Clapperboard Queen

Showbiz, dear reader. I just CAN'T keep away from it, try as I might. Just when I think I've finally left behind the smell of the greasepaint, the roar of the crowd, for good, Lady Luck lifts her fickle finger and pokes me back into the limelight. I'd just settled down in the Swedish Centre cafe with a mug of coffee and a pastry filled with what the Swedes delightfully refer to as "Grandma's cough" when the phone rang. My phone, I mean, not theirs. It was Toby. "Listen," he said. "Do you mind if we meet for coffee round the corner instead? I've got to do something with some musketeers, but it won't take long..." Which is how I found myself with French actor Jean-Christophe Bouvet, a Jack Russell and four musketeers (the Lames du Marais), shooting a film about Marie-Antoinette's dog. We all mucked in and it was great fun but I still have absolutely no idea (my italics) what it was all about. Afterwards, we did indeed go for that coffee with Jean-Christophe and his charming assistant Florian and had a rather wide-ranging discussion about working with Rip Torn, Tecktonic dance moves and Aussiebum undies. All that and then out for dinner to celebrate the birthday of another rising star... "Fabulous" doesn't even START to cover it...(P.S. coming soon, pics and more from Micke's MUTHA of all Gay Karaoke nights)

Monet's Cooker

Now, where was I? Oh yes, so...with Ma Rhino in town this weekend, I decided to do something a little more cultural than 14 vodka and tonics at the Perle followed by gay karaoke and head OUTSIDE PARIS (my italics, accompanied by a sharp intake of breath) to visit Giverny, the village where the daddy of all Impressionists Claude Monet spent much of his life. Have you been? If not, here's a tip. DON'T GO IF IT'S POURING WITH RAIN. While it's not that bad travelling for the best part of an hour on a packed train then a packed coach to blunder around an artist's garden in a cagoule, I'm sure the whole thing is MUCH more enjoyable with a little sunshine. That said, the gardens were delightful, even through my misted, rain-streaked specs. But it was the house I liked best. I was particularly taken by Monet's cooker (or "stove") which was this huge Aga-like contraption. You could just imagine him getting up in the morning and standing there making some slightly blurred scrambled turkey eggs and Aga toast (made with that contraption shaped like a wire tennis racket aka "the best toast in the world"). With a breakfast like that inside you, who could fail to be creative?? I'm not sure what that tap is for on the right-hand side though. And Monet's bed looked a bit lumpy, but I'm sure these days that Ikea deliver, even to Giverny. I may move there, just for that cooker. The other highlight of the weekend was the Caribbean carnival at Bastille. Terrific fun, an explosion of music, dancing and colour. Just like Pride really, only with more women and better costumes and dancing. Miaow.

"The Tudors"

Dear reader, did I ever mention what a sucker I am for a ruff and a pair of well-fill'd (N.B. slightly Elizabethan spelling there) britches? As a child, I was completely obsessed with the Tudors and Henry VIII in particular. There's even an embarrassing story about how I once - to my parents' horror - tried to force our local barber to name the six wives IN ORDER. I think I was about eight at the time. I kept notebooks on them, that's how bad it was. Why did no-one point out to me that they were just a bunch of ginger Welsh people? No wonder I'm psychologically scarred. But I digress. Imagine my delight, nevertheless, to discover this rather fabulous mini-series, featuring the comely Jonathan Rhys-Wassisface. He's definitely my kind of Henry VIII - nice pecs, brooding eyes and not even the slightest whiff of ginger or Welshness about him ::swoon:: He's also about 4 feet tall, but people WERE smaller in those days, it's an acknowledged historical fact. Anyway, if you click on the pic, you can go to their site and watch the first two episodes for free (my italics). Enjoy.

