Saturday, 23 December 2017
Cuddles! (A Cat's Christmas)
Once upon a time -and it was a very strange time- there was a little boy and his cat. The little boy was called Tommy and the cat "Thing".
"Hey, Thing" Tommy would say "don't jump on my bed, don't jump on my -ah, too late!" Because Thing always jumped on Tommy's bed. And why did Thing like to jump on Tommy's bed? Because Thing wanted to be with Tommy. Thing liked to go and breathe hard in Tommy's face ("mrumph! mrumph!"), which always cracked Tommy up. Tommy could never keep a straight face when the cheeky beast went for his nose and mrumphed! mrumphed! in it. Thing loved to do that, especially when Tommy least expected it. Maybe Tommy would be reading a book... or daydreaming... or even sleeping -and the next thing he knew, there was a fearless feline with a long moustache and pointed ears going "mrumph! mrumph!" right in his face. Tommy always burst out laughing when Thing did that.
There was a reason why Thing liked to do that, you see. Not just because it amused her -and it amused her greatly- but also because Thing knew that Tommy would always laugh when she did that, and when people laugh, that means they're happy. Thing loved Tommy and wanted to make him happy.
But Thing was after something else, too. Oh wasn't she clever! Thing knew that Tommy would always give her a cuddle as a result and Thing loooved being cuddled. Thing going "mrumph! mrumph!" in the Little Master's face was her say of saying "Cuddles! I want some cuddles!" -and Tommy would always oblige.
And so the days went by, with Tommy going to school and coming back from school, and Thing waiting for Tommy to reappear. As soon as Tommy would sit somewhere, Thing would raise her delicate head and survey the room. No danger on the right, no danger on the left... Then she would uncoil silently, stretch out, and make for Tommy's chair like the great predator that she was (a predator for cuddles, that is). One second later, the cat would be into the little boy's face going "mrumph! mrumph! I want some cuddles!" And both of them were happy.
Sadly the times were hard. It was a very strange time for sure. Tommy's family didn't have much money and Christmas was on its way. Everybody was wondering what presents to give to each other and Tommy couldn't think of any for Thing. A radio maybe? Who ever heard of a radio for a cat! A wristwatch? Cats don't wear wristwatches! A pair of boots that light up in the dark? That's no present for a cat! Besides, all of these prezzies cost money that Tommy didn't have, now that he had spent his pocket-money on his mummy and daddy. So there he was. ... He couldn't think of anything to buy his feline friend and he was getting worried.
Thing was worried too: the Little Master was acting all strange these days. She could see him folding his face in all sorts of ways and she could hear him sighing for no clear reason; Tommy would scratch his nose and stare in the air, looking at ... nothing she could see (and she tried so very hard to see what he was looking at). What was going on here? She just couldn't understand what the matter was with him: he didn't have a fever (she would sense it if that was the case), he wasn't looking for something in his room -so what on earth was happening in his human head? Humans are so bizarre! And she thought she knew him... The more Thing saw little Tommy in this state, the more she wanted to make him happy. If only she could think of some way...
Then Tommy found the solution.
Then Thing found the solution.
But they didn't tell each other, oh no. They waited for the right moment.
And so the days passed, 19th of December, 20th of December, 21st of December, 22nd of December, 23rd of December, 24th of December... and then it was Christmas. Christmas! The one day in the year when the pressure to be merry and generous is on you: celebrate! be nice to someone! share in the joy of being alive and make happy memories for the future!
Sunlight crept timidly through the curtains and started to dance on the wall, cunningly progressing toward Tommy's pillow. There. Sunlight now bathed Tommy's splayed hair, illuminating his face. Thing had been waiting for this moment, and she wasted no time in running up to the Little Master's bed. Whoomp! Her graceful body flew through the air and landed on the golden blanket. Plomp! Tommy pretended not to notice. He had been waiting for that moment too. Thing paused for a second, looked around the silent room in her usual cautious way, and glided towards the Little Master's innocent face. ... She was now a whisker away.
Then she breathed into Tommy's nose and, just as she thought, he burst out laughing. She had guessed right! No more worries for the little man! Laughter rang round the room as the little boy mock-tried to defend himself against the friendly assault: "Oh stop it now Thing, stop it, ah don't after all!" Thing mrumphed even harder, rubbing her whiskers on Tommy's cheeks, nudging him to move. Thing was loving it, for she had found a way to wipe the frown off Tommy's face.
Tommy was also having the time of his life. "Oh I think I know what's going on here! Cuddles! You want some cuddles is what you want!" he exclaimed delightedly, and he was very happy to give her lots. Boy and cat rolled around, mock-fighting and teasing each other. Their laughter and meows echoed through the house and Tommy's mum and dad came to see what was happening. When they saw Tommy and Thing having such a great time, they decided to leave them alone. These two would come down for breakfast when they were ready.
