I decided to travel to the French capital to see for myself what was going on in France. Would it be rife with rumour and innuendo as during the heady days of La Grande Revolution?
Having missed a London-Paris cheap return ticket by Eurostar I decided to go on my motorcycle, the trusty British-made Triumph Speed Triple 900cc. The bonus was that I would travel down the Parisian hinterland and environs for a better view of French reality beyond the scant images offered by British and American networks.
I packed my all-round BlackBerry 9780 with photo, GPS, email, text, Twitter and BBM facilities. The new technology allows any citizen (notice the term 'citizen') with a free mind to be an instant correspondent. I also packed my iPad for more in-depth analysis and looks.
On Thursday morning I started making the bookings. £26 for a B&B (Longfield Guest House) overnight in Dover for an early 7:20am ferry crossing on Friday. With this move I stole 2 hours of sleep. Worth every penny.
Good-bye Cameron, hello Sarkozy. Is that a tear in my eye?
At about 9am I was on the outskirts of Calais heading south towards Paris. I was excited at being able to find the facts for myself: who is Sarkozy, what motivates him? Ambition? A Napoleonic complex? Sex?
A planned earlier trip to Tripoli to find the true Gaddafi was thwarted by fierce NATO bombing of his bunker. I didn't think there was any chance of Gaddafi retaliating now on the Palais de l'Elysee.
First tweet from my contacts in Paris filled me with foreboding.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
TWITTER MESSAGE.
FRENCH REVOLUTION. Country's tax system subjecting lower classes to heavy burden while numerous exemptions exist for nobility and clergy.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Would social tension in Paris explode in widespread riots like in the London riots of August 6-10? We shall have to see.
PAS-DE-CALAIS and LA PICARDIE
I Left the motorway E-15 at junction 4 in search of the true Frenchman.
As I negotiated the medieval-sounding villages of Le Chemin de Nedon, Auchy-au-Bois, Cauchy-a-la-Tour towards Arras I realised I was in God-fearing, manure country.
The stench of the recently fertilised fields penetrating my expensive Shoei helmet were punctuated only by the large Christian crosses at the entrance of every village.
But the village streets themselves were deserted. Had the local dwellers been forewarned of my arrival?
Riding through I felt that at any moment I would crash into a Crusader in full suit-of-armour on his way to the Holy Land, lance in hand - or to Libya or Afghanistan for that matter.
I also had the looks of a motorised medieval Black Night with only my lance missing, although I was carrying a Swiss Army knife somewhere in my luggage.
Religion of the Christian type was everywhere. Every village had a big cross like the one in the picture. Was this a warning not to tread off the beaten track?
Not much chance of getting an objective view of what was going in Libya and Afghanistan here, I thought.
But the main reason of my lack of communication with the locals was that the few ones I saw didn't speak a word of English and wouldn't understand my French either.
With my GPS not working, a sophisticated form of sign language I developed over many years of travel proved invaluable. I pointed to the horizon and shouted: "Paris?"
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
TWITTER MESSAGE.
FRENCH REVOLUTION. Failure of Constitutional Monarchy left behind an empty treasury after many years of wars & a people debauched by safe & successful riot.
It was pointless to discuss in my broken French the finer details of international law, United Nations Resolutions and the current implosion of a Capitalism that threatens to demise the very countries that championed it for decades.
Plus, I could end up crucified myself if they misunderstood my intentions.
Approaching Arras and reading my latest tweets I expected a road-bock of sans-culottes looking for a new royalist head to chop off. They hate the English, royalists as ever. We are prime candidates of any self-serving sans-culotte wishing to ascend the new greasy pole of the French Republic.
I could not hide the fact I was using clearly visible English number plates.
The tweets were coming think and fast pointing to an increasingly deteriorating situation in Paris. Should I turn back to London?
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
TWITTER MESSAGE.
FRENCH REVOLUTION. Prices rise & the sans-culottes have rioted. Revolutionary forces are using 'mob power' to control streets.
PAS-DE-CALAIS and LA PICARDIE
As I negotiated the medieval-sounding villages of Le Chemin de Nedon, Auchy-au-Bois, Cauchy-a-la-Tour towards Arras I realised I was in God-fearing, manure country.
The stench of the recently fertilised fields penetrating my expensive Shoei helmet were punctuated only by the large Christian crosses at the entrance of every village.
But the village streets themselves were deserted. Had the local dwellers been forewarned of my arrival?
Riding through I felt that at any moment I would crash into a Crusader in full suit-of-armour on his way to the Holy Land, lance in hand - or to Libya or Afghanistan for that matter.
I also had the looks of a motorised medieval Black Night with only my lance missing, although I was carrying a Swiss Army knife somewhere in my luggage.
Religion of the Christian type was everywhere. Every village had a big cross like the one in the picture. Was this a warning not to tread off the beaten track?
Not much chance of getting an objective view of what was going in Libya and Afghanistan here, I thought.
But the main reason of my lack of communication with the locals was that the few ones I saw didn't speak a word of English and wouldn't understand my French either.
With my GPS not working, a sophisticated form of sign language I developed over many years of travel proved invaluable. I pointed to the horizon and shouted: "Paris?"
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
TWITTER MESSAGE.
FRENCH REVOLUTION. Failure of Constitutional Monarchy left behind an empty treasury after many years of wars & a people debauched by safe & successful riot.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
It was pointless to discuss in my broken French the finer details of international law, United Nations Resolutions and the current implosion of a Capitalism that threatens to demise the very countries that championed it for decades.
Plus, I could end up crucified myself if they misunderstood my intentions.
Approaching Arras and reading my latest tweets I expected a road-bock of sans-culottes looking for a new royalist head to chop off. They hate the English, royalists as ever. We are prime candidates of any self-serving sans-culotte wishing to ascend the new greasy pole of the French Republic.
I could not hide the fact I was using clearly visible English number plates.
The tweets were coming think and fast pointing to an increasingly deteriorating situation in Paris. Should I turn back to London?
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
TWITTER MESSAGE.
FRENCH REVOLUTION. Prices rise & the sans-culottes have rioted. Revolutionary forces are using 'mob power' to control streets.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
I am happy to report that there were no roadblocks outside Arras. The sans-culottes must've been very successful in their revolution in this part of France because all I could see were Renault cars.
