I have never watched the American series "Prison Break", being more of a "Lost" man myself. However I do know that the lead character of PB goes by the name of Michael Schofield, and for this I am eternally grateful. A full 12 years I have spent in this country, and never once has a person acknowledged my surname as being anything other than a god-awful unpronounceable Anglo-Saxon atrocity. It's been misread, misspelt, and flung back in my face. But now -- thanks to Michael -- all has changed. Suddenly it is: "Ah, oui!!! Schofield, comme Michael!!!" Judging by the frequency of this reaction, the number of people in France who watch "Prison Break" must be absolutely enormous. So thank you, the devisers of PB. Next - can someone at "Lost" create a character called Hugh, please.

A fulfilling morning at the Bibliotheque Nationale reading porn and (unusually) not feeling guilty. Here you can while away the hours looking at pictures of tumescent aristos and lusty nuns and pretend it is all in a good cause. The excuse is the National Library's "Enfer" exhibition, featuring the collection of banned erotica that it has built up since royal times. The collection, of about 2,000 books, was dubbed "Hell" in the 1830s in a rare moment of humour by the library's censors. No-one was allowed access until the late 60s, when the walls came down here as elsewhere. This is the first time the erotica/ pornography has been brought together for public display, and pretty strong stuff it is too. I particularly enjoyed (because I have read a lot about it recently ) the libellous material concocted against Marie-Antoinette. You can see why she grew to hate the Paris mob. Filthy. There are almanachs giving the names, specialities and addresses of early 19th century whores; boxes of eye-popping photographs; an extraordinary 1921 porn-flic which leaves nothing to the imagination; and lurid engravings from the 18th century novel "Therese philosophe" about the sexual awakening of a young woman. Plus the Marquis de Sade of course. All in all, enough to bring out the rude in any prude. Adults only.

Following up on my last rant, here is the latest in the saga about how in the supposedly "green" 14th arrondissement things conspire against us bikers. You may recall that I was served with a notice from the "syndic" that looks after our building that I was required to move my bicycle from the courtyard and put in on the street (where it will certainly be damaged or nicked). Apparently my keeping it in the courtyard is against the rules, and they have the right to call in the "pompiers" to throw it out. I have steadfastly refused the pressure, and a few days ago we had a house meeting: all the "proprietaires" getting together to see if we could work out a compromise. Luckily it turned out that nearly all of my neighbours are reasonable people, who cannot understand what the fuss is about. My bike -- and there are a few others too -- do no harm to anyone. They just lean against the wall, making the place look agreeably like an Oxford college. Every day we cycle them to work, thereby contributing strictly zilch to global warming and the clouds of Paris car-smog. Good arguments, I thought. But of course, I had counted without Mademoiselle X, who I am now convinced is the villain of the piece. She must be the one who has been anonymous writing letters to the "syndic", even though she's never dared to confront me directly. For her, it is simply inconceivable that there be a debate about the matter. The rules are the rules, so the bikes have to go. But her sense of indignation is purely abstract. She cannot possibly mind the bikes per se. It is the fact that technically they should not be there that bothers her so. Dare I say it, it is a deeply unpleasant frame of mind, reminiscent of certain less happy periods of French history. Thank God she is a minority of one.

The Invalides military complex is a pretty fusty place. The armies museum, which occupies much of it, contains the usual assortment of captured Ottoman helmets, arrangements of 18th century rifles, and endless rows of model soldiers in uniform. What a surprise and joy then to visit its new exhibition: "Loves, Wars and Sexuality 1914 - 1945". This is a fascinating exploration into an important topoic: the close links between sex and war, as experienced in the two world wars. For anyone worried about bringing children, have no fear. There is very little that is explicit. I was surprised to find out that of what we would recognise today as pornography there was very little, even in World War II. Instead soldiers exorcised their lust on magazine pin-ups, or created their own fantasies. One exhibit shows the inside of a German bunker on the French coast, where a love-lorn soldier drew an image of an ecstatic young beauty in a shower. We see how governments used images of sexuality to whoop up war fever; the pain of separation between couples; the tenderness between same-sex couples in POW and concentration camps. And we also see how wartime governments controlled sex. Mishandled, it could lead to venereal disease and spy scandals. Handled carefully it created obedience. We see the official bordellos set up by the German and French authorities, as well as the VD check-ups and packets of US army issue condoms. But of course -- at the very end of the exhibition -- there is the theme that underlies everything that comes before: sex and violence. Rape. The curators I think handle this very sensitively. There is no avoiding it, because of course rape existed in the world wars as it has existed since time immemorial. What they do is show a small collection of black and white snapshots, images of a rape found on a German POW by the Russians. They are the only actual depiction of the sex act in the exhibition, and they are utterly devastating.