And so Tommy and Thing enjoyed a wonderful Christmas morning just the two of them, no need for material things or expensive gifts. They had a brilliant Christmas because they had understood that you don't always need money to have a lovely time. Some of the best things in the world don't cost a thing
-and they make all the difference.
"Hey, Thing" Tommy would say "don't jump on my bed, don't jump on my -ah, too late!" Because Thing always jumped on Tommy's bed. And why did Thing like to jump on Tommy's bed? Because Thing wanted to be with Tommy. Thing liked to go and breathe hard in Tommy's face ("mrumph! mrumph!"), which always cracked Tommy up. Tommy could never keep a straight face when the cheeky beast went for his nose and mrumphed! mrumphed! in it. Thing loved to do that, especially when Tommy least expected it. Maybe Tommy would be reading a book... or daydreaming... or even sleeping -and the next thing he knew, there was a fearless feline with a long moustache and pointed ears going "mrumph! mrumph!" right in his face. Tommy always burst out laughing when Thing did that.
There was a reason why Thing liked to do that, you see. Not just because it amused her -and it amused her greatly- but also because Thing knew that Tommy would always laugh when she did that, and when people laugh, that means they're happy. Thing loved Tommy and wanted to make him happy.
But Thing was after something else, too. Oh wasn't she clever! Thing knew that Tommy would always give her a cuddle as a result and Thing loooved being cuddled. Thing going "mrumph! mrumph!" in the Little Master's face was her say of saying "Cuddles! I want some cuddles!" -and Tommy would always oblige.
And so the days went by, with Tommy going to school and coming back from school, and Thing waiting for Tommy to reappear. As soon as Tommy would sit somewhere, Thing would raise her delicate head and survey the room. No danger on the right, no danger on the left... Then she would uncoil silently, stretch out, and make for Tommy's chair like the great predator that she was (a predator for cuddles, that is). One second later, the cat would be into the little boy's face going "mrumph! mrumph! I want some cuddles!" And both of them were happy.
Sadly the times were hard. It was a very strange time for sure. Tommy's family didn't have much money and Christmas was on its way. Everybody was wondering what presents to give to each other and Tommy couldn't think of any for Thing. A radio maybe? Who ever heard of a radio for a cat! A wristwatch? Cats don't wear wristwatches! A pair of boots that light up in the dark? That's no present for a cat! Besides, all of these prezzies cost money that Tommy didn't have, now that he had spent his pocket-money on his mummy and daddy. So there he was. ... He couldn't think of anything to buy his feline friend and he was getting worried.
Thing was worried too: the Little Master was acting all strange these days. She could see him folding his face in all sorts of ways and she could hear him sighing for no clear reason; Tommy would scratch his nose and stare in the air, looking at ... nothing she could see (and she tried so very hard to see what he was looking at). What was going on here? She just couldn't understand what the matter was with him: he didn't have a fever (she would sense it if that was the case), he wasn't looking for something in his room -so what on earth was happening in his human head? Humans are so bizarre! And she thought she knew him... The more Thing saw little Tommy in this state, the more she wanted to make him happy. If only she could think of some way...
Then Tommy found the solution.
Then Thing found the solution.
But they didn't tell each other, oh no. They waited for the right moment.
And so the days passed, 19th of December, 20th of December, 21st of December, 22nd of December, 23rd of December, 24th of December... and then it was Christmas. Christmas! The one day in the year when the pressure to be merry and generous is on you: celebrate! be nice to someone! share in the joy of being alive and make happy memories for the future!
Sunlight crept timidly through the curtains and started to dance on the wall, cunningly progressing toward Tommy's pillow. There. Sunlight now bathed Tommy's splayed hair, illuminating his face. Thing had been waiting for this moment, and she wasted no time in running up to the Little Master's bed. Whoomp! Her graceful body flew through the air and landed on the golden blanket. Plomp! Tommy pretended not to notice. He had been waiting for that moment too. Thing paused for a second, looked around the silent room in her usual cautious way, and glided towards the Little Master's innocent face. ... She was now a whisker away.
Then she breathed into Tommy's nose and, just as she thought, he burst out laughing. She had guessed right! No more worries for the little man! Laughter rang round the room as the little boy mock-tried to defend himself against the friendly assault: "Oh stop it now Thing, stop it, ah don't after all!" Thing mrumphed even harder, rubbing her whiskers on Tommy's cheeks, nudging him to move. Thing was loving it, for she had found a way to wipe the frown off Tommy's face.
Tommy was also having the time of his life. "Oh I think I know what's going on here! Cuddles! You want some cuddles is what you want!" he exclaimed delightedly, and he was very happy to give her lots. Boy and cat rolled around, mock-fighting and teasing each other. Their laughter and meows echoed through the house and Tommy's mum and dad came to see what was happening. When they saw Tommy and Thing having such a great time, they decided to leave them alone. These two would come down for breakfast when they were ready.
