Psychogeography 107

At the Trocadero, under the disconcertingly shabby, yellowing facade of the Palais de Chaillot, a group of demonstrators are coagulating into a clot of protest. They all have a certain monumentalism about them. Men and women alike are broad-cheeked with heavy-lidded eyes and jug heads. I suspect a tribal affinity. They’re carrying flimsy homemade placards: “Bas Gbagbo!” the slogans cry. A man hands me a flyer detailing President Gbagbo’s perfidy. As far as I can tell, he has hung on to office despite UN resolutions calling for him to step aside so that free and fair elections can be held. A large BMW comes stuttering round the roundabout and the anti-Gbagboists gather in its train. Bluey exhaust fumes lift and curl in the sparkling wine light. They head off down the Avenue Kleber towards the Arc de Triomphe.   More...

Psychogeography 108

Where is Osama Bin Laden? I only ask because he’s been on the run for years now, and despite the best efforts of the World’s Top Power — its heat-sensors and attack dogs, its agents and bounty hunters — they seem no nearer to capturing him than they were five or even 10 years ago. After 9/11, Bin Laden footage was a staple diet for building up our crusading zeal. There he was: the beardie bogeyman, moving with leisurely awkwardness between the rocky defiles of an Afghan moonscape. A stick-insect of a man with a Kalashnikov in lieu of a cane, his aquiline — yet bilious — face lean beneath his turban. They seek him here! We cried: They seek him there! They seek him bloody well everywhere! Is he in Heaven? Is he in hell? That damned elusive orchestrator of worldwide terror!   More...

Psychogeography 109

Such a lantern jaw I have never beheld before! It shines with steely stubble – nay coruscates. Its owner sports a wide-brimmed hat, a short-sleeved shirt which shows off his bulging biceps, and still shorter shorts that display his mountainous thighs to even greater effect. He wears Blunstones, the toughest of Australian work boots – all in all he is a most rugged specimen. He’s pulling a dinky little electric cart to which, with a grabber as delicate as a pair of tweezers, he’s adding dry leaves. The contrast between his macho appearance and his effete manual labour is quite entrancing, and I watch him for a while until he straightens up and comes across.   More...