One of the things I really like about France, and I say this somewhat tentatively, is that I can speak the language. Now, having said that I wouldn't go bandying about foolish words like 'fluent', 'competent' or even 'coherent', but I can at least hold something of a conversation. So perhaps that's party the reason why I'm finding Montpellier to be a very friendly, charming little town in the South-East of France . I almost fancy that in different days I could stay here for a while longer than I'll get chance to, but the road calls me to Paris tomorrow, so I shall just absorb what I can in two and a bit days.

So, what do you expect was the very first thing I saw on leaving Montpellier train station? There are only three certainties in this life: Death, taxes and the fact the McDonalds are globally bribing town planners to get the best pitches by all the major ports, sights and parks. Having finally given in to the fact that the golden arches are even harder to evade than the Mexican pan-pipe players, I've at least accepted that it's a good place to loiter with a coke during a weary day. For that, at least, I will give it credit.

And a little McNews for you - You remember the part in Pulp Fiction where Samuel L. Jackson and John Travolta are talking about Amsterdam and McDonalds? It seems Ronald has been pinching ideas from this film. Recall the part where they say,

"You know what they call a Quarter-Pounder with Cheese in Paris?"
"They don't call it a Quarter-Pounder with Cheese?"
"No man, they've got the metric system, they don't know what the fuck a Quarter-Pounder is."

Well, the marketing boys have come up with an answer to this. The latest product from McDonalds, France?

"Le McDeux-Cent, Quatre-Vingt Grammes."

It's trippin' off something, but it ain't my tongue. If that's snappy marketing, I'm Edith Piaf...

But as I was saying, I like being able to speak the language, partly because I can marvel at the McTwo-Eighty there, but also because I've found a very simple game to keep me amused during long walks from hither to thither - translating walking songs. I'm not talking about academic, accurate translation which anyone can do, but rather that special brand of translation to which I am particularly well suited. During your next wait for a train, I offer you these great tunes to singalong to:

• "Dix bouteilles verte, qui rester sur la maison."
• "Un homme aller mower, aller mower le jardin. (Un homme et son chein, Spot, bouteille de Coca, aller mower le jardin.)"
• "Notre maison, dans le centre de notre rue."

...and my favourite,

• "Commandez-Brittania! Brittania commandez un piece de la mer qui est plus petite en notre temps."

Though whilst the might of the British Empire has been sadly dwindling, and may well continue, things have not yet gotten as bad as they are in Montpellier. Yes, it's time for another FunDraising campaign from the camp of Kris - this time our mission dear friends, is to raise enough money so we can buy a car for the Montpellier Police, Mountain Bike Division. Or a motorbike. Or even a horse. Just anything that might have more power and authority than their fleet of five-year-old fifteen gearers. On the bright side, for them at least, regulations don't require them to include a string of onions in their uniform, so not all is lost.

Though the people may well be. Lost, that is. Thoroughly bribed and fattened by McDonalds, the town planners of Montpellier have evidently given up the ghost, which has resulted in the town being littered with a handfull of half-hearted signposts, and innumerable ones that say, Toutes Autre Directions.

So, as you might expect, the citizens of Montpellier have become very resourceful in the face of little civic effort. Nowhere is this more strongly evidenced than in their street beggars. For convenience, I translate a recent conversation:

"Can you spare some change please?"
"Er, sorry, no."
"How about a cigarette?"
"No, I don't smoke."

"Do you have a lighter?"
"Erm, I think so...yep."
"Cheers...So, any dental floss on your person perchance?"
"Leave me alone."
"How about a regional newspaper?"

I don't know what's more tiring, conversations like that or the results of the invisible-to-me neon sign I must have about my person, which says, "Drugs! Drugs here! We buy and sell drugs! Stop me and buy or sell some drugs TODAY!" I don't understand it - dodgy though my visage is, I never thought it looked criminal...perhaps I should learn to rap, or something?

But perhaps not, as I have bigger fish to fry. My brother Gary, on the last day I saw him in Aylesbury, wisely counselled me that the way to 'make it' in this world is to either export a British idea to wherever I stop, or to bring back an idea from the world to Blighty, and sell that. Well Bro., I think I have it - and this is a fantastic one. I've seen this for the first time in Montpellier, but I suspect it's quite a common French thing. Instead of selling their mustard in pots, jars or tubes, they sell them in your choice of wine glasses, beakers or a range of whiskey tumblers. Simply eat a bugger load of mustard, and a full glassware collection is yours by default. How cool is that? More importantly, why aren't Heinz taking the hint? I can just see the options, HP sauce in a highball, thin-stemmed flutes of piccalilli, shot glasses of Wow-Wow sauce and classic ketchup in Martini glasses. The possibilities are endless, and over here at least, there's no markup on the price. I'm going to suggest it, but I'm still figuring out just one last problem - all week my wine has this feint taste of Dijon, which adds to the body and bouquet, but not much to the aftertaste...

So it's still good to see those traditionally welcome four and a half little words, "Ici, c'est la bar!" And there's something about sitting in a bar with humanity laid before me, which causes me to get reflectful. So I'm going to pass you a question to mull, and I think I'll introduce it with another question: What have these four things got in common:

• Sunny Delight orange juice
• Scampi Flavour Fries
• Coronation Street
• Prostitution

Answer? The fact that, as a race, we know they're fake, even to the point of being repulsive, yet in spite of this, and perhaps somehow because of it, we're compelled to consume them voraciously. What is in human nature that seems to crave the artificial over the real, Hollywood over Neighbourhood, the abstract over the concrete?

This I shall be mulling over the days to come - thoughts and answers on a coastguard, please.

One last thought I'm mulling, is how will the new Lord Of The Rings
film (out soon!) fair? Having just finished Part I as a first-time reader, I can't help but worry that this film will either bear no resemblance to the book, or it will flop and we'll never see parts II and III hit celluloid. In a rather potted book review, I can sum it up as this - movies about walking don't make for good entertainment. I fully expect some backlash from some of the book's fans, but after patiently reading through five-hundred pages of walking, waiting for something more-than-trivial to happen, it ends, setting itself up for a part II with presumably lots more walking. How has this book become a classic? Perhaps it was mould-breaking for the genre all the years ago when it was published, but now it reads like a rambler's fantasy, with a few action points reluctantly thrown in to keep the publisher happy. If they can turn this into successful film, I'll be amazed...

Which potential flame material brings me to the close of today's blog. I leave you with a song, by Les Mammons et Les Papas. Do sing along with the echo...

Toutes les arbres sont brun,
Et l'atmosphère et gris.
Je suis marcher,

A la triosieme, Decemebre.
Je fait chaud et pas mal,
Si je reste en L.A.,
Je crois, "California",
A la triosieme, Decemebre.