And so Tommy and Thing enjoyed a wonderful Christmas morning just the two of them, no need for material things or expensive gifts. They had a brilliant Christmas because they had understood that you don't always need money to have a lovely time. Some of the best things in the world don't cost a thing
-and they make all the difference.
Saturday, 16 December 2017
l'amour a la plage
Jean-Jean brancha le poste juste au moment ou Jeuhnny attaquait son dernier hitt: "Queu j'eu t'aimeuh". A vrai dire, Jean-Jean n'avait jamais eu loisir d'apprecier le tube de Jeuhnny a sa juste valeur; l'opportunite de le savourer pleinement lui etait offerte par la providence, qui lui tendait les bras.
Les orgues se dechainerent, puis les guitares s'y mirent. La batterie tapait lourd (a moins que ce ne fut la basse) et quelque chose plana dans l'air, qui rendit l'atmosphere franchement dramatique. Jeuhnny fit une tete, puis declama les vers suivants :
"Queu jeu t'aimeuh, oh queu jeu t'aimeuh / Queu jeu t'aimeuh, queu jeu t'aimeuh".
Le jean's en patte d'eph' de Jeuhnny etait brode de fines etoiles scintillant sous les projecteurs du studio. Son jaune vif Pastis 51 s'accordait avec merveille au debardeur vert pale qui mettait en valeur les bracelets en cuir lui enserrant les poignets, c'etait feerique. Viril comme pas un, Jeuhnny completait enfin sa tenue de tombeur des dancingues par un foulard rouge sang-de-boeuf negligeamment noue autour de ses epaules musclees. La sueur perlait sur son mufle et collait ses meches a son front empourpre par la passion de sa chanson. Soit ca, soit il etait constipe.
"Queu jeu taimeuh" repeta Jeuhnny, petrifie d'intensite et bouleversitude.
La ritournelle entrainante arriva malheureusement a son terme et Guy Lux fit son apparition dans son smeuking creme caramel (costume de Donald Cardwell, decor de Roger Hart). L'animateur cligna des yeux en direction de la camera.
"... Jeuhnny !" lanca-t-il enfin a l'audience invisible apres avoir consulte sa petite fiche. Ladite audience se repandit en applaudissements et Jeuhnny accepta les vivats d'un mouvement modeste. (Il voulait surtout eviter de ruisseler et faire des taches a son beau patalon. Heureusement que la champouineuse l'avait asperge de sent-bon avant son passage a l'antenne.)
Jean-Jean s'en voulut a mort d'avoir rate le debut de l'emission car Jeuhnny s'esquivait deja. "Merci, merci tout l'monde."
Guy Lux se tenait le long d'une piscine verte schwingum Hollywood entoure de deux minettes en costume de bain dont le minimalisme radical ne laissait presager rien de bon quant a leurs chances de rentrer chez elles plus tard avec leur maquillage toujours en place. Qui allait leur passer dessus: le presentateur, la vedette, l'agent du premier ou du second, le chef-machino ? Les paris etaient ouverts. (Probablement pas le chef-machino a la reflection.)
Le sympathique animateur consulta ses petites fiches a la recherche de l'artiste suivant : "Et maintenant qui avons-nous... ?" Jean-Jean ne savait pas, il attendit qu'on lui dise. Les deux heureuses elues des faveurs du presentateur arboraient un sourire presque taquin, flanquees de chaque cote d'icelui. Il faut dire que des aureoles de transpiration se profilaient deja sur le beau costume du maitre de ceremonie, comme quoi se balader en maillot de bain n'etait peut-etre pas si cretin...
Dick Riveurs en personne entra alors dans le champ de la camera, ni une ni deux, soigneusement degingande dans son smeuking blanc ouvert jusqu'au nombril -avec une lourde croix en argent pour preserver la decence de son thorax nonobstant.
"Ah oui, Dick Riveurs !" lanca Guy Lux triomphalement. (Il venait de retrouver sa fiche.) L'audience s'explosa en applaudissement bien nourris.
"Mais dis-moi, Dick... qu'est-ce que j'apprends ? Alors comme ca tu as un nouvel album ?" lut Guy Lux.
"Oui Guy, et il-vient-de-sortir, il sera dans les bacs le 3 de ce mois" repondit Dick Riveurs autour de sa clope plantee dans la bouche. (Quel bad beuy il faisait !)
"Mais c'est formidable ca ! Et comment s'appelle-t-il ?" lut encore la personnalite preferee des Francais d'un ton enjoue.
"Il s'appelle ReucknReull is zeu King" repondit Dick Riveurs et il manqua incinerer la moumoutte de son interlocuteur en echappant sa cigarette plein sur le crane juste au-dessous. Heureusement que Guy Lux ne s'apercut de rien, et il continua a l'interviouwer sur le meme ton badin qui lui valait les honneurs du public depuis si longtemps.
"ReucknReull is Feucking ? Mais c'est magnifique ! Et dis-moi Dick, ou l'as-tu enregistre ? Ou l'as-tu enregistre, hein ?"
