Open Mic Shite: Part 2

Completely irrelevant but amuses me nonetheless.

Let's get back to it then eh? So by now you know how much I hated The Compères, The African American Girl and The Poet. I have to admit it gave me great satisfaction to spew out that 4 page grumble. Writing it down was a nice way of unloading all the negativity I felt towards those people. In fact I've found writing this blog very helpful in that sense - you know, keeping me sane and not smearing other people's positivity with my incessant moaning whenever I see them face to face (some may care to disagree and say that I moan just as much face to face as well. That's fine). For me, it's comparable to that feeling of finally dislodging a bit of food from your teeth that you've been tonguing for 20 minutes. When it finally pops out, (allowing you to briefly relive that bacon-y goodness - it's usually bacon isn't it?) and you can give your tongue the rest it has been pleading for, there is tangible relief - a cessation of discomfort that could well have ruined your day! And so with that potential satisfaction only a few more taps of the keyboard away, I will finish the job of complaining about the AUP open mic night...

For me, the worst performance(s) of the night came from the house band - supposedly an accomplished group whose purpose was to keep the night moving along nicely. Chuck in a few slick numbers here and there when nobody else feels like playing to keep the crowd happy. Obviously that wasn't the case. Hopefully I will be able to articulate why I feel they deserved my scorn more than the other artists on show over the next few paragraphs - I think it'll be difficult to put it in to words, but I like a challenge. In fact, that's a lie - I'd actually rather be confronted with things that are easy and require minimal effort. A coaster. 

I feel I should start by excusing the drummer who was a competent musician and did nothing to really bother me - of course I could find something if I really wanted to, but now is not the time. And anyway he's only banging some skin isn't he? You'd be hard pressed to name a band that is utterly ruined by the drummer (but I'm sure some exist), but saying that you'd also be hard pressed to name a drummer that defines a band's sound and is the main reason for their success (although, again, I'm sure they do exist - suggestions are welcome). Usually, it's because they rarely have a significant enough role to play. After all, the div kid playing the part of a tree in the school nativity play is unlikely to ruin the whole performance (as a bit of trivia, at age 6, I played 'Tree 3' in my Infant school's nativity play. I was cut down and became Baby Jesus' manger. Oddly enough, I had a small speaking part. Talking snakes, talking mangers... what's the difference?). The same could have been said for the bassist as well actually. He was a simple, yet solid member who did what was asked of him and nothing more. The two of them weren't flamboyant but were dependable so probably don't deserve to be verbally crucified for their part in The House Band's atrocities. Some, however, do...

Oi oiiiiiii!!

The main culprit then, was The Nerd with the six string. It's hard to even begin to try to describe him physically, let alone sonically, but I'll try as I think it's worth having a picture of the little worm that contributed so greatly to my misery. One of the first things I noticed was his hideous pair of mangy old stone-washed Levis he'd decided to drag over his lower body. I'm not averse to the worn denim look with tears at the knees and the like, sure, but his looked like they'd seen nuclear warfare; sun bleached beyond recognition and with gaping seam-to-seam holes in the knees that were surrounded by tatty bits of material that flailed surrender as he moved. They looked so old, coarse and impossibly dry - I'm sure they would have made a crunching sound had someone decided to pull him off the stage by his short and curlies. Disturbingly, his legs were so thin they weren't even immediately visible through the denim, giving the jeans a hollow and sickly appearance. When his pasty patellae did poke through, they were deadly white and knobbly, like a Nik Nak that had been cleaned of all flavouring and had started sprouting the first signs of fur/mould. They were fascinating in a repulsive kind of way, like those inexplicably white, crusty dog shits you see every once in a while (what is going on there?). Needless to say his lower body was horrendous. 

The Nerd - kindly sent in by one reader!