Dashing off a quick blog so that I can get off my chest the incredible, mind-blowing, delirious and generally large-scale sense of joy at watching France beat New Zealand at rugby. It was a match to remember, the kind that comes around once every ten years. At half-time they were 13-3 down, but something about their performance told me it wasn't over. And it wasn't. The second half was indescribably thrilling: the All Blacks pushing and pushing with their scrum at the French line, the French taclking and tackling and tackling. Then Michalak and Chabal (the cuddly caveman -- see above) came on and the team got a sudden burst of energy, and Jauzion scored the second try. Right down to the last seconds -- and the failed drop attempt by New Zealand -- it could have gone the other way. Utterly gripping. Typically French, too, to lose to Argentina and then beat the best. It was the same in the football world cup last year. Everyone wrote them off after some dismal performances in the opening stages, but they came back with stytle. Bravo. Now England next Sat.

A certain book to be published this week in France can expect to sell between 100,000 and 200,000 copies -- but, oddly, don't expect to read any reviews. "Hostage of the Taleban" is the latest (171st!) in the monumental series of S.A.S action thrillers by Gerard de Villiers. The first novel starring his Austrian aristocrat hero Malko Linge was written in 1965, and since then he claims to have sold 150 million books around the world! (S.A.S. stands for Son Altesse Serenissime -- Linge's honorific). Anyone who knows France will have seen the books -- though oddly enough not in book-shops. Places like FNAC refuse to stock them. Instead they are on sale in stations and airports, where they go by the bucketful. There's no denying the books are pulp. I have just read "The defector of Pyongyang". After a few pages I had the measure of it, and had no great desire to continue. But what is fascinating is the way such a massive literary success story (however low-brow) is simply ignored in France. Part of the reason is that de Villiers is uncompromisingly right-wing. He has said some things that are certainly provocative, and as a result is seen as a pariah. The other reason is that the literary establishment regards the books as beneath them. I agree they are crap, but no worse than a lot of other shlock that the shops are happy to put on sale. And in their favour, it has to be said that the S.A.S. novels are impeccably researched. "Hostage of the Taleban" was written after a trip to Afghanistan this year, where de Villiers drew on his excellent contacts in the French armed forces and intelligence. The books may be turgid, but he knows what he is talking about. Every story is rooted in some real-life geopolitical crisis. The next is set in Kosovo -- where de Villiers (just back from the scene) warns of an impending explosion. De Villiers features in the next edition of Champs-Elysees. Check it out.

I bow to no man in my love of the game of rugby, and this month's World Cup is proving a wonderful antidote to the blues of "la rentrée". But the opportunity is too good to miss, so I must now bring up a subject I first wrote about five years ago -- that is, the shameful record of French Rugby Union in suppressing its younger rival "le jeu-à-13".
(Rugby experts, skip this. There are two forms of the game, Union and League. Union is played with 15 men, League with 13. They have different rules, and very different cultural histories)
My researches took me -- symbolically enough -- to Vichy, because it was there in 1941 that Marshal Petain signed an order prepared for him by his minister of sport, banning Rugby League. Yes, in addition to hunting down Jews and promoting Catholic nationalism, the Vichy government actually took the time out to outlaw a sport!
In brief, the story goes back to the early 30s when Rugby League made a sudden impact in France. The Union game was in disgrace, largely as a result of violent play by French sides, and France had been banned from the five nations championship. Rugby League took up the slack, and by 1939 there were 225 League clubs -- all set up in just five years. But then along came Vichy. The Rugby Union authorities saw their chance, and lobbied hard against the rival game. League was professional, they said, (true -- League players signed annual contracts) and an affront to to sporting values. Worse, it was championed by the left and closely associated with the Popular Front government of 1936. They won the argument, and League was outlawed, its property confiscated, and players urged to "convert" to Union.
Later of course it was unbanned, but the prejudice endured. Not until 15 years ago was League allowed to call itself rugby at all -- the official name before that was the "jeu-à-13". And not till 2002 did a government enquiry conclude that "influential officials in the French Rugby (Union) Federation endeavoured to eliminate the competitor, which they claimed was a deviant form of Rugby Union".
Today League is played in some parts of the southwest -- and the Catalan Dragons play in the European super-league -- but of course it is a pale shadow compared to Union. I am a Union man myself, but this shameful story should not be forgotten.

A brief paean of praise for the wonderful new bike scheme in Paris. The capital has a record of innovative ideas that make life better and more interesting, and this is definitely one of them. We broke our Velib virginity last Sunday. I had my trusty old steed of a bike, the wife took out one of these sturdy new ponies. She'd previously signed up for the year at 29 euros, which means it's free for journeys under 30 minutes. A gentle ride down to Vavin, deposited her bike at the station there, a couple of beers, picked up a new bike, then home. Brilliant. It's going to do wonders for our social life. We might actually start going out together. For now, Velib is also a huge ice-breaker. Riding a Velib makes you the cynosure of the public eye. Tourists are especially fascinated. And envious. It's interesting that this latest initiative is -- for the first time -- a private sector one. Yes, the set-up had to be approved by City Hall, but it is JCDecaux -- the advertising hoardings people -- who are running it. An unwelcome surrender to big money, or a sensible acknowledgement of the times we live in? The latter, surely.

