napkins and two bottles of mineral water (at least here it's only a choice between con  and sin gas). It was empty but tutte riservati. The celebrations were, it seems, to be brief. Come back in an hour and a half; a waitress told me. They will all be gone!

This morning I walked accross the empty Piazza Navona. A wet, rose-emblazoned campaign flag was draped accross a the edge of the northernmost fountain of the Neptune. I showed the words, Libertà e Solidarietà, somewhat ironically the slogan of one of the most recently created parties, Rosa Bianca, which split from the UDC (Union of the Centre) early in 2008.

Despite the imagery of football teams, knots, roses and rainbows, can any of the alliances created to fight the election hold up, or are they already melting in the Spring sun? Are 70 flavours too many, even for the Italians?

...

By coincidence, my UK local election voting card was just forwarded to me. I have a feeling it's going to be a much less colourful affair.

Rentre bien

Yesterday I took part in a demonstration.

I was on my way to get the metro to the Daumier exhibition at the Bibliotheque Nationale by way of the rue du Bac, when I heard some interesting noises: whistles, shouting. I could see the banners in the distance. I knew what it was. It was a manif.

I've taken part in manifs myself, but they're not common in the UK any more. The February 2003 anti-Iraq war demo* aside, public political demonstration has more or less stopped being a way for Brits to express their political opinions. The demos I went to in the late 80s and early 90s seemed like a last gasp, and not a very healthy one.

In France, they're very much alive. The last time I got close to a manif in Paris was the anti-CPE demonstration outside the Sorbonne two years ago. There were lots of police, heavily armed, waiting for something to go wrong. It was frightening and exciting in a way that only the tension before something physical happens can be. Today the police were at at safe distance. I was apprehensive, approaching the demonstrators. Was there a reason for this? But members of the public were walking calmly toward and through the group; 6eme mamies in Ramosport raincoats and smart shoppers with bags from Le Bon Marche. Then, as got closer, I could see. It was a demonstration by librarians.

Having gained confidence in the wake of the vague rouge or red wave - the power-swing to the left in the elections municipales earlier this week, the French left has gained the confidence to step up demonstrations against the Bling-Bling presidency.

It's the vulgarity of the Sarkozy government's aims protesters seem to be most offended by: his departure from traditional French values of state-sponsored cultural activity. I see a placard saying On est pas chez Disney! (This isn't Disneyland!).

The strikers are mostly middle aged, or older. More than half of them are women. They work for the services culturelles. They are dressed smartly but sensibly in black. Some of them have arty scarves and hats.

They're not a naturally noisy crowd. A lot of the noise comes from a big sound system and many of the demonstrators have whistles. There is a speech then a woman gets up and sings Cotillard-style into the microphone. They shout, A Versailles, à Versailles! (a historial joke - they have been joined by a group from the museum of Marie Antoinette's former residence). Mostly they shout, Ren-tre, rent-re, ren-tre RGPP! (take back the RGPP, or the proposed reforms to rationaliser government services). It rhymes, but does't quite scan, the first R being swallowed to make the slogan fit.

A man dresseds as Asterix wanders through the crowd, part of a delegation from the Syndicat de Recherche Archologicale. One banner says, Archives sacrificées; Memoire Menacée (Libraries sacrificed, Memory Threatened) and I wonder how many of the participants are themselves walking archives, old enough to remember the Paris demonstrations of 1968.

The delegates from CGT or General Union of Workers who have the word, Socialiste on their banners have stickers with the words, Casse-toi, pauvre con. These are the words which president Nicolas Sarkozy ill-advisedly spoke to a handshake refusenik at an agricultural show last month (the equivalent of the Queen telling the winner of the best cake at a village fayre to piss off because she hadn't called her Ma'am).

During the anti-CPE riots, a piece of graffiti said, Paris réveille-toi, la Commune est là (Wake up, Paris, the Commune is here). Maybe yesterday's demonstrators could write, Wake up, the people who know about the Commune are here.

(*I don't think the Iraq demo can be defined as a political demonstration in quite the same way as it was crucially not aligned to any union or political party but brought together many very disparate groups working pragmatically for the same end).

Hot air rising...

Outside Franprix on the Rue Lecourbe, Paris 15e, there's a woman selling Itinérant, the magazine sold by the sdf or homeless. She's standing in the doorway, clasping the top copy accross her chest as if to keep herself warm. I can't read the whole headline, but the word, pollution flashes out at me in red.

It's cold. There was ice this morning on the cars along the Boulevard Garibaldi and, this week, the 'luminous' panneaux publicitaires du mairie are telling us to turn our heating down to 19 degrees centigrade, Pour limiter la pollution et lutter contre le dérèglement climatique (in order to limit pollution and fight against climatic deregulation).

Further down the street there are billboards of Carla Sarkozy, the new first lady, touting Lancia cars.

