Archives de Catégorie: Rire

Le rire, l’humour font tellement partie de ma vie que je m’interroge sur la pertinence de leur réserver une catégorie à part… et puis si!

La gueule du korrigan

Quimper, juin 2018.

J’ai dû marcher sur un korrigan par mégarde. Ou bien dire, faire, penser quelque chose qui l’aura contrarié. Et voilà qu’il pleut sur Quimper, à verses, un orage spectaculaire au moment même où j’apprends que mon train vient d’être annulé par traîtrise. C’est à dire sans prévenir. Sans donner au voyageur le choix de s’organiser autrement. Pas calmés pour autant, les korrigans se sont encore déchaînés au point d’obtenir l’annulation du vol qui aurait pu me ramener vers Paris.

C’est râpé pour demain, je n’irai pas former de petits génies surdiplômés aux joies de la conduite de changement, ou de la gestion de projet, pas plus qu’aux secrets du management interculturel. Tant pis, tant mieux.

Je traverse en courant la place subitement vidée de ses punks à chiens, m’engouffre dans le premier hôtel venu, paye ma chambre et m’allonge sur le lit recouvert d’une chose aux couleurs atroces.


Catherine Meurisse, elle, aurait su dessiner la scène, les petits traits obliques de la pluie collante, malveillante, indélébile, la tête de l’agente SNCF plantée derrière son comptoir avec la résilience revêche d’un chardon, et ma gueule à moi, dépitée, bouche tordue.

Mais surtout le visage du réceptionniste, hier soir, dans l’autre hôtel. Il se croyait malin, le rouquin, avec sa bouille béate et ses mises en garde.

« Faites attention aux korrigans », m’avait-il lancé tout sourire en réponse à ma demande d’un endroit sympathique où passer la soirée.

Dans un suprême effort, j’avais réussi à marquer mon appréciation pour l’humour de sous-préfecture, et maintenant, je payais le prix pour mon absence de sincérité.

Korrigan, korrigan, korrigan toi-même !

Gueule de korrigan

Cet or invisible et qui rit c’est nous c’est la vie

Depuis vendredi soir, la France a basculé, mais dans quoi ? On s’interroge : est-ce que c’est ça, vivre dans une ville en guerre ? Le sentiment d’innocence perdue. S’inquiéter pour ses proches ou pour des inconnus dès que retentissent les sirènes. Rentrer à pied, le soir, dans des rues désertes. Se tenir au plus près des voitures en stationnement. S’habituer à prononcer ces mots : « tueurs, fusillade, victimes » en parlant non d’une ville étrangère : Beyrouth, Alep ou Lagos, mais de Paris. Passer des heures à rassurer les uns, réconforter les autres et chercher au plus profond de soi l’énergie pour tenir. Cela va durer, dit-on. Bien plus longtemps qu’on ne se l’imaginait en janvier dernier lorsqu’il fallut trouver des mots pour décrire la situation flottante, incertaine et dangereuse dans laquelle nous venons d’entrer. Il y aura encore du sang, du verre brisé, ce sera moche. Autant s’y faire, mais pas au sens où l’on se résignerait à l’horreur. Plutôt comme on se forge une carapace de courage.   La jeunesse de notre pays, ciblée, touchée, vit son épreuve du feu. Elle en sera transformée, devra faire des choix difficiles. Celui de continuer à sortir et de se mélanger à des inconnus ou de se barricader devant sa « fiction ». Choisir entre l’ouverture et le repli, entre la haine et la solidarité, entre la peur et le défi. Elle l’écrit déjà, ici par exemple, et c’est très beau, plein d‘énergie, la rage de vivre et d’aimer. Lire la suite

We are Paris

Dear English-speaking friends,

The worst is over, for now. France is stunned, but standing, and preparing to display a large demonstration of unity tomorrow, behind over 40 heads of State marching as one in the defence of freedom. They are most welcome, and I have to say the outpouring support coming from all around the world has been a tremendous help in these horrible moments. We could feel the huge wave of solidarity and emotion spreading across all continents as pictures kept showing crowds gathering and displaying the three famous words “Je suis Charlie”. We have cried, again and again, as one city after the other appeared on our TV screens, making us feel less alone in our anguish and despair.

And so, it is over. While our authorities have reminded us that more attacks may happen, a certain sense of “normalcy” is now coming down over the city.