THE HEART OF NORTHERN FRANCE: AMIENS
The city of the famous and imposing Cathedral which I didn't get to see but still famous throughout the land was further proof that this was most definitely not Muslim country.
Euros are a predatory kind. Years of empires, slavery, internecine wars and colonial exploitation point unmistakably in that direction. Yes. The Euros would bomb each other to oblivion, as the Second World War testifies. More about this later.
For me, the most pressing reason for being in Amiens was to find a restaurant and a rest room. It was now 2pm and I had only eaten a croissant at seven in the morning on the P&O Ferry.
Hours of clenched teeth gripping the handlebar had taken a toll on my reserves.
In the distance I saw what appeared to be a popular cafe with the grand name of Bar Brasserie Aux Sans Soucis. Tables and chairs were sprawled on the pavement with customers enjoying the local produce of beer and beef.
I sat down. A pretty maid cleared my table and showed me her low 'clivage', as it always happens in medieval Hammer Films of Count Dracula.
Plat du Jour: Boeuf Bourguignon. I checked a few nearby tables and the locals were tucking into it with relish. Definitely the right thing to have in farming country.
My portable encyclopedia Wikipedia.org says about the Bourguignone: "one of the many peasant examples of dishes being refined into haute cuisine".
The same could been said about the sans-culottes because several hours into France and I hadn't seen a single one of them. Were they disguised as well-to-do farmers and gentile townspeople?
The passage of the desperate masses into petty middle classes has been the norm in recent centuries. Once a modicum of respectability is achieved, we all become great big consumers of everything that represents aspirations of something higher and better of who we think we are. In this case, haute cuisine.
I am happy to report that my Bourguinone had nothing of haute cuisine and everything of the best that peasant cuisine has to offer.
Munching away the delicious 'boeuf' I started elaborating my theories about Sarkozy.
What if Sarko, the ruthless Conqueror of Libya, was an impostor of the weakling President of France, Nicholas Sarkozy?
Could it be that Sarko and Sarkozy were two different men, both pulling the wool over the eyes of Cameron with the Libya campaign being just a clever gambit for a master plan involving something bigger, much bigger?
I thought I was on to something. I now had to get to Paris to prove it. I had coffee and left the Sans Soucis but not before saying good by to the pretty girl with the 'clivage'. Noblesse oblige like with any proper Crusader. I would've attempted more but I think the guy behind the till was her father.
Out of Amiens I decided to hit the motorway straight to Paris. There was not time to lose. Crisscrossing the countryside of La Picardie had added several hours to my trip and I couldn't afford them. I was still not even half way to my final destination.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Wow. That will sure make the headlines worldwide. Things certainly were hotting up in Paris. But were my tweets coming from some kind of time-warp?
PARIS, ENVIRONS.
4pm. Ah Paris! Very inauspicious. The typical satellite tenements of any modern city gave me the welcome party. This was definitely Muslim country. Had it also been bombed by Sarko forces?
The black lines on the side wall are old chimney shoots from an earlier life. Santa Claus would find them difficult to negotiate them even today. The Three Kings would've opted for a knock on the door.
The destroyed house may be a remnant of an earlier conflagration of simply some recent property speculation.
I had heard that Parisians make sure that environ dwellers never venture into the heart of the capital city, least of all near their venerable Notre Dame de Paris.
It may be true because I didn't see a single foreign minorty beyond this point. In 1980 I remember eating loads of Merguez Frites at the junction of the Boulevards St Germain and St Michel.
No chance this time. Only Croque Monsieurs are on offer now.
PARIS, CENTRE-VILLE
6pm. It took me two hours to get to this point after several wrong turns.
Noticeable difference in the architectural lines, as you can see. This is the expensive rue Etienne Marcel, not too far away from the colonial enclave of Sebastopol, Boulevard de Sebastopol.
Saw this cafe on Etienne Marcel with a few funky people outside and decided to do what I do best in Paris: hung around the cafes and talk politics.
I texted some friends in London. "I'm having a coffee in a funky cafe called Le Cafe". They didn't believe me but here's the proof. On the foreground, my bike fully loaded.
'Le Cafe'. I like this name. It's like England calling a pub, 'The Pub' instead of all those silly names like the 'Prince of Wales', and the 'Queen and Consort' and the 'Duke of York's' and whatever. All brainwashing names.
I wonder if we, the English, are living in a time warp somewhere in the XIX Century. Maybe the tweets I have been receiving from Paris were part of that too.
Le Cafe, in my view, epitomises the essence of La Grande Revolution. Simple, practical, democratic, citoyen. In England we are supposed to be 'subjects' and 'consumers'. Neither have any rights. The citoyens, on the other hand, have rights by the bucket full. The right to chop off the heads of their useless elite if they perpetuate themselves in power, uselessly.
Shocking.
A 'citizen' is a person in control of its destiny. The term came to widespread use after the French Revolution, better known then as 'citoyen'. On the other hand, a 'subject' is somebody else's property. A 'consumer' is a person suffering from a severe case of material glutony.
Probably in another era the name of this cafe was Le Cafe King Louis XVI. We know what happened to Louis' head. So his name was chopped off the awning too.
But what about La Revolution today? As it happens, revolutions are too successful for their own good They convert honest, care-free sans-culottes into petty, ambitious, desperate right-wing middle classes that bomb other countries.
NIGHT-TIME IN PARIS
Ah, the Parisians! Engaging in their favourite passtimes: love, politics and bombing. Alfresco dinner in Rue Sant Andre des Arts, the heart of the Latin Quarter, birthplace of revolutions.
These two in the foreground couldn't keep their hands off each other. The two men behind them seemed to be on the verge of fixing the problems of the world. "What do we do with Cameron", I overheard them saying. Suspicious.
Food in the restaurant L'Atlas was terrible.
A 'Salade Nicoise' was slapped together like in any London pub. The head of the chef should be chopped off forthwith for bringing France's cuisine into disrepute.
Salade Nicoise should be treated with respect. It's another sans-culotte dish trying to make it big.
I had to warn the world that Sarko and Sarkozy may be two different persons. One, under the command of the French State, to wrestle the world from the Anglo-Saxon grip of the United States and England double whammy. Sarko could be the new Napoleon.
On the other hand we had Sarkozy, an embarrassment of the best traditions of the French Revolution. An 'arriviste', a lackey of the French banking aristocracy sold lock, stock and barrel to the highest bidder. What a predicament, to rid the French of this awful engender.
