After meeting up on Saturday in Paris with Allora Gobbi, the Merseyside Madonna, and her two lady companions, we arrived fashionably late at the Stade de France and managed to completely miss the support act which was some outfit called Razorlight. Never heard of ‘em. There then followed a very long interval during which we, the crowd, amused ourselves by trying to get a Mexican Wave lined up on three levels. We had almost got it completely synchronized by 9.15, and had almost forgotten why we were there. Then, just as the daylight started to fade, the lights on the stage blazed up, some dry ice puffed out, fireworks exploded, and the Fab Four opening the proceedings with “Jumping Jack Flash”. I was a bit disappointed with the crowd, who remained seated for quite a long time, clapping along sedately like an OAP singalong, but they warmed up as the evening wore on. The average age of the audience is so old nowadays that it takes most of them ten minutes to stand up and even longer to sit down.The old darlings did not disappoint. Keith Richards was no more incoherent than usual after his recent coconut-harvesting accident and ensuing brain surgery, and got a long standing ovation for not being dead. A wag in the audience had brought along an inflatable palm tree which was wagging about in time to the music. Sir Mick Jagger is undoubtedly still the star turn. His level of fitness is phenomenal given his age (63 last week). He danced, he pranced, he strutted, he twirled, he pirouetted, he pouted and sang and talked in French for two solid hours – and after all that still managed to run from one end of the 100-metre wide stage to the other. He waggled his still-pert bottom most suggestively on several occasions, showing off a taut, flat tummy. The man is a miracle of nature and an inspiration to all of us who have no intention of growing old gracefully. I still have the sore hips as a memento of the evening and a hint of immobility yet to come.
The rest of the weekend was a whirl of taxis, shopping, eating, shoes, drinking, admiring riot policemen, shoes, pretty shiny things, sitting down, handbags, terrorizing café waiters, and more shoes. After Saturday evening’s dinner at Vagenende, on the boulevard St Germain (slightly disappointing, and not cheap), we went for a late-night boat trip down the Seine. This is the best way to see the monuments of Paris which are lit up in spectacular style. The boat had an extraordinary number of Chinese tourists on board, and the recorded commentary was in Mandarin as well as French, English, German and Spanish. It was a very hot night, and for miles the banks of the Seine and the bridges were packed with people sitting, drinking, dancing, smoking dubious substances, singing, kissing, or plotting the downfall of the government. It was like one huge party. I have seen it time and time again, and it never fails to entrance. We passed a number of disco boats blaring loud music and on one occasion we all joined in with “YMCA” – even our Chinese friends knew all the actions!
We arrived back on dry land just before midnight in time for the penultimate “sparkle” – every hour on the hour until 1.00 a.m. the Eiffel Tower sparkles like a cheap Christmas decoration for ten minutes. Our oriental friends loved it and a barrage of camera flashes gave the Twinkly Tower some serious competition. I think it’s quite tacky frankly, but it matched Allora’s shoes, and rounded off the evening with a flourish.
This afternoon our respective trains carried us away from the Gare du Nord, to the audible sighs of relief of the café waiters of Paris, still nursing their stinging buttocks and remembering with terror in their eyes the visit of the Ab Fab Four.