Ingenieux, Dick Riveurs avait profite de la replique de Guy Lux pour reprendre sa cigarette et se la replanter dans la bouche. Un bref moment desarconne, il avait vite repris le dessus pour redevenir le rebelle sans compromission qui faisait battre le coeur des filles de ferme dans leurs culottes en coton et bottes en caoutchouc. Ceci etant dit, la cigarette lui posait neanmoins quelques problemes pour articuler sa reponse, notamment au niveau des plosives.
"Eh bien j'eu lai enwegistwe a Nashville-Tennessee, Guy. Au (p)ays du King, Elvis P(w)esley !"
"Elvis Pwesley, mesdames et messieurs !!" repeta Guy Lux ravi, et l'audience pas reveche se fendit d'une autre salve d'applaudissements, c'etait beau comme du Michel Drucker.
Puis -que se passa-t-il donc ?- l'une des deux beunny-girl's en maillot de bain revint avec un plateau de boissons couronne d'un magnifique ananas tronconne en deux.
Elle le tendit -le plateau, pas l'ananas- a Dick Riveurs pour qu'il se servisse. Le mouvement la forca a se pencher en avant et la camera n'eut d'autre choix que de faire un gros plan. La taille de Guy Lux le positionnant a hauteur du buste feminin, le sympathique animateur donna soudain l'impression de se rendre compte de la perspective offerte a ses yeux. Il cligna de l'oeil en direction de la camera qui -par un heureux hasard- le cadrait bien au centre a cote de la paire de nibards, puis remonta vers lui son micro rectangulaire pour surement s'appreter a offrir une de ses reparties dont lui seul avait le secret. Guy Lux s'humecta les levres nerveusement.
"Eh bien les enfants" lanca-t-il a la cantonnee "...le fond de l'air est chaud !"
Les enfants en question manquerent faire sur eux a cette boutade dont personne d'autre que le grand maitre d'oeuvre de la variete francaise n'eut ete capable -Sacre Guy Lux ! C'etait bien simple, on se serait cru chez Patrick Sebastien (le bon gout en plus evidemment).
La jeune fille se releva enfin de sa pose inconfortable, un sourire des plus naturels aux levres. Dick Riveurs trempa les siennes dans le verre qui lui avait ete offert et ne put reprimer une grimace. Puis l'intrepide reuckeur avala d'un trait.
Apparut soudain Ringo. Ringo ! L'idole des foules !?!
Le sourire de Guy Lux lui monta jusqu'aux oreilles. "Ringo ! En voila une bonne surprise !" La foule s'esclaffa a ce nouveau trait d'humour.
"Bonsoir, Guy" repondit Ringo du tac au tac. Il etait comme ca Ringo : simple et sans pretention. Il fit la bise a Guy Lux. Puis le crooneur des discotheques se tourna vers Dick Riveurs.
"Salut Dick, j'apprends que tu sors un nouvel album ?"
"Oui Ringo, j'en-sors-un-nouveau" confirma Dick Riveurs.
"Ca te dirait qu'on fasse un duo ?"
Dick Riveurs n'eut pas le temps de considerer la proposition que Guy Lux ejacula
"Ca alors ! Un duo de Ringo et Dick ! Qu'en pensez-vous mes enfants ?" (s'adressant aux spectateurs hors-cadre) "Mais c'est formidable !"
Jean-Jean sursauta a la perspective d'un tel evenement et chercha desesperement la telecommande pour regler le son. Puis il se rappela qu'elles n'existaient pas encore dans ce temps-la. Fatalitas ! Il dut se resoudre a se lever et faire les cinq pas pour couper le son manuellement.
Entre-temp, Ringo et Dick Riveurs avaient pris position.
Le symbole-sexe a droite, le grand corbeau a gauche -on reconnaissait bien ici la patte des productions Carpentier, leur sceau de qualite. L'un en blanc, l'autre en noir. Les deux terreurs des hitt-parades entamerent leur duo. Ils y mirent du leur, a grands coups d'expressions peinees et sourcils douloureux, faisant bien attention a ne pas se toucher ni a echanger plus de coups d'oeil que ceux absolument necessaires -Ils n'allaient quand meme pas passer pour une bande de tarlouses.
Ringo et Dick Riveurs firent alors quelques pas de concert vers le palmier en pot et, l'espace d'un instant, Jean-Jean crut qu'ils allaient jouer a se poursuivre autour ("Nique nique, c'est toi la bique / Si je t'attrape, je te frappe"). Il n'en fut rien. Ringo s'appuya en fait mollement contre le tronc caoutchouteux et celui-ci commenca a glisser sur le carrelage. Ringo se redressa aussitot. Les rouflaquettes entourant son visage impavide d'etalon ibere vaguement neurasthenique battaient la mesure au rhythme de ses talonnettes, celles de Dick Riveurs etaient moins reussies.