In Iraq 2003, the French president Chirac played spanner-in-the-UN-wheel and derailed an untidy Western Alliance headed by Bush and Blair against Saddam. This is probably why now with Sarkozy in power things are changing. France is bombing Libyans, killing Afghanis and court martialling Jacques Chirac on embezzlement charges.
Things have moved on since the times in which France believed in an independent nuclear deterrent. Now it's all about non existant 'markets' and 'branding'.
"Vive la revolution!" is a distant, unintelligible echo.
Paris was rife with rumours that the true target of the French is Queen Elizabeth II, as a revenge for the English protecting the heads of the French aristocracy during the revolution.
Somewhere in the deep vaults of the French State a decision was taken to work for the downfall of the English Monarchy to appease the French Left and their accusations that the descendants of the sans-culottes have gone soft on royalists.
"All necessary means" have been contemplated, from conspiracies to demise Windsor princesses on French soil to chopping off the heads of visiting English aristos.
I am no James Bond to stop this conspiracy but what a coup for my blog if could I uncover that Sarko is a French agent disguised as Nicholas Sarkozy to finish off the English monarchy.
Sounds crazy? It probably does but for that reason all the more plausible. There have been other examples on French soil involving dastardly plans More of this later.
CLANDESTINE MEETING WITH A FRENCH STUDENT.
I decided to dig deeper into my hunch. I planned a 'chance meeting' with a Parisian student so I could ask her a few questions point-blank. It happened at the Caffe Lafayette, near the Gare du Norde, on rue La Fayette.
She had long brown hair and was wearing a pullover that accentuated her pretty figure of about 22 years of age.
The perfect example of a French student as we have seen in countless Luc Besson, Francois Truffaut and Jean Luc Goddard movies like Betty Blue, Jules et Jim and Alphaville. Here name was Olivia, a beautiful French name but could also be a Spanish and even an English name.
Armed with my iPad to appear more professional I told her I was a journalist doing interviews in Paris for a newspaper. The questioning was staccato-style to catch her off guard and also because her English was as bad as my French.
At first she was suspicious perhaps thinking I was an English undercover agent intent on sabotaging La Revolution.
I assured her my intentions were not honourable. She liked that.
Extracts of my interview appeared on my Twitter page that day. It went somewhat like this.
"What do you think of Sarkozy?" I asked.
"In 2007 I voted for him because I thought he had good ideas for France. But we need somebody else now", she said.
At first I had to extract her answers using a corkscrew. I pressed on.
"What do you think of Sarko's Libya campaign?" Her first comments on this subject were conventional, automatic even. They were the accepted wisdom churned out by media and the governments involved in the bombing. She mentioned something about Human Rights and democracy. The usual stuff you can't go wrong with.
I dug in a little deeper and her true feelings were more forthcoming about the bombing: "Libya is a good opportunity for Sarkozy's reelection campaign".
Olivia was now less guarded in her answers. I assured her total anonymity to ease here suspicions. People have become less honest in their first opinions because the media has been relentless in the prosecution of half-truths.
Nobody wants to go against the 'Official Version' of events. So people have ready-made answers for social and political reasons. They don't want to get into big arguments or draw attention to themselves.
Olivia reminded me about what happens even in a democracy when the government puts out a disinformation campaign about a foreign country. There have to be kernels of truth, of course. For example, that Gaddafi has been a ruthless dictator for 40 years and that the Libyan people are yearning for freedom.
But the wider issues of self-determination of peoples and interference in foreign countries is brushed under the carpet once more. The important thing is to conquer markets that have money to buy Western products.
Everybody knew that a war with Libya was not that important or necessary. But what the hell. We have the firepower and we need to sell more Renaults so let's beat the shit out of all Gaddafists.
I chatted to Olivia about the implications of the bombing and that ultimately speaking the French and the British are in the doldrums with heavily indebted economies and no expectations of trade with anybody.
Oil rich countries open for trade will be good business for Chanel, Renaults, Moet & Chandon, Burberry and HP sauce. It will also be good busines for bankers. But French, British or American bankers? We shall have to see.
Olivia agreed on the predicament of the Libyans.
"I think Libya should be allowed to to choose the economic and political system that suits them", she said.
Only a couple of days before my trip to Paris, Sarkozy and Cameron were seen in Tripoli and Benghazi slapping their backs for "a job well done".
It was a Bush-style "Mission Accomplished".
Olivia summed it up well: "Sarkozy & Cameron went to Libya for personal showmanship only".
I would've taken a picture of pretty Olivia for this blog page. But I assured her total anonymity. People do not like to be truthful on delicate matters of State. Private and public employers look into the Internet, Twitter and Facebook to check who they are employing these days. A small blemish in the profile could mean somebody else gets the job.
Olivia said good-bye as she had to catch a train to Lille, where her family lived. I stayed in the cafe for a few more minutes tweeting her responses.
I also continued elaborating my theory about the ruthless Sarko, Conqueror of Libya, and Sarkozy, the ineffectual president of France.
Was he one and the same suffering from acute multiple personality disorder or just two different people?
One under the control of shadowy forces deep within the French State, the other one a facade for public consumption and back slapping.
I checked my map and found that I was only a few minutes away from the Elysee Palace.
The best way to see if Sarko and Sarkozy are the same man is to check if they are both in the same place, at the same time: the bedroom of the First Lady, ex model Carla Bruni.
That would be in the Palais de l'Elysee, the Number 10, Downing Street of the French presidency. Only round the corner from Caffe Lafayette, on the rue du Faubourg Saint Honore, 8e Arrodisment, the chic-est addresses in the French capital.
SARKO SEARCH
Approaching this corner of the Rue du Faubourg Saint Honore I came across these two Men in Bleu with funny hats. This surely meant I was close to the dormitory of Madame Bruni. The question was if Carla was there, would Sarko and Sarkozy be there too in what could be blockbusting 'menage a trois', the classic French case of duplicity?
The best way to gate-crash a party is by going straight in through the front door oozing sense of purpose and chutzpah, treating everybody like underlings.
I was stopped on my tracks . "Sarkozy is not giving any more interviews today".
The guard told me that 6pm was closing time. It was about 6:05.