Funny how tastes change, or maybe it's just that I am a freak. I saw Les Enfants du Paradis last night in a bid to educate myself about French film. In the latest edition of Champs-Elysees there is an item on Jacques Prevert, who wrote the screen-play. Apparently the film is regarded as so monumental that it is on UNESCO's world heritage list (whatever that is). What is wrong with me? I watched it, and I loathed it. OK -- I can see that it was an amazing achievement, put together in the war and all that, and the street scenes are certainly bursting with life. I dare say the camera work is extraordinary, and that at the time it was a groundbreaking piece of work, France's answer -- so they said -- to Gone with the Wind. Surely one has to be honest though, and admit that at 60 years distance this kind of film may be a historical curiosity, but it is virtually unwatchable. The so-called poetic script seems stilted and self-conscious. It may be Prevert's finest, but it did nothing for me. The delivery of the actors is ludicrously over-the-top, every sentence ending in a sententious drawn-out vowel. This is how classical actors spoke (the equivalent of the clipped English tones of Brief Encounter). It was admired at the time, but now it is simply unnatural. Equally lacking in any passing connection to real life are the plot and the characters. Their behaviour is utterly unbelievable. The love and the passion are obviously matters of life or death, because that is what they keep telling us, but their actions feel artificial. The true cinema critic will say I am missing the point. Of course it is not meant to be naturalistic. This was cinema born of classical theatre, and the conventions had to be observed. Fair enough -- but the awful stiffness of it all is not just in my imagining. A few years after Les Enfants du Paradis was made, the film world was in rebellion against what I have just described. The Nouvelle Vague was a reaction to precisely this kind of parodic classicism. Perhaps I am just a cultureless yob, but I really think this is emperor's new clothes territory.

A fascinating article this week in Le Monde about Guy Moquet. He was a 17 year-old executed by the Germans in October 1941 along with many others as a reprisal for the killing of a senior military officer in Nantes. Moquet went down in history because of the letter he wrote to his parents on the eve of his death, in which he asks them to be stoical and says he is glad to lay down his life for a cause. President Sarkozy had the moving epistle read out on his inauguration day, and said it should be recited from now on in every school at the start of the academic year. But according to the Le Monde article, which was written by two historians, all is not quite what it seems. Moquet was from a family of die-hard Stalinists, raised from the cradle in a "culture politique bolchevique." As we know, in 1940 and early 1941 -- while Hitler and Stalin were linked by their pact -- French communists opposed the war with Germany. Indeed they "called more or less openly for sabotage of the war effort". When France was occupied, the communists cooperated with the Germans to ensure the republication of their newspapers. It was in this context that Moquet was arrested by French police in October 1940. The tracts he was handing out at the Gare de l'Est "were in total accordance with the party line and therefore did not call for resistance". A year later Hitler had invaded Russia and the Nazi-Soviet pact was over. The Feldkommandant was killed on October 1941 by three young communists, acting still then against the orders of the party hierarchy. Moquet -- still in jail -- was selected for the reprisal and shot with 26 others in Chateaubriant. Not all were Communists, but the party claimed the tragedy "pour sa seule gloire". As Jean-Marc Berliere and Syvian Bouloque say, "with the blood of the hostages, the Communist Party washed away one of the most troubled and ambiguous episodes of its history, and at the same time put up a moral obstacle against all criticism of its attitude". Moquet had never fired a shot against the Germans. Instead he had been leafletting for a party that called for a policy of pragmatic collaboration. At the time of his death he was undoubtedly fired by a laudable spirit of self-sacrifice, but the story surrounding him is a myth.

Regulars to this blog (if there are any) will know that I am not a fan of Segolene Royal. Latest events have only confirmed my prejudice. You may recall that on the evening of the legislative election results on June 17, it was announced that she and her partner Francois Hollande had split up. Royal made the revelation herself in an interview with two AFP journalists. She told them that she and Hollande -- who is the head of the Socialist party -- were no longer to be considered a couple. She did not say when they had separated, but hinted that he had found another woman. The way she made it all public -- in the briefest of interviews -- implied that it was all a painful concession to the mediatisation of her life. In an ideal world, she clearly thinks, her private life would remain her private life. What portentous poppycock! It angers me the full angering that this woman came within an ace of being made France's president without ever once deigning to inform the nation about the state of her relationship with the leader of the Socialist Party. This was not some anodyne private matter. The guy with whom she did or did not share the marital bed was the head of one of the two great political formations in the country, with presumably rather strong views on current events. The country was led to believe that their 30 year relationship was just fine. But no! We were all wrong. They weren't together. There had been disagreements. They represented very different currents in left-wing thought. They were -- and are -- at odds. And this wasn't relevant???? It is doubly insulting that she chose to make the revelation the minute the electoral season closed -- maintaining to the end the hypocrisy that it was not the country's business. To think she could have been president!!!