Jean-Jean remit le son, curieux.
Ringo etait en train de se vider les tripes dans un acces de tourment emotionnel magnifique et Dick Riveurs le lui rendait bien :
"Jeu t'aimeu oh oui jeu t'aimeu
-Jeu t'aimeussi oh oui
Mais non jeu t'aimeu, c'est moi qui
-Jeu t'aimeussi. Oh yeah."
Puis la chanson prit fin. Un silence d'une seconde se produisit qui fut heureusement succede par un tonnerre d'applaudissements. Le voltmetre partit dans le rouge et le chat sursauta.
"Ce n'est rien mon gros doudou" le rassura Jean-Jean, "ce n'est que Ringo et Dick Riveurs les celebres idoles des jeunes". Pepere jeta un regard furieux aux humains qui avaient ose interrompre sa sieste et daigna accepter une ou deux caresses -pas plus- avant de repiquer au truc.
A l'ecran, Guy Lux consultait toujours ses fiches.
Les orgues se dechainerent, puis les guitares s'y mirent. La batterie tapait lourd (a moins que ce ne fut la basse) et quelque chose plana dans l'air, qui rendit l'atmosphere franchement dramatique. Jeuhnny fit une tete, puis declama les vers suivants :
"Queu jeu t'aimeuh, oh queu jeu t'aimeuh / Queu jeu t'aimeuh, queu jeu t'aimeuh".
Le jean's en patte d'eph' de Jeuhnny etait brode de fines etoiles scintillant sous les projecteurs du studio. Son jaune vif Pastis 51 s'accordait avec merveille au debardeur vert pale qui mettait en valeur les bracelets en cuir lui enserrant les poignets, c'etait feerique. Viril comme pas un, Jeuhnny completait enfin sa tenue de tombeur des dancingues par un foulard rouge sang-de-boeuf negligeamment noue autour de ses epaules musclees. La sueur perlait sur son mufle et collait ses meches a son front empourpre par la passion de sa chanson. Soit ca, soit il etait constipe.
"Queu jeu taimeuh" repeta Jeuhnny, petrifie d'intensite et bouleversitude.
La ritournelle entrainante arriva malheureusement a son terme et Guy Lux fit son apparition dans son smeuking creme caramel (costume de Donald Cardwell, decor de Roger Hart). L'animateur cligna des yeux en direction de la camera.
"... Jeuhnny !" lanca-t-il enfin a l'audience invisible apres avoir consulte sa petite fiche. Ladite audience se repandit en applaudissements et Jeuhnny accepta les vivats d'un mouvement modeste. (Il voulait surtout eviter de ruisseler et faire des taches a son beau patalon. Heureusement que la champouineuse l'avait asperge de sent-bon avant son passage a l'antenne.)
Jean-Jean s'en voulut a mort d'avoir rate le debut de l'emission car Jeuhnny s'esquivait deja. "Merci, merci tout l'monde."
Guy Lux se tenait le long d'une piscine verte schwingum Hollywood entoure de deux minettes en costume de bain dont le minimalisme radical ne laissait presager rien de bon quant a leurs chances de rentrer chez elles plus tard avec leur maquillage toujours en place. Qui allait leur passer dessus: le presentateur, la vedette, l'agent du premier ou du second, le chef-machino ? Les paris etaient ouverts. (Probablement pas le chef-machino a la reflection.)
Le sympathique animateur consulta ses petites fiches a la recherche de l'artiste suivant : "Et maintenant qui avons-nous... ?" Jean-Jean ne savait pas, il attendit qu'on lui dise. Les deux heureuses elues des faveurs du presentateur arboraient un sourire presque taquin, flanquees de chaque cote d'icelui. Il faut dire que des aureoles de transpiration se profilaient deja sur le beau costume du maitre de ceremonie, comme quoi se balader en maillot de bain n'etait peut-etre pas si cretin...
Dick Riveurs en personne entra alors dans le champ de la camera, ni une ni deux, soigneusement degingande dans son smeuking blanc ouvert jusqu'au nombril -avec une lourde croix en argent pour preserver la decence de son thorax nonobstant.
"Ah oui, Dick Riveurs !" lanca Guy Lux triomphalement. (Il venait de retrouver sa fiche.) L'audience s'explosa en applaudissement bien nourris.
"Mais dis-moi, Dick... qu'est-ce que j'apprends ? Alors comme ca tu as un nouvel album ?" lut Guy Lux.
"Oui Guy, et il-vient-de-sortir, il sera dans les bacs le 3 de ce mois" repondit Dick Riveurs autour de sa clope plantee dans la bouche. (Quel bad beuy il faisait !)
"Mais c'est formidable ca ! Et comment s'appelle-t-il ?" lut encore la personnalite preferee des Francais d'un ton enjoue.
