Jeremy Clarke Jeremy Clarke

Low life | 28 July 2016

As I made my way to the bar for my eighth plastic cup of rosé — and counting — the entire audience thrust its pelvis at me

issue 30 July 2016

We returned to the house early the next morning, on the way pleading special permission to pass through the police roadblocks. A strip of blackened hillside about one kilometre away showed the extent of the blaze before it was extinguished. The online local newspaper said that 500 firemen had tackled a blaze that had destroyed 400 hectares of forest — roughly speaking the two round Provençal hills between the house and the nearest village. It seemed a small result for so much smoke. And I wondered why the French state should have gone to so much trouble and expense to protect perhaps a dozen properties, including our breezeblock shack. (A French friend reassured me that in this green-minded age, the state is as anxious to protect forest as it is private property.) Because the fire began 3km from Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie’s £19 million château, the casualty-free forest fire made it into the Daily Mail online news.

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