Riot at the Gare du Nord

It's true!! Some 200 protesters clashed with police in the shopping mall linking the metro with the main line station (it says here). And, more importantly, I was there (my italics), picking up Rhino Senior and Mrs. Rhino who are visiting the City of Light for a few days. In fact, I was wandering around looking for an ATM when I heard a lot of shouting and there did seem to be quite a lot of people milling about, but I couldn't work out what was happening without turning my iPod off and I'd just got to the Sugababes "Lost in You," so THAT wasn't going to happen. Anyway, showing true British pluck, we decided to stick around and have a cup of tea in the station before heading off to their hotel, riot or no riot. Join us next week for a picnic on the Golan Heights.

A Reader Writes

"Hi Rhino, while doing a Google search I stumbled on your site and read about you being a McNaughton, so I read your bio and haha, I have to agree, you certainly sound like a McNaughton. Good to meetcha. This is my McNaughton website, but, specifically my own McNaughton writings are here. It's a work in progress. Got lots more planned." Isn't that FAB? Fraoch Eilean!! (Click here - if you've no idea what I'm talking about - to see the original post)

"It's so funny..."

"...how we don't talk anymore," sang Sir Cliff Richard, Britain's self-styled Peter Pan of Pop (see left). I don't know to whom he was referring but it could easily have been us, dear reader. For which apologies, but the problem with this New Year's resolutions business is that it's just so time- consuming getting them all going. I'm exhausted already and I still have to sort out my two main ones. However, if all goes to plan I shall be over-achieving on such a MASSIVE (my caps) scale, international fame and fortune can surely not be far behind. Fingers crossed. But I digress. What on earth is a big poster of Sir Cliff doing in my local metro station? By that I mean, why is he doing a concert in Paris? In all the years I've lived here, never once has a French person asked me about, or indeed made any reference to "zis Cleef Reeechard." I've never heard any of his music on the radio. So who's gonna go?? The Palais des Congrès is pretty big, after all. I'm worried. Given that he's now Sir Cliff, will they round up all the British people in Paris and force them to buy a ticket? Will we all have to do the Shadows guitar-walk? Actually, the Cliffsta, as I call him, and I go back a long way (doesn't everyone in **showbiz**?). In my London days, I'd just popped into Fortnums to pick up a few bits, as you do. I remember I was rooting through the wine bins looking for a choice bottle of claret when, all of a sudden, I noticed that everyone was looking at me. I put it down to the old Rhino75 charisma and tried to continue my search. But now I'd noticed them, I could sense that they weren't just looking, they were staring - and when I looked up then I saw they weren't actually staring at me (hah!) but just to my left. At Sir Cliff. Looking very unlike the Peter Pan of Pop and more like an old turkey. And why was he in the wine section? I thought he was teetotal. True story. Oh alright, I KNOW that anecdote had a slightly less satisfactory ending than Abba The Movie, (i.e. we didn't shoot off into space in an elevator to the strains of "Bachelor Boy") but it still counts as a Rhino75 celebrity encounter (just like here, here and here). Still to come: how I once had Jeanne Moreau nestled in my armpit and discussed accountancy with Kristin Scott-Thomas in a lift (not at the same time though, I hasten to point out - otherwise it sounds like some bizarre gender-reversal version of "Jules et Jim"). Peter Ustinov eat your heart out.

Shadow Theatre

comédie française: shadow theatre, originally uploaded by rhino75.

Walking home from work Monday evening, I - quite literally - stumbled across this free screening of Molière's "Le Malade Imaginaire" outside the Comédie Française theatre. Everything was beautifully lit up with tiny candles and there was even a soup stall where you could be served by two men with real Molière-period-stylee wigs and britches. Excellent. Apart from the fact that - for the first time since New Year - it was actually freezing. Still lovely though. Interesting revelation: Molière was obviously a much bigger guy than I thought, judging from his chair, which they'd thoughtfully put outside in a glass case. Keeping things on an historical note - I should charge for these seamless links - did you see that France apparently nearly became part of the British Commonwealth in the 1950s (see BBC story here). Who knew? That'll go down like a lead balloon, I'm sure...