"Il s'appelle ReucknReull is zeu King" repondit Dick Riveurs et il manqua incinerer la moumoutte de son interlocuteur en echappant sa cigarette plein sur le crane juste au-dessous. Heureusement que Guy Lux ne s'apercut de rien, et il continua a l'interviouwer sur le meme ton badin qui lui valait les honneurs du public depuis si longtemps.
"ReucknReull is Feucking ? Mais c'est magnifique ! Et dis-moi Dick, ou l'as-tu enregistre ? Ou l'as-tu enregistre, hein ?"
Ingenieux, Dick Riveurs avait profite de la replique de Guy Lux pour reprendre sa cigarette et se la replanter dans la bouche. Un bref moment desarconne, il avait vite repris le dessus pour redevenir le rebelle sans compromission qui faisait battre le coeur des filles de ferme dans leurs culottes en coton et bottes en caoutchouc. Ceci etant dit, la cigarette lui posait neanmoins quelques problemes pour articuler sa reponse, notamment au niveau des plosives.
"Eh bien j'eu lai enwegistwe a Nashville-Tennessee, Guy. Au (p)ays du King, Elvis P(w)esley !"
"Elvis Pwesley, mesdames et messieurs !!" repeta Guy Lux ravi, et l'audience pas reveche se fendit d'une autre salve d'applaudissements, c'etait beau comme du Michel Drucker.
Puis -que se passa-t-il donc ?- l'une des deux beunny-girl's en maillot de bain revint avec un plateau de boissons couronne d'un magnifique ananas tronconne en deux.
Elle le tendit -le plateau, pas l'ananas- a Dick Riveurs pour qu'il se servisse. Le mouvement la forca a se pencher en avant et la camera n'eut d'autre choix que de faire un gros plan. La taille de Guy Lux le positionnant a hauteur du buste feminin, le sympathique animateur donna soudain l'impression de se rendre compte de la perspective offerte a ses yeux. Il cligna de l'oeil en direction de la camera qui -par un heureux hasard- le cadrait bien au centre a cote de la paire de nibards, puis remonta vers lui son micro rectangulaire pour surement s'appreter a offrir une de ses reparties dont lui seul avait le secret. Guy Lux s'humecta les levres nerveusement.
"Eh bien les enfants" lanca-t-il a la cantonnee "...le fond de l'air est chaud !"
Les enfants en question manquerent faire sur eux a cette boutade dont personne d'autre que le grand maitre d'oeuvre de la variete francaise n'eut ete capable -Sacre Guy Lux ! C'etait bien simple, on se serait cru chez Patrick Sebastien (le bon gout en plus evidemment).
La jeune fille se releva enfin de sa pose inconfortable, un sourire des plus naturels aux levres. Dick Riveurs trempa les siennes dans le verre qui lui avait ete offert et ne put reprimer une grimace. Puis l'intrepide reuckeur avala d'un trait.
Apparut soudain Ringo. Ringo ! L'idole des foules !?!
Le sourire de Guy Lux lui monta jusqu'aux oreilles. "Ringo ! En voila une bonne surprise !" La foule s'esclaffa a ce nouveau trait d'humour.
"Bonsoir, Guy" repondit Ringo du tac au tac. Il etait comme ca Ringo : simple et sans pretention. Il fit la bise a Guy Lux. Puis le crooneur des discotheques se tourna vers Dick Riveurs.
"Salut Dick, j'apprends que tu sors un nouvel album ?"
"Oui Ringo, j'en-sors-un-nouveau" confirma Dick Riveurs.
"Ca te dirait qu'on fasse un duo ?"
Dick Riveurs n'eut pas le temps de considerer la proposition que Guy Lux ejacula
"Ca alors ! Un duo de Ringo et Dick ! Qu'en pensez-vous mes enfants ?" (s'adressant aux spectateurs hors-cadre) "Mais c'est formidable !"
Jean-Jean sursauta a la perspective d'un tel evenement et chercha desesperement la telecommande pour regler le son. Puis il se rappela qu'elles n'existaient pas encore dans ce temps-la. Fatalitas ! Il dut se resoudre a se lever et faire les cinq pas pour couper le son manuellement.
Entre-temp, Ringo et Dick Riveurs avaient pris position.
Le symbole-sexe a droite, le grand corbeau a gauche -on reconnaissait bien ici la patte des productions Carpentier, leur sceau de qualite. L'un en blanc, l'autre en noir. Les deux terreurs des hitt-parades entamerent leur duo. Ils y mirent du leur, a grands coups d'expressions peinees et sourcils douloureux, faisant bien attention a ne pas se toucher ni a echanger plus de coups d'oeil que ceux absolument necessaires -Ils n'allaient quand meme pas passer pour une bande de tarlouses.