I missed my chance of getting the easy way in. I walked a bit further down the road to see if I could find a trap door into Carla Bruni's bedroom. In my favourite films of the period 'Les Liaisons Dangereuses' and 'The Three Musketeers' a trap door always appeared handy for quick and easy access into the right bedroom.
My attention was drawn to these anti-demo barriers. Same as in London. Obviously the facade of Entente Cordiale goes beyond pummelling Gaddafi and includes also crowd control against our own sans-culottes, aka 'The Rabble' by the English elite.
I was looking for a way in when I found two more Men in Bleu. They were talking to a couple of innocent tourists when I took this picture. The one on the right didn't like his picture taken and was brusque. But immediately I queried point blank in my best French:
Arbolioto: "C'est Sarko the meme homme as Le President Sarkozy?"
(Is Sarko the same man as Sarkozy?)
The officer hesitated and uttered some expletives among which I recognised "merde" (shit) before responding with a terse: "Oui".
I understood to be French for "Yes". I was perplexed about his hesitation. Did I catch him off guard?
It was my conclusion that these two officers were well drilled in the disinformation game played by the French State against England. But I was one step ahead of them.
Sarko and Sarkozy are not the same man, I concluded.
LAST KNOWN CARICATURE OF SARKOZY
I am happy to report that there were no roadblocks outside Arras. The sans-culottes must've been very successful in their revolution in this part of France because all I could see were Renault cars.
THE HEART OF NORTHERN FRANCE: AMIENS
Euros are a predatory kind. Years of empires, slavery, internecine wars and colonial exploitation point unmistakably in that direction. Yes. The Euros would bomb each other to oblivion, as the Second World War testifies. More about this later.
For me, the most pressing reason for being in Amiens was to find a restaurant and a rest room. It was now 2pm and I had only eaten a croissant at seven in the morning on the P&O Ferry.
Hours of clenched teeth gripping the handlebar had taken a toll on my reserves.
In the distance I saw what appeared to be a popular cafe with the grand name of Bar Brasserie Aux Sans Soucis. Tables and chairs were sprawled on the pavement with customers enjoying the local produce of beer and beef.
I sat down. A pretty maid cleared my table and showed me her low 'clivage', as it always happens in medieval Hammer Films of Count Dracula.
Plat du Jour: Boeuf Bourguignon. I checked a few nearby tables and the locals were tucking into it with relish. Definitely the right thing to have in farming country.
My portable encyclopedia Wikipedia.org says about the Bourguignone: "one of the many peasant examples of dishes being refined into haute cuisine".
The same could been said about the sans-culottes because several hours into France and I hadn't seen a single one of them. Were they disguised as well-to-do farmers and gentile townspeople?
The passage of the desperate masses into petty middle classes has been the norm in recent centuries. Once a modicum of respectability is achieved, we all become great big consumers of everything that represents aspirations of something higher and better of who we think we are. In this case, haute cuisine.
I am happy to report that my Bourguinone had nothing of haute cuisine and everything of the best that peasant cuisine has to offer.
Munching away the delicious 'boeuf' I started elaborating my theories about Sarkozy.
What if Sarko, the ruthless Conqueror of Libya, was an impostor of the weakling President of France, Nicholas Sarkozy?
Could it be that Sarko and Sarkozy were two different men, both pulling the wool over the eyes of Cameron with the Libya campaign being just a clever gambit for a master plan involving something bigger, much bigger?
I thought I was on to something. I now had to get to Paris to prove it. I had coffee and left the Sans Soucis but not before saying good by to the pretty girl with the 'clivage'. Noblesse oblige like with any proper Crusader. I would've attempted more but I think the guy behind the till was her father.
Out of Amiens I decided to hit the motorway straight to Paris. There was not time to lose. Crisscrossing the countryside of La Picardie had added several hours to my trip and I couldn't afford them. I was still not even half way to my final destination.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
TWITTER MESSAGE.
FRENCH REVOLUTION. King Louis XVI has been executed in Place de la Revolution.++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Wow. That will sure make the headlines worldwide. Things certainly were hotting up in Paris. But were my tweets coming from some kind of time-warp?
PARIS, ENVIRONS.
4pm. Ah Paris! Very inauspicious. The typical satellite tenements of any modern city gave me the welcome party. This was definitely Muslim country. Had it also been bombed by Sarko forces?
The black lines on the side wall are old chimney shoots from an earlier life. Santa Claus would find them difficult to negotiate them even today. The Three Kings would've opted for a knock on the door.
The destroyed house may be a remnant of an earlier conflagration of simply some recent property speculation.
I had heard that Parisians make sure that environ dwellers never venture into the heart of the capital city, least of all near their venerable Notre Dame de Paris.
It may be true because I didn't see a single foreign minorty beyond this point. In 1980 I remember eating loads of Merguez Frites at the junction of the Boulevards St Germain and St Michel.
No chance this time. Only Croque Monsieurs are on offer now.
PARIS, CENTRE-VILLE
6pm. It took me two hours to get to this point after several wrong turns.
Noticeable difference in the architectural lines, as you can see. This is the expensive rue Etienne Marcel, not too far away from the colonial enclave of Sebastopol, Boulevard de Sebastopol.
Saw this cafe on Etienne Marcel with a few funky people outside and decided to do what I do best in Paris: hung around the cafes and talk politics.
I texted some friends in London. "I'm having a coffee in a funky cafe called Le Cafe". They didn't believe me but here's the proof. On the foreground, my bike fully loaded.
'Le Cafe'. I like this name. It's like England calling a pub, 'The Pub' instead of all those silly names like the 'Prince of Wales', and the 'Queen and Consort' and the 'Duke of York's' and whatever. All brainwashing names.
I wonder if we, the English, are living in a time warp somewhere in the XIX Century. Maybe the tweets I have been receiving from Paris were part of that too.
Le Cafe, in my view, epitomises the essence of La Grande Revolution. Simple, practical, democratic, citoyen. In England we are supposed to be 'subjects' and 'consumers'. Neither have any rights. The citoyens, on the other hand, have rights by the bucket full. The right to chop off the heads of their useless elite if they perpetuate themselves in power, uselessly.
Shocking.
A 'citizen' is a person in control of its destiny. The term came to widespread use after the French Revolution, better known then as 'citoyen'. On the other hand, a 'subject' is somebody else's property. A 'consumer' is a person suffering from a severe case of material glutony.
