Mister Iceberg

I like to look up to heroes, people I've never met or will ever know, who I can turn into a figure to look up to, imitate or use to feel cheerful. It helps if they're dead too. That way their reputation cannot be changed.

In Paris they like to bury their dead in elaborate tombs, normally with as many other family members as will fit. On a previous trip I'd seen the graves of Edith Piaf and Marshall Ney in Pere Lachaise. Piaf's black tomb was constantly surrounded by elderly women bringing bouquets of flowers. Ney's tomb was tatty.. He was Napoleon's ginger-haired hell-raising warrior, the bravest of the brave, who had that slight flaw - tactical ignorance, which cost him his life, and Napoleon his empire. No one visits.

There's also Jim Morrison, famously buried in Paris after his overdose in the early 70s, and with a grave constantly abused by witless 18 year old American tourists who want a piece of the Lizard King. Pere Lachaise cemetery has them all. But it doesn't have Serge Gainsbourg. He's on the left bank, in Montparnasse. I had a morning off. I went to find him.

Serge Gainsbourg went from a lounge pianist in the 50s, to general songwriter, lyricist, actor, Eurovision song contest winner, to perhaps the most famous and innovative musician France has ever seen. He was years ahead of his time, listen to Melody Nelson to find out. And I will stub out a cigarette on anyone who disagrees.

Born ugly, Serge died ugly, but along the way attracted a string of internationally famous women who wanted to cling to his arm. Bridget Bardot was one; Catherine Deneurve (I think) was another. And Jane Birken? That's where the actress Charlotte Gainsbourg comes from.

His tomb is covered in tributes, flowers and Metro tickets. I'd been to see his house before on Rue de Verneuil in the 6th Arr, covered in similar tributes - graffiti'd poems, lyrics and the like. It's empty, and was bought by his daughter who stared in a film simply to pay for the lease.

So this trip completed the Serge pilgrimage. I didn't know how else to mark the occasion so went for basic - a pack of Gitanes. Gitanes are the world's most evil and lethal cigarettes, an iconic friend to Serge. Filterless, it's like smoking wire wool. Probably why the last Gitanes factory closed in France last year. They're cigarettes for people who don't like to have to take the fag from their mouth. If you do they get soggy, and you don't want that. So you leave it there until the flame starts to burn your lips.

I got an idea of how bad they were later that night. A teenager stopped me on the Champs Elysees and asked for a cigarette. 'Sure', I said, and produced the Gitanes. 'Gitanes?' he said, 'No no no, those things will kill you', and he disappeared into the night. Ungrateful fucker. Serge died from these things so that ugly people like us could look cool. Teenagers are so vain.

So a Gitanes for me, and one left on the grave for Serge. Wherever he is now he'll probably need one to keep the boredom away. A quick drag from behind a harp somewhere whilst no-one's looking. So plug in the Ipod for a quick blast of "Mister Iceberg" before anyone sees me. For these are personal moments that can be destroyed at any time to hide embarrassment. That should do. Thanks for the music Serge, and all that stuff about ugly people rising to the top. And how the hell did you make it to 59 smoking those things?

Anyway...

"Les cigarillos ont cet avantage d'faire le vide autour de moi."

Very true.