Ringo et Dick Riveurs firent alors quelques pas de concert vers le palmier en pot et, l'espace d'un instant, Jean-Jean crut qu'ils allaient jouer a se poursuivre autour ("Nique nique, c'est toi la bique / Si je t'attrape, je te frappe"). Il n'en fut rien. Ringo s'appuya en fait mollement contre le tronc caoutchouteux et celui-ci commenca a glisser sur le carrelage. Ringo se redressa aussitot. Les rouflaquettes entourant son visage impavide d'etalon ibere vaguement neurasthenique battaient la mesure au rhythme de ses talonnettes, celles de Dick Riveurs etaient moins reussies.
Jean-Jean remit le son, curieux.
Ringo etait en train de se vider les tripes dans un acces de tourment emotionnel magnifique et Dick Riveurs le lui rendait bien :
"Jeu t'aimeu oh oui jeu t'aimeu
-Jeu t'aimeussi oh oui
Mais non jeu t'aimeu, c'est moi qui
-Jeu t'aimeussi. Oh yeah."
Puis la chanson prit fin. Un silence d'une seconde se produisit qui fut heureusement succede par un tonnerre d'applaudissements. Le voltmetre partit dans le rouge et le chat sursauta.
"Ce n'est rien mon gros doudou" le rassura Jean-Jean, "ce n'est que Ringo et Dick Riveurs les celebres idoles des jeunes". Pepere jeta un regard furieux aux humains qui avaient ose interrompre sa sieste et daigna accepter une ou deux caresses -pas plus- avant de repiquer au truc.
A l'ecran, Guy Lux consultait toujours ses fiches.
Thursday, 14 December 2017
a totally personal -and anything but exhaustive- selection
Doncha know it's Christmas time; here are a few books I recommend top off me head.
Obvious ones first.
Pretty much anything by The Greatest Living American Writer : Don DeLillo. Start with "Point Omega", say (it's not his most difficult one -which would probably be "The Names"). Don DeLillo has understood everything about the modern world. Everything. The man expresses whole theories and conveys whole scenes in one simple sentence, and can rightfully be elevated to the rank of Faulkner, no less.
Close second in the "greatest" stakes : Cormac mcCarthy - take on his "Blood Meridian", it will take your breath away.
No need to harp on about "Tristram Shandy", "Tom Jones", "American Psycho", "Catch 22", "The Picture of Dorian Gray", "Infinite Jest", "The Corrections"... I am a huge fan of Dick (no sniggering at the back, thank you) but can't think of one definitive novel of his. "Ubik", I suppose.
Louis de Bernieres "Notwithstanding" : utterly enchanting. The story of a little village with his "characters", budding / clandestine / unrequited love stories, mini-dramas and so on. It's just marvellous, echoes of "l'honneur perdu de Pedonzigues" "stray sod country" (see below), or "under milkwood".
Raymond Chandler "The Big Sleep". Quite simply one of the most talented writers I have ever come across - boy could this guy write!!! ...so much so that the actual plot hardly matters. A reader once collared him to moan about the fact that the murderer of one of the side-characters is never revealed; Chandler admitted he didn't know ((or care, for that matter)) either!
Patrick McCabe, let's say... "Call me the Breeze" maybe. Focken brilliant writer, so he is. Keeping the genius Irish tradition of "poetic realism" best embodied by the one-and-only Flann o'Brien (start with "The Third Policeman" rather than "At Swim Two Bird" because you will be lost) alive. McCabe pretty much writes the same old story in all of these books (basically ** **** **** *** **** and that's about it) but I don't mind one bit. Your man deeply cares for his characters, especially when he submits them to the worst possible tragedies.
John Steinbeck "Cannery Row". It is difficult to understate the sheer rightfulness of this man. A giant he was. "Cannery Row" (and his sequel "Sweet Thursday" -hurrah!!) is a comedy - meaning it is not a chore to read like "The Grapes of Wrath" or "Of Mice and Men" (-English teacher's voice: you what?????). Let's say it is not a hundred miles away from the world of Prevert or Queneau : it wears its heart on its sleeve and will make you laugh just as much as it will make you cry. I remember thinking at the time "oh God, I can't face the prospect of it coming to an end soon..."
Another of my heroes: Kurt Vonnegut. Let's say... "God bless you, mr. Goldwater" but I just as easily offer "Galapagos" as a taster. A wonderful wonderful wonderful man. Vonnegut throws everything but the kitchen sink at the page. And then lays on another layer - just because there are no rules. A bona fide humanist and a great example of the power of imagination. (cf. JG Ballard in the UK. ... Sort of.)
I do hope that you have heard of "A Prayer For Owen Meany" by John Irving. You haven't? Boy oh boy, are you in for a treat. Then move on to "Garp" and brace yourself for "The Cider House Rules" which has to be his "best" (if we have to offer such perfunctory criteria). Warning : handkerchief at the ready! Irving -a self-proclaimed fan of Dickens- doesn't do things by half.
Douglas Coupland "Hey, Nostradamus!" : the answer to Gus van Sant's "Elephant". Or the recent "Worst. Person. Ever" which is very different : a comedy. Yet another of these writers I am actively engaged in reading everything he has produced.