Probably in another era the name of this cafe was Le Cafe King Louis XVI. We know what happened to Louis' head. So his name was chopped off the awning too.
But what about La Revolution today? As it happens, revolutions are too successful for their own good They convert honest, care-free sans-culottes into petty, ambitious, desperate right-wing middle classes that bomb other countries.
NIGHT-TIME IN PARIS
Ah, the Parisians! Engaging in their favourite passtimes: love, politics and bombing. Alfresco dinner in Rue Sant Andre des Arts, the heart of the Latin Quarter, birthplace of revolutions.
These two in the foreground couldn't keep their hands off each other. The two men behind them seemed to be on the verge of fixing the problems of the world. "What do we do with Cameron", I overheard them saying. Suspicious.
Food in the restaurant L'Atlas was terrible.
A 'Salade Nicoise' was slapped together like in any London pub. The head of the chef should be chopped off forthwith for bringing France's cuisine into disrepute.
Salade Nicoise should be treated with respect. It's another sans-culotte dish trying to make it big.
I had to warn the world that Sarko and Sarkozy may be two different persons. One, under the command of the French State, to wrestle the world from the Anglo-Saxon grip of the United States and England double whammy. Sarko could be the new Napoleon.
On the other hand we had Sarkozy, an embarrassment of the best traditions of the French Revolution. An 'arriviste', a lackey of the French banking aristocracy sold lock, stock and barrel to the highest bidder. What a predicament, to rid the French of this awful engender.
In Iraq 2003, the French president Chirac played spanner-in-the-UN-wheel and derailed an untidy Western Alliance headed by Bush and Blair against Saddam. This is probably why now with Sarkozy in power things are changing. France is bombing Libyans, killing Afghanis and court martialling Jacques Chirac on embezzlement charges.
Things have moved on since the times in which France believed in an independent nuclear deterrent. Now it's all about non existant 'markets' and 'branding'.
"Vive la revolution!" is a distant, unintelligible echo.
Paris was rife with rumours that the true target of the French is Queen Elizabeth II, as a revenge for the English protecting the heads of the French aristocracy during the revolution.
Somewhere in the deep vaults of the French State a decision was taken to work for the downfall of the English Monarchy to appease the French Left and their accusations that the descendants of the sans-culottes have gone soft on royalists.
"All necessary means" have been contemplated, from conspiracies to demise Windsor princesses on French soil to chopping off the heads of visiting English aristos.
I am no James Bond to stop this conspiracy but what a coup for my blog if could I uncover that Sarko is a French agent disguised as Nicholas Sarkozy to finish off the English monarchy.
Sounds crazy? It probably does but for that reason all the more plausible. There have been other examples on French soil involving dastardly plans More of this later.
CLANDESTINE MEETING WITH A FRENCH STUDENT.
I decided to dig deeper into my hunch. I planned a 'chance meeting' with a Parisian student so I could ask her a few questions point-blank. It happened at the Caffe Lafayette, near the Gare du Norde, on rue La Fayette.
She had long brown hair and was wearing a pullover that accentuated her pretty figure of about 22 years of age.
The perfect example of a French student as we have seen in countless Luc Besson, Francois Truffaut and Jean Luc Goddard movies like Betty Blue, Jules et Jim and Alphaville. Here name was Olivia, a beautiful French name but could also be a Spanish and even an English name.
Armed with my iPad to appear more professional I told her I was a journalist doing interviews in Paris for a newspaper. The questioning was staccato-style to catch her off guard and also because her English was as bad as my French.
At first she was suspicious perhaps thinking I was an English undercover agent intent on sabotaging La Revolution.
I assured her my intentions were not honourable. She liked that.
Extracts of my interview appeared on my Twitter page that day. It went somewhat like this.
"What do you think of Sarkozy?" I asked.
"In 2007 I voted for him because I thought he had good ideas for France. But we need somebody else now", she said.
At first I had to extract her answers using a corkscrew. I pressed on.
"What do you think of Sarko's Libya campaign?" Her first comments on this subject were conventional, automatic even. They were the accepted wisdom churned out by media and the governments involved in the bombing. She mentioned something about Human Rights and democracy. The usual stuff you can't go wrong with.
I dug in a little deeper and her true feelings were more forthcoming about the bombing: "Libya is a good opportunity for Sarkozy's reelection campaign".
Olivia was now less guarded in her answers. I assured her total anonymity to ease here suspicions. People have become less honest in their first opinions because the media has been relentless in the prosecution of half-truths.
Nobody wants to go against the 'Official Version' of events. So people have ready-made answers for social and political reasons. They don't want to get into big arguments or draw attention to themselves.
Olivia reminded me about what happens even in a democracy when the government puts out a disinformation campaign about a foreign country. There have to be kernels of truth, of course. For example, that Gaddafi has been a ruthless dictator for 40 years and that the Libyan people are yearning for freedom.
But the wider issues of self-determination of peoples and interference in foreign countries is brushed under the carpet once more. The important thing is to conquer markets that have money to buy Western products.
Everybody knew that a war with Libya was not that important or necessary. But what the hell. We have the firepower and we need to sell more Renaults so let's beat the shit out of all Gaddafists.
I chatted to Olivia about the implications of the bombing and that ultimately speaking the French and the British are in the doldrums with heavily indebted economies and no expectations of trade with anybody.
Oil rich countries open for trade will be good business for Chanel, Renaults, Moet & Chandon, Burberry and HP sauce. It will also be good busines for bankers. But French, British or American bankers? We shall have to see.
Olivia agreed on the predicament of the Libyans.
"I think Libya should be allowed to to choose the economic and political system that suits them", she said.
Only a couple of days before my trip to Paris, Sarkozy and Cameron were seen in Tripoli and Benghazi slapping their backs for "a job well done".
It was a Bush-style "Mission Accomplished".
Olivia summed it up well: "Sarkozy & Cameron went to Libya for personal showmanship only".
I would've taken a picture of pretty Olivia for this blog page. But I assured her total anonymity. People do not like to be truthful on delicate matters of State. Private and public employers look into the Internet, Twitter and Facebook to check who they are employing these days. A small blemish in the profile could mean somebody else gets the job.
Olivia said good-bye as she had to catch a train to Lille, where her family lived. I stayed in the cafe for a few more minutes tweeting her responses.
