IT'S THAT TIME of year again: calendar time. Ordinarily, the only one worth considering is the annual Dieux Du Stade offering, and the initial previews were very promising.
François Rousseau is back behind the camera again (he's lensed the last three calendars, plus 2004's) so it should have been shoe-in.
But - no! - what's this? Rousseau has introduced a fish dish to the menu. It instantly shatters the illusion that the rugby hunks are getting it on with each other every chance they get, and let's be real, that's the fantasy the calendar's been selling all these years.
What point is there in splashing gash all over the page? The target audience (women and gay men) don't want to see it; my own excitement over the calendar flopped at the sight of the podgy bint's tits as she emerged from the sea, her featureless cunt advancing menacingly on two of French rugby's finest. They have their backs to the camera, but I'd like to think they were flopping too, their pretty faces in a rictus of horror.
It's a shame, because the rest of the photos are beautiful. Maybe a few Post-it notes could censor the unwarranted intrusion.