My Hairy Rambo

My fascination with Sebastien Chabal has officially turned to attraction and I am horrified, HORRIFIED, to learn that I am but one of many. Not only that, he's married with two daughters and most disturbing of all, he's younger than me. He's younger than me!! Does this look like the face of a man 3 years my junior?



No. It doesn't.

So Sebastien is from the south of France (my spiritual home) and I would like to sit on his massive man lap and feed him raw meat while petting his stringy wet hair. Weird? Perhaps.

And,

I love him.

So apparently he was voted the sexiest man of the rugby world cup, his lady fans call themselves Les Chabalistes and have made him the poster child for “the antithesis of metrosexuality”.

It seems we ladies are torn. One day we want sensitive acoustic guitar playing chappies to make love to us and the next we want a Gallic 6ft 3, 117 kilo Hagrid look-alike to throw us over his shoulder and take us back to his cave for the heaviest of all petting. I read that last one straight from my wish book.

My English friend Francis (an acoustic guitar playing sensitive chappie)was delighted by France's defeat adding "Sebastien Chabal clearly didn't eat enough babies that day."

My friend Thanos (not English) said "I second the Sebastien Chabal comment (refering to what Francis wrote on my Facebook wall), I would love to kick him in the back and run like there's no tomorrow."

For men, Sebastien represents the drooling monster from childhood. The one who loiters in your closet or under your bed, waits for you to fall asleep, eats you and then dates your girlfriend.

For me, Sebastien embodies all that is male and the fact that he is French (the superhero of girlfriend snatchers) makes it all the more pungent. He's a double threat - like Whitney Houston's singing and acting career, sans the crack.

Or maybe its just that guys take one look at him and see one big ugly hairy motherfucker. I won't rule it out.

As for my own personal attraction, I'm not quite sure. Initially, I thought he was pushing 40 and reverred him for his resiliance and high calcium consumption. Once that myth was shattered, I noticed him for his refusal to tie up that long stringy hair, despite the fact that it could so easily get ripped out or split ended. Then I noticed his thighs. Then I saw him smile and it was all over.

There's also the fact that he kind of looks like an ugly, shorter, cro-magnon version of the volleyball player who by the way sent me a long long email recently written in such poor run on sentance structure, I had to read it ten times to make sure I dislike him. I miss him though.

Sebastien lives in Cheshire with his two young daughters and his wife Annick (which by the way means "I fuck" in Arabic). Maybe I shall buy a train ticket to wherever Cheshire is and start roaming the countryside where I am sure to spot him running naked in search of squirrel meat.

Or maybe I'll just head into London and watch the rugby final with my sister and friends and pretend to give a shit when England lose.

your fan,

a.

Dinner with Friends

I'm back from France. I won't whine anymore about the volleyball player, suffice to say that he tried to contact me a whopping two times.

Anyway, going back to France was a really good idea. Shame Jerry Hall wasn't there, celebrity sympathy would have been a definate tonic. Instead I made do with the company of my regular old friends who work the summer season en France.

Since September and October is quiet on the French Riviera (populated by 20 English and Swiss German people, average age: 75) we got to spend a lot of time together. Mostly I wrote a lot and slept and walked and smoked cigarettes and watched movies. The opposite of my summer, except for the cigarettes.

Before leaving I invited my local friends to dinner chez moi. The adonis came. Remember the adonis? He's the one who looks like The David but with proportional hand size. He's the one who looks like he could turn a tree into a canoe by smiling at it. Then he would push it out into the water and go read Hemingway. He came to my dinner party all gussied up clutching a bottle of champagne looking like the cover of a romance novel if it was called "First Date." Nothing happened nor did I want it to, I'm having a man break and am still in mourning to a certain degree. That and the fact that if my libido was a food it would be a frozen pea.

This guy wanted to get it on wid me.
He loitered at the end of the dinner party and asked if I wanted him to stay the night.
"Why? Are you going to puke?" I asked him playing dumb and hoping the word "puke" would kill the mood.
"No, no I'm fine," he replied so I gave him a "then what the fuck are you talking about" face, but a nice one and he left without fuss.
There were herbal refreshments brought to my dinner party so naturally when the guests left, I finished them off and then cleaned like a true obsessive compulsive, its my favorite thing to do when marinated, that and watching reality TV with Clay.

Its the first time I've invited kids to play at my place in France. I was super excited. Sitting around the dinner table chatting and chewing, I came to realize that I have absolutely nothing in common with these people. At one point they had a twenty minute conversation about the dangers of ham slicing. Then this chick told me how if she hits an animal on the road, she takes it home and cooks it for dinner. Not like a dog or cat but pretty much everything else. I thought she was kidding so I laughed.

An ex boyfriend of mine once said "whenever I have people come over I want them to leave eaxctly 20 minutes after they arrive," (Nader) and this time I totally agreed. With the exception of the adonis of course, whose company is just delightful.

I had a wonderful time in France, waking up to a sea view and mountains is beyond description, then watching Top Chef on my laptop while eating breakfast, well...thats pretty special too. I didn't want to leave.

Am in England now, the weather hasn't been too bad but I just get depressed when I'm here, mainly because I'm living at my mother's and super swell as she is, its not the same as being alone en France. I'm temping today, at that same company with that woman who looks like Andew Lloyd Webber, remember her?

In one week today I'll be en route to NYC to see my beloveds.

And I don't mean to sound ungrateful about my French peeps, lets just say that maybe I wouldn't have been as content as I thought about raising 8 foot babies with the athlete in this small southern French town.

your fan,

a.