Branded Male

Diamond geyser

I was ostensibly in Geneva to interview watchmakers. The results will appear in a book next year, so I won't dwell on that just now. Here I just wanted to mention how charming I found Geneva to be. Quiet and bourgeois, I agree; but ideal for window shopping, dining in discreetly expensive restaurants and, most of all, enjoying sunny lakeside strolls.

And while strolling by that vast blue lake, your gaze is irresistibly drawn to the famous "jet d'eau", or water jet: a towering fountain that tumbles in perpetual slow motion 459 feet into Lac Léman. This immediately made me feel nostalgic. It reminded me of the opening sequence of The Champions, a 1960s adventure series that was already a bit obscure when it was repeated by the BBC in my youth.

Remember it? The Champions (Craig Stirling, Richard Barrett and Sharron Macready) are espionage agents with a difference. A few years ago, their plane crashed near a Shangri La-type lost city in the Himalayas. There they befriended an advanced civilisation, whose generous citizens granted them superpowers. Much better than a souvenir ashtray, I think you'll agree.

While they're not superheroes of the clingy costume variety - the men dress in sharp suits, and Sharron in what looks like Balenciaga - they do have advanced agility, reflexes and intelligence. These talents help them to combat crime for an international organisation called NEMESIS, which is based in Geneva. One assumes it is the Red Cross of the crimefighting world.

I'd forgotten about The Champions - but others remember it only too well. In fact, there are rumours that Guillermo del Toro (Pan's Labyrinth, Hellboy 2) may helm a remake. Needless to say, it won't have the creaky charm of the original. Let's hope it has the water jet.

Decline of the superhero

What has happened to the superhero? I started thinking about this after finally getting around to watching The Dark Night, the latest incarnation of Batman. I don't propose to say much about it, other than that I found it long, gloomy and brutal. The superhero has entered a decadent phase.

Have you ever wondered why there are no European superheroes? I'm not aware of any Italian supermen, or Spanish ones. And it's certainly difficult to imagine a Frenchman in the tight little outfit, not to mention the restrictive moral code. Sure, the Brits have Bond and Sherlock Holmes, but you won't catch them flying around in capes.

No, superheroes are an American phenomenon. And this, perhaps, explains why Batman and his ilk have entered their dark period.

Superman, arguably the first of the breed, arrived on the scene via Action Comics in 1938. Batman followed a year later. Political storm clouds were gathering on the horizon. And America, being a super power, needed superheroes. Superheroes have waxed and Bruce Wayned since then, but they've always reflected their era.

The current cycle of supers began in 2002, with Tobey Maguire's interpretation of Spider-Man. The movie was a romp: high-class popcorn for kids with some well-drawn characters and enjoyably nasty villains. By his third outing, though, Spider-Man had become tormented and confused. Meanwhile, Hollywood being Hollywood, it had followed the success of Spider-Man with heaps of successively grim superhero movies.

With America now lolling in depression, so are its avatars. The Hulk is on the run from his own demons. Iron Man is a deeply flawed character who starts the story as an egotistical alcoholic. And the current Batman is barely more likeable than the villains he pursues. The superhero factory has turned against itself. Its machines are seizing up, soon to grind to a halt. Until the next resurrection, of course.

By the way, for my money the best superhero film of the decade is Brad Bird's The Incredibles, a joyous celebration of loyalty and family values. I leave you in the capable hands of the team's wry outfitter, Edna Mode.

Eastern promise at the Tate

Long before the Sartorialist and the Gothamist, long before the internet and blogs, when even typewriters were considered new technology, there were the Orientalists.

These young men and women travelled to North Africa, Turkey and the Middle East in the 18th and 19th centuries, in search of adventure and exoticism. They were lured by dreams of gilded minarets and sensual harems. Many of them were artists. Some, like Byron (top left), were poets. And the images they brought back with them were a curious blend of fantasy and reality.

I very much enjoyed The Lure of the East, an exhibition of British orientalist painting at the Tate Britain in London. (It ends on August 31, so hurry if you want to catch it.) A great exhibition is like a good book: it informs you, inspires you, and floats on the edges of your imagination long after you've left it behind.

And who could fail to be inspired by the orientalists? It must have been wonderful to share a shisha pipe with members of The Divan Club, a group of adventurers who met regularly in London to discuss their travels around the Ottoman Empire. And I would no doubt have been enchanted by Mary Wortley Montagu, who spent long periods of her life in Constantinople, where she adopted local dress and investigated the hidden world of the harem. (This was a more domesticated arrangement than that imagined by her drooling male counterparts, who had bordellos on their brain. Simply change its name to "the ladies' wing" and you get the idea.)

It would have been less wise to get close to Richard Dadd, who went mad in the desert and, on his return, killed his own father in a bizarre fit of nominative predestination. But I wouldn't have minded interviewing the artist John Federick Lewis (right), who lived in Cairo and regularly painted himself in Arab dress. And what dress it is! The complex whirls of the turban, the crackling blue tunic, the broad magenta sash, the voluminous sarouel pants - baggy at the crotch and tight at the ankles - completed by soft turn-toed slippers.

The orientalists may have filtered the east through their fevered imaginations - the word fabulous springs to mind - but their impressions were generally positive. Too often, today, the western media associates the Arab world with upheaval and terrorism. Through the fascination of the orientalists, we see the allure of these rich cultures.

A gym in Paris

Swimming has always been my fitness choice. But in Paris everything closes for August. Including, ludicrously enough, most public swimming pools. (If you think that's stupid, a lot of ice cream parlors close too.)

The upshot of this was that I finally shelled out and joined a gym. That's not as easy as you might imagine, because Club Med has a virtual monopoly on gyms here. And most of them are overcrowded. Then I discovered that Club Med also has an upmarket brand called Club Med Waou. The word Waou roughly translates as "wow!" or "fab!" or maybe "phwoar!" Because it's a bit pricier to join, it's more tastefully decorated and far less busy. And there's one near chez moi.

Club Med Waou Grands Boulevards turned out to be gloriously Parisian. Decorated in soothing tones of taupe and granite, it resembles a cross between a designer store and a gourmet restaurant. Its clients exercise nonchalantly, in branded sportswear, without grunting. They glow rather than perspire.

I decided to take on a coach. His name is Christof, and his catchphrase is "Encore quinze!" ("Another fifteen!"). In reality, Christof is relaxed and lighthearted. But in my imagination, he is a drill sergeant for the French Foriegn Legion. "Alors, you lazy Engleesh scuum," he sneers, "you weel leeft zeeze weights until zee moossels bourst, compris?!" And then he makes me do eighty abdominal crunches with pebbles in my mouth.

In fact my goal is merely to strengthen the muscles that will make me a better swimmer. Not exactly Michael Phelps, just me with fuel injection. Anyway, the Branded Female has forbidden me to try for a body like Daniel Craig's ("Le brute," she cries, having preferred Pierce Brosnan). So I will not be ripped. I will merely be taught. Which is not bad, after all.