forgotten all the magazines: Métal Hurlant, City, Façade, Elles sont de sortie, Le Palace Magazine.
I’ve forgotten the list of Hervé Guibert’s ex-boyfriends.
I’ve forgotten Number 7 on the rue Sainte-Anne and La Piscine on the rue de Tilsitt.
I’ve forgotten Soft Cell’s ‘Tainted Love,’ and Visage’s ‘Fade to Grey’.
I’ve forgotten Yves Mourousi.
I’ve forgotten the collected literary works of Richard Bohringer.
I’ve forgotten the movement known as ‘Allons-z-idées’.
I’ve forgotten Bazooka comics.
I’ve forgotten Divine’s movies.
I’ve forgotten Human League records.
I’ve forgotten the unpopular Alains: Alain Savary and Alain Deva-quet (which of them is dead again?).
I’ve forgotten ska.
I’ve forgotten millions of hours of administrative law, public finances and political economics.
I’ve forgotten to live (song title by Johnny Hallyday).
I’ve forgotten what Russia was called for the first three-quarters of the twentieth century.
I’ve forgotten Yohji Yamamoto.
I’ve forgotten the collected works of Hervé Claude.
I’ve forgotten the Twickenham.
I’ve forgotten the Cinéma Cluny which used to be on the corner of the boulevard Saint-Germain and the rue Saint-Jacques, The Bonaparte on the place Saint-Sulpice and the Studio Bertrand on the rue du Colonel-Bertrand.
I’ve forgotten the Élysées-Matignon and the Royal Lieu.
I’ve forgotten TV6.
I’ve forgotten myself.
I’ve forgotten what Bob Marley died of and the brand of sleeping pills Dalida committed suicide with.
I’ve forgotten Christian Nucci and Yves Chalier (YVES CHALIER, who the hell has a name like Yves Chalier?).
I’ve forgotten Darie Boutboul.
I’ve forgotten ‘La salle de bains’ (was it a book or a movie?).
I’ve forgotten how to solve the Rubik’s Cube.
I’ve forgotten the name of the Portuguese photographer who went back to pick up his film from the Rainbow Warrior at just the wrong moment.
I’ve forgotten ‘Mental AIDS‘.
I’ve forgotten Jean Lecanuet and Sigue Sigue Sputnik. And Bjorn Borg.
I’ve forgotten Opera Night, the Eldorado and Rose Bonbon.
I’ve forgotten the names of all the Lebanese hostages apart from Jean-Paul Kauffmann.
I’ve forgotten the make of car from which they lobbed the bomb into Tati on the rue de Rennes (Mercedes? BMW? Porsche? Saab Turbo?).
I’ve forgotten there used to be two-tone black and brown Westons.
I’ve forgotten sweets like Treets, Trois Mousquetaires and Daninos.
I’ve forgotten Fruité used to come in a purple apple and black¬ currant flavour.
I’ve forgotten the Partenaire Particulier group and ‘Peter and Sloane’. And Annabelle Mouloudji. And ‘Boule de Flipper’ by Corinne Charby! (Actually, that’s one I do remember.)
I’ve forgotten the International Diplomatic Academy, France– America, the American Legion, the Cercle Interallié, the Automobile Club de France, the Ermenonville Pavilion, the Pavilion des Oiseaux, the Pré Catelan and the swimming pool at Tir aux Pigeons.
(That’s not quite true, who could forget THE SWIMMING POOL AT TIR AUX PIGEONS skinny-dipping at four in the morning with the dogs right behind us?)
Downstairs, dinner has been served. Marc finally tracks down his table. His name is written on a small manila card between Irène de Kazatchok (the décolleté deaconess) and Loulou Zibeline (a pretty cool entrepreneuse). They haven’t arrived yet. Which one will Marc hit on first? Unless maybe they decide to take turns snogging him? His right hand down someone’s blouse and his left hand on the other’s arse. Marc’s penis is almost hard at the thought.
God be praised! Marc’s daydream is interrupted by a useful ally: Fab. This useful ally is wearing some sort of skin-tight, fluorescent lycra outfit. His head is shaved so that you can read the word ‘FLY’ on his bleached blond temple. Fab could be the result of Jean-Claude Van Damme mating with a Ninja Turtle. He speaks only in trance-speak. He is the sweetest moron on the planet, it’s just a pity for him he was born a century too early.
‘Yo chestnut tree.* Lookin’ pretty fresh there!’
‘Yeah, Fab. Actually, we’re at the same table.’
‘Phat! I gotta feeling this is gonna be massive!’
Tedium, it would seem, is not an option.
* Author’s note: Marronnier in English is ‘chestnut tree’. English is very trance.
As I write, night is falling and people are going to dinner.
Henry Miller Quiet Days in Clichy
Groups form, forms group. Sooner or later we will sit down. The people standing around might be considered the elite of Western nightlife civilisation. Hundreds of Α-list celebs and a smattering of Bs who might well be dubbed the ‘Indispensable Ineffectuals’.
Money drips from everywhere. Anyone carrying less than 20k in hard cash on him looks suspect. And yet no one is showing off. All these despots secretly want to be artists. You have to be a photographer, an editor (even a deputy editor), a TV producer, ‘just finishing a novel’, or a serial killer. Nothing could be more suspect here than the absence of an opus. Marc Marronnier filched a copy of the guest list so as to have a better idea of the guests. Glancing through it, he is reassured: the same faces he met last night, the same ones he will meet tomorrow night.
Those