I also continued elaborating my theory about the ruthless Sarko, Conqueror of Libya, and Sarkozy, the ineffectual president of France.
Was he one and the same suffering from acute multiple personality disorder or just two different people?
One under the control of shadowy forces deep within the French State, the other one a facade for public consumption and back slapping.
I checked my map and found that I was only a few minutes away from the Elysee Palace.
The best way to see if Sarko and Sarkozy are the same man is to check if they are both in the same place, at the same time: the bedroom of the First Lady, ex model Carla Bruni.
That would be in the Palais de l'Elysee, the Number 10, Downing Street of the French presidency. Only round the corner from Caffe Lafayette, on the rue du Faubourg Saint Honore, 8e Arrodisment, the chic-est addresses in the French capital.
SARKO SEARCH
Approaching this corner of the Rue du Faubourg Saint Honore I came across these two Men in Bleu with funny hats. This surely meant I was close to the dormitory of Madame Bruni. The question was if Carla was there, would Sarko and Sarkozy be there too in what could be blockbusting 'menage a trois', the classic French case of duplicity?
The best way to gate-crash a party is by going straight in through the front door oozing sense of purpose and chutzpah, treating everybody like underlings.
I was stopped on my tracks . "Sarkozy is not giving any more interviews today".
The guard told me that 6pm was closing time. It was about 6:05.
I missed my chance of getting the easy way in. I walked a bit further down the road to see if I could find a trap door into Carla Bruni's bedroom. In my favourite films of the period 'Les Liaisons Dangereuses' and 'The Three Musketeers' a trap door always appeared handy for quick and easy access into the right bedroom.
My attention was drawn to these anti-demo barriers. Same as in London. Obviously the facade of Entente Cordiale goes beyond pummelling Gaddafi and includes also crowd control against our own sans-culottes, aka 'The Rabble' by the English elite.
I was looking for a way in when I found two more Men in Bleu. They were talking to a couple of innocent tourists when I took this picture. The one on the right didn't like his picture taken and was brusque. But immediately I queried point blank in my best French:
Arbolioto: "C'est Sarko the meme homme as Le President Sarkozy?"
(Is Sarko the same man as Sarkozy?)
The officer hesitated and uttered some expletives among which I recognised "merde" (shit) before responding with a terse: "Oui".
I understood to be French for "Yes". I was perplexed about his hesitation. Did I catch him off guard?
It was my conclusion that these two officers were well drilled in the disinformation game played by the French State against England. But I was one step ahead of them.
Sarko and Sarkozy are not the same man, I concluded.
LAST KNOWN CARICATURE OF SARKOZY
This is the last known caricature of Nicholas Sarkozy before being replaced by the look-alike Sarko. Don't know who the other geezers are.
With the day drawing to a close I was pretty happy with the results of my investigations so far. I decided to return to the safer Latin Quarter via Place de la Concorde, formerly known as he Place de la Revolution and where many a royal met their maker - minus a head.
When I got to the Place de la Revolution (I prefer to use the old name) I was surrounded by a posse of French Gendarmes, known throughout the land as 'Les Mastiff'.
Was my cover blown? Why were they there?
Must remind everybody that Place de la Revolution was where the last French King Louis XVI got his head chopped off. So did other French royals, such as Marie Antoinette. I think the Gendarmes being there was significant and had something to do with my presence in the area enquiring about the dual Sarko-Sarkozy personality disorder or perhaps the French plot to execute by Guillotine Queen Elizabeth II and other member of the English Royal Family.
La Gendarmerie is the feared French anti-riot police. Questions remain about their behaviour during the early riots in Paris, just before the revolution of 1792.
Was the 2011 plan about to hatch? Had I managed to uncover the plot?
A chilly wind blew down my spine. I suddenly had Shakespearean visions of members of English monarchy being carted into the Place de la Revolution where a Guillotine would've been waiting for them, re-commissioned from la Conciergerie museum and put to good use one more time.
The English royals that betrayed the Thermidor would finally be dealt with. A bit like the forthcoming movie 'Barack Obama's Navy Seals Team 6 against Osama bin Laden - The Revenge'.
The plan that started in that fateful tunnel d'Alma in 1997 finally completed with the rest of the English Royal Family. Master stroke for La Republique Francaise?
Sometimes it's better not to know these things and let events take their course.
I fled the Place de la Revolution in a taxi.
CONTACT WITH THE CAB DRIVER
For foreign correspondents the world over a cab driver is the man with the finger on the pulse of the city. They are the first guys they meet at the airport and the last. They all provide good copy for the morning papers.
Governments know this so they make sure cab drivers in sensitive areas are all informants on the State's payroll.
I got luckier that most. I got a true Communist from the pre downfall of the Soviet Block era. He provided me with inside information about what was happening in France. At the beginning he was circumspect. I asked him to locate the demo the Gendarmes had spoken about to justify their presence in la Place de la Revolution. He told me there were small protests all the time in Paris which he called "mini revolutions".
I asked him to return to where the Gendarmes were, that I wanted to ask them a question. He didn't want to do that. "They are dangerous", he warned me.
I asked him if he was in favour or against La Revolution.
"I used to be a Communist", he said. "But it was utopia. It couldn't work. Then I became a Socialist. Now I'm a liberal."
I asked him if he supported the current government of France. He responded "I said I was a liberal. I didn't say I was an extremist ultra-liberal, which is what we got now. They will destroy the country".
Danton (the name I will give the driver to protect his identity) was a classic case of the change in French politics and other parts of Europe.
He was dissolutioned with his ideals as a young man so like so many others he was now trying to embrace the only alternative: the banking aristocracy, the politicians sold off to capital, the invasion and bombing of foreign countries, etc.
I could see that that Danton was trying hard to accept the new reality but couldn't really stomach it.
Communist or Socialist it doesn't matter. The French left was destroyed by the proliferation of currency as a mirage of growth and prosperity. After the demise of the Soviet Union it was every man for himself. Grab what you can. Elbow thy Neighbour.
The bankers become the Aristocracy of the new enlarged European Union. Money was cheap. They had to prove that socialism didn't work. Surely, that must be true. Look at the loans, the mortgages, the Nina Ricci, the Rolexes.
We can all be rich! Socialism is dead.
