Gay Nazi Sex Vicar in Schoolgirl Knickers Vice Disco Lawnmower Shock!
« FlatlandsLes Vacances de M. Looby »

Temps frisquet

  Tue 11th June 2013


Back from two-and-half weeks in Brittany--the area in France I mean, not that slapper at number 46.

We almost missed both the outward and return flights, receiving a "final call, for passengers..." on both legs. In the first case, CattleJet advised us to turn up thirty minutes before our flight, which was not nearly enough; in the second case, as we were quaffing Affligem at 5.40 euros a pop in the bar, I misunderstood the word "enregisterement" as meaning "check-in" (which we'd already done), rather than "boarding". We hared sweatily through the various hurdles between two countries, and were ushered across the apron by a man who told me that next time we would be "unboarded". We rushed aboard the plane with British booze-breath.

We found our seats. Kirsty was swearing and haranguing me. I nodded quietly through a couple of minutes of it before saying "Could we continue this at home please?"


The regional paper, Ouest France, predicted "temps frisquet", and a day of leaden skies and heavy rain was further darkened by a man who, the girls said, appeared to be wanking some distance away from them on the beach. But after that, the sun shone strongly, and "Todger Man", as we named him, made no further appearances.

We had some civilised but rather drunken nights with a family we met the first time we went there ten years ago. After one of these, my daughter Jenny rather pointedly commented on the effervescence with which I was joining in with the bilingual bingo, making baseless allegations that I was drawling my well-meant help to the Frenchman who wanted to learn the picturesque English phrases that accompany certain bingo numbers.

I won a pair of large round black sunglasses which make me look like an insect. We carried our bottles of wine--mine, a cheeky rosé called "Shepherdess's Thigh"--from the room and continued the boozing as we sat round and played noisy cards with all the children, back in our chalet. "You were a little bit drunk, actually," said Kirsty, the next morning. "You and..." (the female of the couple we were with, who was sat next to me.)


We set out one day to repeat a cycle ride to a lovely restaurant in Locmariaquer. We got a bit lost at a pine-edged beach, where we rescued a crab that was panicking on the road, having fallen off the back of a lorry. We tried to pick it up but it wasn't having it, so we shooed it into my bag and set it free on the beach, where it gratefully (if crabs feel gratitude) scuttled backwards under the sand and seaweed.

I nobbled passers-by to help us find the way. An Irishman pointed us in the right direction and we arrived at the restaurant. There was very little for my vegetarian daughters, and they had to have an unappealing cold aubergine pâté, while I raked into a delicious skate painted with some sort of dark, pleasantly mordant sauce.

The girls' pudding of banana split erased their unhappy starter. The bill--128 euros--was the highest amount I've ever spent in one go in a restaurant. I had to improvise a bit when the first card I tried was declined.


Jenny was very pleased with her hairslide from Carnac market. I was too.

We went to our usual crêperie. On the table behind us was an Irish couple and their two young children. I felt some sympathy for them, remembering the rather determinded holidays that can feel like work when you're with toddlers. I helped them with the menu. All they wanted to do was to avoid "strong" cheese. Afterwards, I went over for a little chat as we were leaving. On his plate was a fastidious island of egg yolk, around which he'd cut his galette.

Back in town, Kirsty, Fiona (aged fourteen) and I ambled along the seafront to its best bar. When Kirsty ordered a pichet of cider, the waiter bought three glasses.


Mainly though, I read, dozed, drank and swam in the sea--which was an almost hallucinogenic aesthetic experience just before sunset, waved in a massive glistering and shimmering, feeling part of something luxurious and impossible, probably the closest I'll feel to anything spiritual in my life.

The other luxury was reading Huysman's Against Nature, a perfumed breviary of fin de siècle decadence, using the largest vocabulary I've ever encountered in a novel (although the word "novel" has to be bent almost to breaking point to accomodate Huysmans's work). I've noted down the scores of words unknown to me. Amongst these, "aristolachia" is a vagina-shaped plant formerly thought to aid abortion, which might be handy if "moechialogy"--the study of adultery--spilled over into its practice.

Back in Manchester Airport's "cafe" no-one's wearing a shift dress. Litter everywhere, picked at by a silent dark-skinned man with a grabber stick thing. The blacker the skin, the lower the income. Hectoring announcements from the train conductor in their strange intonation ("we will be calling at Lancaster"), announcing "station stops." Threats--which are never acted upon--that the "security services" will "destroy unattended luggage without warning." If only.

In Lancaster, I notice the Lefthanded Antiflappage Skirt Tug. It's used by girls who have taken an over-optimistic assessment of how their flimsy skirts can cope with the gusty weather round here and are anxious to police others' gaze to just that point short of knicker.

There are also Trina developments but I will report back later about that.


Comment from: Tony [Visitor]

Glad you had a great time and welcome back. How we have missed your blog and what an ending, classic.

Tue 11th June 2013 @ 17:47
Comment from: [Member]

Thanks Tony, why, I’m flattered!

Tue 11th June 2013 @ 19:24
Comment from: peach [Visitor]

missed you !