Unfortunately for anyone with eyes, he had paired his jeans with one of those manky, shapeless fleeces you often see on fat middle aged women that work on market stalls, selling tat to the local dregs. [They're usually called something like Trace or Sharon - Shaz to her 'fella' and 'm8s', have grim dental hygiene, and greasy ponytails scraped back so tightly you can see little bits of skin that have been rejected by her scalp clinging to them]. Well our friend The Nerd, decrepit denims and all, had chosen to don a sad looking navy blue fleece that hung pathetically from his wiry frame (probably haggled with Shaz for it - down from "Fir'een quid" to "alwigh' lav, tenner it is"), and footwear that couldn't quite decide if it wanted to be a pair of trainers or hiking boots. Clumpy grey blocks with too many laces and weird elasticated toggles running over the top of them weighed down his skinny legs. To ensure they stayed on his emaciated feet, he'd tied them so tightly the uppers were all twisted and overlapping; reluctantly and painfully contorted in a way that must have taken great effort to achieve. His combination of clothes (as what he was wearing could never be described as 'an outfit') was clumsy and hopeless - the absolute antithesis of style and the epitomic picture of a loser. He looked like the remains of some spat out charity shop rejects that had then been strewn haphazardly over a cluster of wire hangers.

Cedric and Cyril Sneer of The Raccoons.

He wore a crooked nose that The Racoons (see left for some nostalgia) would be ashamed of, on the end of which a pair of glasses balanced precariously, in constant fear of falling off into oblivion. They magnified his eyeballs just a little too much conjuring up an amphibious, bug eyed effect. The nose was flanked by hollow cheeks that gave way to a thin lipless mouth, and below that, a vulnerable looking chin. Goofy teeth that had aged prematurely kept his gob propped open, making a permanent gimp like expression. The odd string of spittle could often be seen bridging the void between tooth and mouth. Up top he had a head of unkempt mucky-blonde hair that flopped around pointlessly like a poorly maintained wig. This was [of course] teamed with an abundance of fluffy, pube-like hair that covered his face; thick enough to be visible (and therefore crap), but far too thin to be credible or even masculine. It looked more like an infestation than a beard and, along with his gaunt looking face, gave the impression that he was slowly rotting from the outside-in. His posture was hunched in the same way that many overly skinny, but tall people suffer from, meaning his movements lacked any grace or even the hint that they were in fact deliberate. If there was a Disney movie in which a group of animals somehow managed to take human form, his character would be a dopey, diseased rodent named Feebs (not a malicious character of course, but sidekick to the main 'baddie' nonetheless). Alternatively, if you can imagine a weird caricatured version of the lovechild that might result from Ginger Baker having relations with a puddle of piss, you won't be far off picturing this guy. I'm sure his own mother struggles to love him. 

Ginger Baker: Pretty as they come.

Of course, I'm aware that music isn't, or at least shouldn't be, about what you look like. But it's no secret that rock n rollers are often synonymous with words like 'cool', 'swagger' and 'sexy' (Serge Pizzorno, Iggy Pop and Bruce Springsteen have probably been called these things more than once, but look nothing alike - that's one of the beauties of Rock 'n' Roll).  I'm certain The Nerd has ever even come close to hearing this words but I want to make it clear that his abhorrent appearance was absolutely not the reason I despised him* - if anything his looks made me feel a little sorry for him (and a bit sick). In fact, it was his actions that triggered my feelings of detest, one of which being the fact he had decided to try and modify the design of his guitar himself. It looked like it had been left in the hands of toddlers armed with paintbrushes for an afternoon; ugly primary colours splodged together with no real coherence or design. Why anyone thinks it's a good idea to do such a thing is beyond me - you wouldn't take a can of Dulux to your car would you? That said, the way he had abused the guitars looks was nothing compared to the things he forced it to say. 

Technically he was proficient, but melodically... well I'd say he sounded like the nascent attempts to try and write a computer program that composes music. Comparing his playing to that of an actual musician would be like comparing the likes of Jeff Buckley or Tracy Chapman to a pissed up Stephen Hawking singing karaoke. Notes came at a relatively fast but metronomic speed - like an exercise in warming up the hands rather than an art form. Letting a woodpecker loose on a glockenspiel would have produced more emotive sounds. I was subjected to the same relentless barrage of garbage again and again as he attacked the strings with skeletal hands. Each note chased the last in a bid to get as far away from the source of noise as possible, their fleeing, stuttered cries offending not only my ears, but irritating all my other senses as well. The malodorous discordance left a bitter taste in the mouth and the repetitive phrases scratched at the inside of my eyes.