But, alas, the rumours of the death of Socialism were greatly exaggerated.
I reminded cab driver Danton of the French Revolution. There was no socialism then and it still happened. "Social justice is much bigger than ideologies. Names are not important" he retorted.
Enough for the day. I had a stiff drink at this cafe on St Germain where the cab dropped me off. It was pouring with rain by now.
As I was walking back to the hotel I noticed this crepe shop next to the St Germain underground station. It was the same shack I had seen twenty years before. But it's gone mental now. He has developed his business into a minimarket of soft drinks, ice-cream and bananas. I stuck to the old recipe.
"Une crepe de Grand Marnier, s'il vous plait, excuse my French".
I went to bed in the cheap hotel in the Latin Quarter. Tomorrow will be another day and I had to prepare my return to London.
BREAKFAST IN SAINT GERMAIN
Time for a croissant and a morning coffee in Les Deux Magots. Next to my table a sparrow helps itself to some breadcrumbs. This place is now far away from the plotting of revolutions of yesteryear.
But if you listen carefully you can hear comments like "Sarko has gone soft on royals", "He has become a new Napoleon" and "It's time for another revolution".
It was all sounding truly ominous for Cameron. But I decided to stay calm and collected.
It's all there, simmering under the surface. Just apply a bit more heat in the form of deficit reductions. The pressure cooker will explode.
As I arrived in Paris on Friday evening exhausted after about 8 hours of riding. I dumped my bike in the first slot I found without asking any questions. Three days later, it was still in the same place, nobody had taken any notice of it, least of all any parting ticket psycho.
What a difference with Soho in the London where the local Council is completely obsessed with spying us on CCTVs. You see, we are subjects not citizens. Somebody else decides for us.
UK has been leading the world and exporting dastardly, repressive techniques against the people such as parking tickets, rubber bullets and CCTVs for decades now.
In Saint Germain, nobody bothers. Live and let live.
Sunday morning. Time to start packing and plan my Paris exist. I moved the bike a few meters outside the Bar du Marche for one last coffee and photo opportunity.
Crossed the Seine and turned right along the Louvre embankment towards the East. At Boulevard de Sebastopol I took a turn northbound towards Gare de Nord and the outskirts of Paris.
Down Sebastopol I couldn't ignore this pretty girl looking at me from a poster. I don't think she was worried about anonymity so took her picture.
I wondered how on earth the French went from the revolution of the sans-culottes to being the Mecca for the most beautiful fashion models in the world. The French have a lot to answer for.
Both England and France a full of colonialist place names and streets. A victory in some faraway land here and there, a bit like now Afghanistan, Iraq or Libya.
Both have suffered badly with the demise of their XIX Century empires Maybe they are both looking to return to past glories. But the world is not the same.
Past Gare de l'Est and towards Gare du Nord. The dreadful motorway E-15 beckons. Classic periphery architecture everywhere.
Negotiating the bowls of the big city towards Calais.
Is this a poster for a remake of the 1958 movie 'Attack of the 50 Foot Woman" starring Giselle Bunchden?
A last look at Giselle to remind me of the dream. She's big so it can be seen by the viaducts above me. Is she giving me a 'come on' look?
Full speed ahead down the E-15 at a steady 120 kms an hour. But there was one more place I wanted to check before boarding the P&O ferry at 8:30pm
Near the town of Saint Omer I had seen posters advertising the museum of La Coupole. It's where the Nazis built a futuristic bunker under a hill to assemble and fire V2 rockets against the world. It was designed to store 100 rockets and fire 35 every day.
This is what shaped the world following 1945 and started the Cold War. This place is probably what inspired Ian Fleming for the final scenes of Dr No.
The technology appears crude by today standards but the design and the idea is exactly what is still in use today in the United States, Russia and China.
The domination of the world is not a far-fetched idea any more. We've got the nuclear technology.
FINAL LOOK BACK: SUSPICIONS OF DASTARDLY PLANS
Looking back at the three days in Paris, this man kept cropping up Inspector Clouseau style in the most unlikely disguises. Was it Sarko in disguise following me or just a sans-culotte protecting me like a guardian angel? I hope the latter.
I've been back in London for a week now and I thought I saw him loitering with intent outside Buckingham Palace and Number 10, Downing Street playing the same instrument.
Sometimes it's better not to know things.
THE END
Credits and refrences will be posted here over the weekend. I'm exhausted of writing this blog.
All photos by Arbolioto.
With the day drawing to a close I was pretty happy with the results of my investigations so far. I decided to return to the safer Latin Quarter via Place de la Concorde, formerly known as he Place de la Revolution and where many a royal met their maker - minus a head.
When I got to the Place de la Revolution (I prefer to use the old name) I was surrounded by a posse of French Gendarmes, known throughout the land as 'Les Mastiff'.
Was my cover blown? Why were they there?
Must remind everybody that Place de la Revolution was where the last French King Louis XVI got his head chopped off. So did other French royals, such as Marie Antoinette. I think the Gendarmes being there was significant and had something to do with my presence in the area enquiring about the dual Sarko-Sarkozy personality disorder or perhaps the French plot to execute by Guillotine Queen Elizabeth II and other member of the English Royal Family.
La Gendarmerie is the feared French anti-riot police. Questions remain about their behaviour during the early riots in Paris, just before the revolution of 1792.
Was the 2011 plan about to hatch? Had I managed to uncover the plot?
A chilly wind blew down my spine. I suddenly had Shakespearean visions of members of English monarchy being carted into the Place de la Revolution where a Guillotine would've been waiting for them, re-commissioned from la Conciergerie museum and put to good use one more time.
The English royals that betrayed the Thermidor would finally be dealt with. A bit like the forthcoming movie 'Barack Obama's Navy Seals Team 6 against Osama bin Laden - The Revenge'.
The plan that started in that fateful tunnel d'Alma in 1997 finally completed with the rest of the English Royal Family. Master stroke for La Republique Francaise?
Sometimes it's better not to know these things and let events take their course.
I fled the Place de la Revolution in a taxi.
CONTACT WITH THE CAB DRIVER
For foreign correspondents the world over a cab driver is the man with the finger on the pulse of the city. They are the first guys they meet at the airport and the last. They all provide good copy for the morning papers.
Governments know this so they make sure cab drivers in sensitive areas are all informants on the State's payroll.
