Sinister: Sebastien, you're in a mess...

[poetryplace2]

Having been a committed Sinista (like a Sandinista, but with a cardigan) for
over a year now, most B&S-related questions have been to my satisfaction; I
feel a richer person for knowing exactly what an arab strap is, what manner
of beast Elvis is, and the full story of the horse and the leopardskin
catsuit.

One question, however, continues to nag... Namely: what exactly do the
original Belle et Sebastien make of our favourite madcap twangle-pop-tarts?

To find out more, I commandeered the Jeepster private jet (it has a nice
picture of piglet on the tailfin, on Katrina’s expressed instructions) and
flew off to the French Riviera where the boy and dog who enchanted a
generation of viewers live out their twilight years in Mediterranean
languor.

I caught up with the couple on the balcony of their beachfront villa in
Cannes. Sebastien reclined on an Alessi deckchair, Hefneresque in a silk
monogramed dressing gown, sucking occasionally on one of those plastic
cigarette substitutes between sips of chardonnay, while Belle lounged in the
sun, enjoying the attentions of a couple of nubile labradors. I immediately
put my foot in it by addressing the boy as “Seb”.

“Listen kid, that’s Monsieur Sebastien, if you don’t fucking mind! Show some
goddamn respect.”

Apologising, I asked how he felt about a bunch of Glaswegian hipsters
adopting his moniker.

“Well, it’s about fucking time, ain’t it?” replied the ageing boychild.
“Back in the eighties every two-bit kids celebrity had their own shambling
band: the Woodentops, The Clangers, Marine Boy... you name it. Those guys
were making big bucks from dumbass college kids buying their old shows on
video. The fucking Soup Dragon used to show up here every evening, coked up
to her eyeballs, crowing about how her boys had done her good. We had the
last laff with that one, of course... “I’m Free”: what a crock of shit!”

I quickly ascertained that the passing years had tipped the scales from
innocence to experience for Msr Sebastien. What, I asked, had he been up to
since his early seventies heydey? I had heard that the show had ended amid
“creative differences”.

“Listen,” he said, draining the remnants of chardonnay and pouring himself a
large tumbler of Scotch, “that dumb bitch Aubrey wouldn’t give me creative
control. I was the star! Without me she woulda been some fucking frog
peasant, picking potatoes in some field somewhere. I was sick of the whole
“poor boy searching for his mom” shtick. I wanted to bring the show into the
seventies, in a kinda Dukes of Hazzard direction. The kids were going crazy
for that stuff... We coulda had a few car chases, some hot broads in
cut-offs. But no, she wouldn’t have it.”

What happened?

“Well I dragged the mangey mutt there,” he said, gesturing towards Belle,
“out to LA. I figured we could strike up a deal with Disney or something.
Turns out they were already working on “Digby, the Biggest Dog in the World”
, compared to which some crummy Pyranean mountain dog is chump change. They
didn’t need anymore fucking fleabags. Next, we headed down to
Hanna-Barbera.... Those assholes wouldn’t even let us make a guest
appearance on Captain fucking Caveman. The studio system is fucked, kid, the
suits have got control and they just don’t appreciate class anymore.”

“After that, I... I lost a coupla years. I was hanging out in LA with
Willis, y’know from Different Strokes, and that Gonch guy from Grange Hill.
Wild, wild times, baby! It was just a blizzard of coke... In the end I got
busted for selling a coupla rocks of crack to Velma from Scooby Doo. I was
sent into rehab, and came out a stronger wiser kid.”

He moved onto his second Scotch, and lit a pungent Havana cigar. “Then, of
course, the royalties started coming in from all the re-runs on Nickelodeon.
Belle there invested the cash in a couple of those Wallace and Grommit
films – Gad! I love those crazy Brits! – and with the takings she bought
this place and took me back in.”

A heartwarming story. But what did he think of the latest B&S meisterwerk,
“The Boy with the Arab Strap”?
“The boy with the whaaaat? Listen, I had heard this band were a bunch of
fucking queers, but this is too much! I gotta call my lawyers!”

And with this he stumbled from his chair, slipped in a puddle of scotch, and
crawled off to look for the phone. I decided to let myself out. As I passed
Belle, I asked her what she thought of the band.

“Mon cher,” she replied huskily, in a voice not unlike that of Isabelle
Huppert, “I think they are – ‘ow you say? – seemply deeeeeevine....”


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