Alice Sebold "The Lovely Bones" - Fantastically gifted writer, somewhat reminiscent of DeLillo's powers of evocation, there can be no higher praise. Please please please produce some more!
Honourable mentions :
Will Self "The Book of Dave" - Toni Morrison "Beloved" - Irvine Welsh any of his, really ! a veritable Molotov cocktail of words is our Irvine, let's choose "Porno" for the craic of it - Paul Auster once again, hard to single one out, maybe one from his early trilogy or "In The Country of Lost Things"? - Russell Banks "The Rule of Bones" - Thomas Coraghessan Boyle "Drop City" (file under: read every novel he has written, he has never disappointed me) - etc. etc. etc.
Fill yer boots!
Obvious ones first.
Pretty much anything by The Greatest Living American Writer : Don DeLillo. Start with "Point Omega", say (it's not his most difficult one -which would probably be "The Names"). Don DeLillo has understood everything about the modern world. Everything. The man expresses whole theories and conveys whole scenes in one simple sentence, and can rightfully be elevated to the rank of Faulkner, no less.
Close second in the "greatest" stakes : Cormac mcCarthy - take on his "Blood Meridian", it will take your breath away.
No need to harp on about "Tristram Shandy", "Tom Jones", "American Psycho", "Catch 22", "The Picture of Dorian Gray", "Infinite Jest", "The Corrections"... I am a huge fan of Dick (no sniggering at the back, thank you) but can't think of one definitive novel of his. "Ubik", I suppose.
Louis de Bernieres "Notwithstanding" : utterly enchanting. The story of a little village with his "characters", budding / clandestine / unrequited love stories, mini-dramas and so on. It's just marvellous, echoes of "l'honneur perdu de Pedonzigues" "stray sod country" (see below), or "under milkwood".
Raymond Chandler "The Big Sleep". Quite simply one of the most talented writers I have ever come across - boy could this guy write!!! ...so much so that the actual plot hardly matters. A reader once collared him to moan about the fact that the murderer of one of the side-characters is never revealed; Chandler admitted he didn't know ((or care, for that matter)) either!
Patrick McCabe, let's say... "Call me the Breeze" maybe. Focken brilliant writer, so he is. Keeping the genius Irish tradition of "poetic realism" best embodied by the one-and-only Flann o'Brien (start with "The Third Policeman" rather than "At Swim Two Bird" because you will be lost) alive. McCabe pretty much writes the same old story in all of these books (basically ** **** **** *** **** and that's about it) but I don't mind one bit. Your man deeply cares for his characters, especially when he submits them to the worst possible tragedies.
John Steinbeck "Cannery Row". It is difficult to understate the sheer rightfulness of this man. A giant he was. "Cannery Row" (and his sequel "Sweet Thursday" -hurrah!!) is a comedy - meaning it is not a chore to read like "The Grapes of Wrath" or "Of Mice and Men" (-English teacher's voice: you what?????). Let's say it is not a hundred miles away from the world of Prevert or Queneau : it wears its heart on its sleeve and will make you laugh just as much as it will make you cry. I remember thinking at the time "oh God, I can't face the prospect of it coming to an end soon..."
Another of my heroes: Kurt Vonnegut. Let's say... "God bless you, mr. Goldwater" but I just as easily offer "Galapagos" as a taster. A wonderful wonderful wonderful man. Vonnegut throws everything but the kitchen sink at the page. And then lays on another layer - just because there are no rules. A bona fide humanist and a great example of the power of imagination. (cf. JG Ballard in the UK. ... Sort of.)
I do hope that you have heard of "A Prayer For Owen Meany" by John Irving. You haven't? Boy oh boy, are you in for a treat. Then move on to "Garp" and brace yourself for "The Cider House Rules" which has to be his "best" (if we have to offer such perfunctory criteria). Warning : handkerchief at the ready! Irving -a self-proclaimed fan of Dickens- doesn't do things by half.
Douglas Coupland "Hey, Nostradamus!" : the answer to Gus van Sant's "Elephant". Or the recent "Worst. Person. Ever" which is very different : a comedy. Yet another of these writers I am actively engaged in reading everything he has produced.
Alice Sebold "The Lovely Bones" - Fantastically gifted writer, somewhat reminiscent of DeLillo's powers of evocation, there can be no higher praise. Please please please produce some more!
Honourable mentions :
Will Self "The Book of Dave" - Toni Morrison "Beloved" - Irvine Welsh any of his, really ! a veritable Molotov cocktail of words is our Irvine, let's choose "Porno" for the craic of it - Paul Auster once again, hard to single one out, maybe one from his early trilogy or "In The Country of Lost Things"? - Russell Banks "The Rule of Bones" - Thomas Coraghessan Boyle "Drop City" (file under: read every novel he has written, he has never disappointed me) - etc. etc. etc.
Fill yer boots!
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