I got luckier that most. I got a true Communist from the pre downfall of the Soviet Block era. He provided me with inside information about what was happening in France. At the beginning he was circumspect. I asked him to locate the demo the Gendarmes had spoken about to justify their presence in la Place de la Revolution. He told me there were small protests all the time in Paris which he called "mini revolutions".
I asked him to return to where the Gendarmes were, that I wanted to ask them a question. He didn't want to do that. "They are dangerous", he warned me.
I asked him if he was in favour or against La Revolution.
"I used to be a Communist", he said. "But it was utopia. It couldn't work. Then I became a Socialist. Now I'm a liberal."
I asked him if he supported the current government of France. He responded "I said I was a liberal. I didn't say I was an extremist ultra-liberal, which is what we got now. They will destroy the country".
Danton (the name I will give the driver to protect his identity) was a classic case of the change in French politics and other parts of Europe.
He was dissolutioned with his ideals as a young man so like so many others he was now trying to embrace the only alternative: the banking aristocracy, the politicians sold off to capital, the invasion and bombing of foreign countries, etc.
I could see that that Danton was trying hard to accept the new reality but couldn't really stomach it.
Communist or Socialist it doesn't matter. The French left was destroyed by the proliferation of currency as a mirage of growth and prosperity. After the demise of the Soviet Union it was every man for himself. Grab what you can. Elbow thy Neighbour.
The bankers become the Aristocracy of the new enlarged European Union. Money was cheap. They had to prove that socialism didn't work. Surely, that must be true. Look at the loans, the mortgages, the Nina Ricci, the Rolexes.
We can all be rich! Socialism is dead.
But, alas, the rumours of the death of Socialism were greatly exaggerated.
I reminded cab driver Danton of the French Revolution. There was no socialism then and it still happened. "Social justice is much bigger than ideologies. Names are not important" he retorted.
It seems the pendulum is beginning to swing in favour of the left after 30 years of the ultra-liberalism which ended with the world financial debacle of 2008.
I shook hands with the cab driver in a rainy Saturday night in St Germain. I said, "Danton, see you in the next revolution". He shrugged his shoulders and said "The revolution is not for me now".
Enough for the day. I had a stiff drink at this cafe on St Germain where the cab dropped me off. It was pouring with rain by now.
As I was walking back to the hotel I noticed this crepe shop next to the St Germain underground station. It was the same shack I had seen twenty years before. But it's gone mental now. He has developed his business into a minimarket of soft drinks, ice-cream and bananas. I stuck to the old recipe.
"Une crepe de Grand Marnier, s'il vous plait, excuse my French".
I went to bed in the cheap hotel in the Latin Quarter. Tomorrow will be another day and I had to prepare my return to London.
BREAKFAST IN SAINT GERMAIN
Time for a croissant and a morning coffee in Les Deux Magots. Next to my table a sparrow helps itself to some breadcrumbs. This place is now far away from the plotting of revolutions of yesteryear.
But if you listen carefully you can hear comments like "Sarko has gone soft on royals", "He has become a new Napoleon" and "It's time for another revolution".
It was all sounding truly ominous for Cameron. But I decided to stay calm and collected.
It's all there, simmering under the surface. Just apply a bit more heat in the form of deficit reductions. The pressure cooker will explode.
As I arrived in Paris on Friday evening exhausted after about 8 hours of riding. I dumped my bike in the first slot I found without asking any questions. Three days later, it was still in the same place, nobody had taken any notice of it, least of all any parting ticket psycho.
What a difference with Soho in the London where the local Council is completely obsessed with spying us on CCTVs. You see, we are subjects not citizens. Somebody else decides for us.
UK has been leading the world and exporting dastardly, repressive techniques against the people such as parking tickets, rubber bullets and CCTVs for decades now.
In Saint Germain, nobody bothers. Live and let live.
Sunday morning. Time to start packing and plan my Paris exist. I moved the bike a few meters outside the Bar du Marche for one last coffee and photo opportunity.
Crossed the Seine and turned right along the Louvre embankment towards the East. At Boulevard de Sebastopol I took a turn northbound towards Gare de Nord and the outskirts of Paris.
Down Sebastopol I couldn't ignore this pretty girl looking at me from a poster. I don't think she was worried about anonymity so took her picture.
I wondered how on earth the French went from the revolution of the sans-culottes to being the Mecca for the most beautiful fashion models in the world. The French have a lot to answer for.
Both England and France a full of colonialist place names and streets. A victory in some faraway land here and there, a bit like now Afghanistan, Iraq or Libya.
Both have suffered badly with the demise of their XIX Century empires Maybe they are both looking to return to past glories. But the world is not the same.
Past Gare de l'Est and towards Gare du Nord. The dreadful motorway E-15 beckons. Classic periphery architecture everywhere.
Negotiating the bowls of the big city towards Calais.
Is this a poster for a remake of the 1958 movie 'Attack of the 50 Foot Woman" starring Giselle Bunchden?
A last look at Giselle to remind me of the dream. She's big so it can be seen by the viaducts above me. Is she giving me a 'come on' look?
Full speed ahead down the E-15 at a steady 120 kms an hour. But there was one more place I wanted to check before boarding the P&O ferry at 8:30pm
Near the town of Saint Omer I had seen posters advertising the museum of La Coupole. It's where the Nazis built a futuristic bunker under a hill to assemble and fire V2 rockets against the world. It was designed to store 100 rockets and fire 35 every day.
This is what shaped the world following 1945 and started the Cold War. This place is probably what inspired Ian Fleming for the final scenes of Dr No.
The technology appears crude by today standards but the design and the idea is exactly what is still in use today in the United States, Russia and China.
The domination of the world is not a far-fetched idea any more. We've got the nuclear technology.
FINAL LOOK BACK: SUSPICIONS OF DASTARDLY PLANS
Looking back at the three days in Paris, this man kept cropping up Inspector Clouseau style in the most unlikely disguises. Was it Sarko in disguise following me or just a sans-culotte protecting me like a guardian angel? I hope the latter.
I've been back in London for a week now and I thought I saw him loitering with intent outside Buckingham Palace and Number 10, Downing Street playing the same instrument.
Sometimes it's better not to know things.
THE END
Credits and refrences will be posted here over the weekend. I'm exhausted of writing this blog.
All photos by Arbolioto.
