Popular wisdom, my white arse.
I know that you weren’t born in 1933, Internet. Neither was I, I hasten to add, just to balance out the times when I do sound like a grumpy old fart.
But we both know this: when Adolph H was triumphantly elected in 1933, it was what the people wanted. Don’t we have footage documenting the delirium? His election was greeted positively in most European countries, and even in the US; and many conservative commentators argued that it just wasn’t democratic to question the people’s choice. We know where the people's choice led us.

Do y’all have bunkers in the US?

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homophobia, garden variety
About once a year I get political and write to some mayor. Remember? I forgot to add that Monsieur le Maire answered me. So that made me feel all fluffy inside, even though it was probably penned by some perky PA whose job description is ‘answer all the mail that doesn’t contain bits of bog roll or smeared dog shit.’ Because that’s what poor Noel Mamère got: a torrent of hatred, over 4000 epistles of stinking concentrate of homophobia.
Different registers are explored: nostalgic (if Hitler was still around he’s have you and that scum burned up), martial, and scatological, like those literally dipped in shit, just to, oh so subtly, illustrate the fact that’s what the gays really enjoy about being gay. You know.
But the scariest thing about it is that most of those letters are signed; in most people’s mind, being homophobic is still something to be proud of.
Because rugby players are less likely to be called faggots, one of them collected all those letters and made a book. It’s called, duh!, ‘Homophobie France 2004’, by Serge Simon, and it’s published by Editions Le bord de l’eau. I say yay!

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It’s Saturday, therefore I’m off to socialise and buy something orange.