My city.

My beloved city.


How dared they?


These barbaric idiots did not just kill 12 cartoonists, two heroic policemen and many innocent people. They attacked a symbol of freedom, which is at the very core of our National identity.

They did not take hostage just a few Jewish shoppers, but the whole Nation. And the whole Nation has responded. Not with shouts of hatred and calls to revenge and murder, but with dignity. People did not wave weapons or fists in the air, but pens.

In Toulouse, which had been so brutally attacked a few years ago, people were singing the Marseillaise. Out of tune, sure (terribly so, gosh, someone please tell the government to increase the number of singing lessons in French schools). But they were singing together.

Our unity has not been destroyed, but strengthened, as the German chancellor Angela Merkel noticed. And, yes, in this era that seems to have respect only for money, celebrity and sportsmen on steroids, I feel extremely proud to be part of a Nation that gathers around a bunch of free-minded, insolent cartoonists. While the words “JesuisCharlie” have spread around the world, it is worth noticing that not one newspaper has dared republishing their drawings.

It would take too long to explain what this very newspaper meant for all of us, even though their readership had trickled down to a mere 30,000. Many disagreed with the editorial line they had adopted under a new direction. But that is totally beside the point. The terrorists might as well have attacked Asterix, or Molière, our most famous playwright who was already attacking religious fanaticism as early as the mid-17th Century. So, these journalists knew their lives were under threat, but they kept going.

Somehow, this is the eternal story of barbarians attacking cities because they hate independent spirits and sophistication. This was already what was at play in the 90ies when Sarajevo was under siege by Serb fanatics. (Mind you, only people with a very short memory could believe fanatics are all Moslems. How wrong!)

For three long, horrible days, we too felt like a city under siege. Alerts, false or not, were coming from all directions. Red dots kept appearing and disappearing on the city’s interactive maps. We feared for our beloved ones while sirens were wailing every fifteen minutes as police cars and ambulances were being dispatched to various locations. We tried to keep working, and it was hard to focus.

For three days, I kept remembering what my friend David Pini was telling us about September 11 and the following weeks, when people were unsure about what would happen next. How the people of New York had become so kind and caring for one another, in the aftermath of the massacre. I hope we will react the way they did.

I am thinking about our British neighbours, who showed such a brave face after July 2007.

Words are getting difficult to find. I know silence is the enemy.

Tonight, I am Charlie.

I am Paris. I am Toulouse.

I am also London, and New York, and Madrid.

But I am also Peshawar, Mossul and Kabul, and Bali.

I am Algiers, which has suffered so much, and for such a long time.

The list could on and on.

So many cities, so many lives lost or devastated.

As a friend was writing to me a few hours ago, “the whole world is reeling with France. What is happening now is global. “

Indeed, it is global, and now that this specific attack – one in a chain, not the last one – is over, we need to stop and try to think about the meaning of all this. What does it call for?

I cannot help wondering: how will we look at one another, tomorrow, in the metro, in the streets, at work?  Will compassion prevail over suspicion?

Tomorrow, we will be marching in the streets of Paris. Perhaps one million people. Many more will be joining us in their hearts, watching on TV, sending tweets, and buying newspapers.

Debates will have to take place. Teachers will have to engage with those kids in the suburbs who believe that the dead cartoonists had deserved their horrible fate. Our future is at stake. What kind of society do we want to live in? We share a big responsibility.

But let us not end on a sinister note. Two of the most humorous remarks that came out on Twitter about the terrorists were: “they killed journalists, and died in a printing shop” and “the other one wanted to wage Jihad, and died in a Kosher shop”.

Or let us try this one: “how many Jihadists does it take to change a light bulb? – Light? What do you mean by “light”?”

Rire aux Philippines

Je me demandais que rapporter des Philippines.

Le rire, bien sûr, comme ce master qui pratique le yoga du rire sur des policiers.

On lui enverrait bien un billet d’avion pour le championnat mondial d’empathie, avec visa indéfini.

Espiègleries (Haddock au pays des licornes roses)

Au pays des licornes roses, il faut s’attendre à d’improbables rencontres. Mais de là à prendre la licorne rose pour un doudou, et le capitaine Haddock pour un bisounours, faudrait pas se payer notre Castafiore.