She's advertising 'une beaute spacieuse'.

About a month ago, at the end of a freezing January, the new Mme Sarkozy appeared on the cover of the French edition of Closer magazine wearing a black bikini opposite a photo of Sarkozy's 10 years older ex-wife, Cecilia, who was showing une beaute perhaps une peu pluse spacieuse in a similar swimsuit(inevitably it was somewhat harsh to place the 50-year old Cecilia next to the 39-year old Carla, who still contiues her career as a model).

It's probably the most shockingly <<people>> (ie. celebrity) cover I've seen in France; the French are edging ever closer to the brutal, deregulated Anglo-Saxon world of tabloid journalism.

Though French journalism is Heat-ing up, the country's legal system retains its traditional froideur. When Cecilia sued Closer, the judge awarded a provisional ruling in favour of her 30,000 euro claim, agreeing with her lawyer that it was as though the two women "were comparing goods".

This is no exaggeration for effect. Both women are or were professional models. Describing their bodies as 'goods' cannot be seen as a an insult, or even a metaphor.

Paris markets are in freefall: The worth ofValeurs sûres (sure things/blue-chip companies) might have plummeted recently, but value resides in the most unlikely places. The Société Générale's bodies of accounts might have turned out to be fakes but Carla and Cecilia's assets - whether fake or naturel - are holding value.

But it's not only the appearance of the personnages at the heart of the president bling-bling saga that valent ses pesants d'or (are worth their weight in gold).

The president is himself sueing newspaper Le Nouvel Observateur over their claim, earlier this month, that he texted Cecilia before his remarriage offering to cancel his wedding to Ms Bruni.

In an exclusive first interview in L'express recently the new Mme Sarkozy expressed her surprise at moving into the political world où les mots ont plus de poids (where words weigh more heavily).

Even in an overheating climate, there's a heavy lot of hot air going around.

The Sarkozys, past and present, are fighting the new climat dérèglé (deregulated climate) of French journalism. For the moment, they're winning damages - France remains a country where images and words retain their value - even if only after the scandal is published and the damage has been done.

Meanwhile, back on the hoarding, there's the new Mrs Sarkozy endorsing new cars; global rechauffement: the convenience of private transport at the expense of public pollution levels.

Back at my apartment, the heating is set to 18 degrees centigrade. I move it up a notch to 19.

And the woman outside Franprix shifts her feet, and clutches her fundraising magazine closer to her chest.

Sarkobsession

I caught a glimpse of him in the street, the week before the first round of the elections last April. I'd like to say our eyes met, but there were too many bodyguards.

I'm talking about the now-president of the Republique, Nicolas Sarkozy.

Last night, rather disturbingly, I dreamt about him:

I have no idea what this means, but I certainly find him strangely compelling. His fascinating hyperactivity; the passion with which he defends his ideas; the way he looks up from under his dark eyelashes like Princess Diana did (maybe he does this because of his height variously estimated at aroud 165cm).

And he has the personal appeal of an actor. Have you noticed how extreme his facial expressions are when he's photographed? When he looks stern, he could be playing Macbeth at the Comédie-Française ; when he laughs, he could be presenting children's television. When he looked at Cécilia, well...

He also has a good head of right-wing hair. I've always had a bit of a thing for it's iron-clad inaccessability.

In early May this year my friend Isabelle wisely predicted a wave of strikes in the Summer if Sarkozy gained the presidency. I waited for them all the vacances. It was like a phoney war, but the serious action didn't arrive until October.

Now they've been around for a month and, after the wobbly end of the transport strike last week, politically I'm in a no-mans land.

Supporting strikers in France is part social grace. Unlike the UK where grumbling is a competitive sport, in Paris it would have been rude to complain when the trains didn't run. As commuters congratulated strikers in the street, it made for an almost festive atmosphere. And in the metro, people waited in eerily polite silence for the reduced service.

I used to be left-wing or rather, I still want to be. I just don't quite know what 'left-wing' is any more. The continuing currency of traditional left-wing ideas is one of the things I like about France. Trouble is, I find I can't object to the things even Sarkozy has so far only tentatively paid lip service to. Things which British socialism has been letting under the radar for such a long time that they seem part of the package: privately run national services; removal of subventions; easing of employment laws...

Maybe in the UK, we've reached something a little like post-feminism - a state of mind which allows for enjoying the possibly conflicting delights of emancipation, lipstick and high heels.

I guess you could maybe call me a 'post-socialist'.

The other trouble is that Sarko seems to believe in a lot of other less acceptable things too. The question I find so confusing is, is he right but repulsive, or wrong but wromantic?

Polls will be taken. Your votes here, please...

TAGS: SARKOZY, DREAMS, GREVE, HAIR, HEIGHT, NEW LABOUR, TORY, 1066 AND ALL THAT.