I'll do GRAFFITI/If you sing to me in French

Of course, the title recalls a well-known(?) lyric from my previously proclaimed saviours Maximo Park.

Thanks to a prompt from a great friend of mine, I remembered something which I had thought about a lot during my recent time in France. You see, there are many little things that make France different to England. There are a lot of big things, too, like the fact they have all different words, and don't sell proper granary bread or decent Tea. But anyway, there are small things that, when you arrive, you just can't quite put your finger on. Over the days I stayed there, some of these things became more obvious, and one of the most striking was the amount of Graffiti to be seen; it literally was everywhere. From derelict buildings to underground car parks to just general... walls.

This Graffiti didn't make me feel threatened; it didn't give the impression that the country was shabby or poorly run, and it didn't prompt anything but a positive reaction.

You see, these spray-canned designs, like the cave-art I studied in year 8, gave me much more of an impression of what France really is than any of the fishing ports or ice-cream parlours I visited. It was the residue of a youth allowed to, without censorship, express their opposition to everything and anything; from (perhaps) Jean-Paul's affair with Marie 'le poulet', to the ennui of teenage life.

Fast-forward to back home, and the clinical white-painted walls do give the impression of a neatly controlled, almost sterile environment. Yes, so I live in a small town, rather than a large city where Graffiti might be more commonly found, but just down the road was a pretty average wall, much improved by a Banksy-alike, boarded up to prevent further damage, as had occured to an original, authentic Banksy design previously in the same place (which was subsequently and heart-breakingly washed over, leaving an almost sinister ghost of a real work of art- imagine someone chucking white spirit at Picasso's 'Guernica'). While the board has now been removed, that ghost still remains; however, there is no trace of Graffiti on the rest of the blank walls around here, perhaps as sinister as the ghost in its non-existence, as stark a reminder of the oppressed youth and our apathy as the French reminders of rebellion.

So, as the guillotine of 'keep britain tidy' severs our anarchic and revolutionary necks, I leave you, not with a plea to go and spray your name over all the bins in your town, but to consider what it is that the French do better than us; I know that it isn't tea or granary bread, but it might well be freedom, bohemian expression and, above all, ice cream. Mine had mini macaroons in it, for God's sake.

Merci beaucoup,
Sq.