Tue 11th June 2013 @ 21:09
Comment from: [Member]

Oh dear, thanks Peach X

Tue 11th June 2013 @ 22:14
Comment from: [Member]

so very frustrating to go away on holiday - get completely relaxed, and reset all of the registers, only to have it dicked up by travel frustrations… go back to those blissful moments in the water. this is why i like to be under the sea…

Wed 12th June 2013 @ 02:26
Comment from: [Member]

Ah, to be able to get horseholed in Brittany in term-time. One of my best holidays ever was there as a teenager, playing recorder and getting horribly drunk in hedges and ditches.

Wed 12th June 2013 @ 10:15
Comment from: [Member]

DF: I preferred it when we went by train and boat – more relaxing and the boat has a sort of tarnished langorous glamour about it (plus the food and drink is really good) – but the fares are well over a thousand pounds for the five of us if we do it that way. Didn’t spoil the holiday though, just a few bracketing hours.

Trev: Never saw recorders and leaving to ivresse :) It’s a corking area to get drunk in. The beers of Brittany are marvellous – Lancelot, Coreff, Duchesse Anne etc. I almost prefer them to the ciders, which are never quite dry enough for me.

Wed 12th June 2013 @ 10:45

I used to date a girl who liked to time her arrival at the airport so that she could run to the gate and on board just as they were closing the doors. It used to drive me mad. At least you had a proper drink first.

I wish I had a usual crêperie. Doesn’t that indicate a certain success in life?

Yesterday on my bus ride home from work a massively fat black guy took up two seats and was eating BBQ. It stunk up the bus and temporarily set race relations back 40 years.

Waiting patiently for Trina post. Welcome home, etc.

Wed 12th June 2013 @ 11:57
Comment from: [Member]

Ha ha! :) (the black bloke).

Kirsty’s always in plenty of time for everything, which made my constant assertinos that we weren’t needed yet even worse.

And yes, it’s nice I suppose to be familiar with places. We’re getting so that certain bars and patisseries remember us now, we’ve been going there so long.

I see you’ve moved house while I away.

Wed 12th June 2013 @ 13:42
Comment from: young at heart [Visitor]

ooh we wait with baited breath…….holiday sounds delightful …..I have French people staying with me so am now speekin Inglieesh wiv an ow you say evy accent……must learn more than bon daccord merci courgette!!!

Wed 12th June 2013 @ 19:07
Comment from: [Member]

Ha ha ha—it doesn’t work my love. Actual French is better :)

Wed 12th June 2013 @ 20:20

Form is loading...

looby, n.; pl. loobies. A lout; an awkward, stupid, clownish person

M / 59 / Bristol, "the most beautiful, interesting and distinguished city in England" -- John Betjeman [1961, source eludes me].

"Looby is a left-wing intellectual who is obsessed with a) women's clothes and b) tits." -- Joy of Bex.

WLTM literate woman, 40-65. Must have nice tits, a PhD, and an mdma factory in the shed, although the first on its own will do in the short term.

There are plenty of bastards who drink moderately. Of course, I don't consider them to be people. They are not our comrades.
Sergei Korovin, quoted in Pavel Krusanov, The Blue Book of the Alcoholic

I am here to change my life. I am here to force myself to change my life.
Chinese man I met during Freshers Week at Lancaster University, 2008

The more democratised art becomes, the more we recognise in it our own mediocrity.
James Meek

Tell me, why is it that even when we are enjoying music, for instance, or a beautiful evening, or a conversation in agreeable company, it all seems no more than a hint of some infinite felicity existing apart somewhere, rather than actual happiness – such, I mean, as we ourselves can really possess?
Turgenev, Fathers and Sons

I hate the iPod; I hate the idea that music is such a personal thing that you can just stick some earplugs in your ears and have an experience with music. Music is a social phenomenon.
Jeremy Wagner

La vie poetique has its pleasures, and readings--ideally a long way from home--are one of them. I can pretend to be George Szirtes.
George Szirtes

Using words well is a social virtue. Use 'fortuitous' once more to mean 'fortunate' and you move an English word another step towards the dustbin. If your mistake took hold, no-one who valued clarity would be able to use the word again.
John Whale

One good thing about being a Marxist is that you don't have to pretend to like work.
Terry Eagleton, What Is A Novel?, Lancaster University, 1 Feb 2010

The working man is a fucking loser.
Mick, The Golden Lion, Lancaster, 21 Mar 2011

The Comfort of Strangers

23.1.16: Big clearout of the defunct and dormant and dull
16.1.19: Further pruning

If your comment box looks like this, I'm afraid I sometimes can't be bothered with all that palarver just to leave a comment.

63 mago
Another Angry Voice
the asshat lounge
Clutter From The Gutter
Eryl Shields Ink
Exile on Pain Street
Fat Man On A Keyboard
gairnet provides: press of blll defunct, but retained for its quality
George Szirtes ditto
Infomaniac [NSFW]
The Joy of Bex
Laudator Temporis Acti
Leeds's Singing Organ-Grinder
The Most Difficult Thing Ever
Strange Flowers
Trailer Park Refugee
Wonky Words

"Just sit still and listen" - woman to teenage girl at Elliott Carter weekend, London 2006

Bristol New Music
Desiring Progress Collection of links only
The Rambler
Resonance FM
Sequenza 21
Sound and Music
Talking Musicology defunct, but retained

  XML Feeds

b2evolution CCMS

©2024 by looby. Don't steal anything or you'll have a 9st arts graduate to deal with.

Contact | Help | Blog template by Asevo | Bootstrap CMS