It was bad enough that he acted like some kind of guitar God (with the face pulling and power stancing etc.), but the rest of the room echoed his opinion and had no problem showing it. And it was the sheer duration of the songs as well. The other members of the band would play these interminable 10 minute [attempts at] jazz or the blues and give free reign to The Nerd to play whatever he liked - and that he did, regardless of the beat or tempo of the back line. He regurgitated the same old shitty patterns in formulaic and obviously heavily rehearsed fashion; algebra with a voice. The people in the crowd would go nuts for it, clapping and whooping, shouting the standard, "Oh my God" and "You're awesome" etc. (including his hag of girlfriend who would easily provide enough ammo for me to write a whole encyclopaedia as to why I hate her), which sickened me to the very core. But what really got on my nerves was that they were a desperately poor band, and yet themselves and the other morons in the room were willing to allow each other to believe they were the next Zeppelin. The whole mutual adulation and back slapping, regardless of reality, really left me feeling uncomfortable. It was a group of people that wanted to live in their own little bubble and tell each other how great they were using a couple of hundred watts of power - and all this hiding behind the facade of an open mic night, masquerading as something it wasn't. The thought of them sitting around planning it is almost worse than the night itself. It pains me to imagine them privately licking each other's arses while brainstorming ideas as to the best vehicle for them to publicly lick each other's arses at high volumes. You know, just so they can hear every last slurp as tongue meets 'five-pence piece'. 

Honestly, if it had been a true open mic night where the same people played the same crap, but with a different attitude, I wouldn't have had a problem and wouldn't be writing this now. But these people weren't there to share some music they'd written or what they'd recently learned to play. They preferred to use playing some dismal song as an excuse to have their egos massaged by their peers for the evening.

Inexcusable

This was no more apparent than during the last song when The House Band, The Nerd, The African American Girl, a violinist, a keyboard player, a caveman on the bongos and a literally a disabled bloke with a harmonica all got together on stage. Rather than play some nicely rehearsed and harmonious tune end the night, they all fought for supremacy by trying to outdo each other both in the volume and flamboyancy stakes. Six different instruments soloing moaning and whining at the same time with no sense that they're even playing the same song was a disgrace and should be made illegal. The clash of mistimed notes and the different sounds being punched about by each other was an absolute sonic car crash - absolutely unbearable. But worse even than that, was seeing the desperation in all of their faces as they did everything in their power to be the only one in the spotlight and therefore the target of a group of braindeads' affections. They nudged the volume of their individual amps up to uncomfortable levels, jostled for position on the front of the stage, and moved as theatrically as possible to try and show that they were really 'feeling' the music. It was ugly and so obviously forced it bordered on the parodical. Shouldn't venues at least have a disclaimer that says, "WARNING! There may be cunts in this establishment and as such we cannot take responsibility for inducing the desire to kill yourself, or any other persons, upon entering"? Just an idea. I remember looking round incredulously at the scene unfolding miserably before me and thinking, 'Is this really happening? - one of the ugliest men I've ever seen going nuts on a guitar; some girl wailing like a mental case; bongos being thumped about and; a man in a wheelchair wearing a NFL shirt and beanie hat with flames on it, wheezing incessantly into a harmonica?' As I'm reliving this particular scene, I'm beginning to question whether this did actually happen. Maybe I'd eaten some pungent French cheese before bed and had a horrendous dream instead. Maybe I'll never know. Either way, it was crap, but yet still a fascinating glimpse in to how different social circles go about their business so I'm glad I went if only for that reason.

As a side note, anyone that fancies illustrating The Nerd is more than welcome to do so as I'd love to see how you see him based on the description I've given - I'll even post the picture online as an extra incentive. I'm sure it could be useful as well, maybe to scare away cancer or something like that.

That's enough from me for now. Good Day.

* some people are worthy of hatred based on looks alone - Phil neville and J Leno from the last blog entry to name but a few

Open Mic Shite: Part 1

I'm aware that my last entry was a bit of a moan and maybe a little hyperbolic at times. If you didn't like it, you won't like what I've written below either as it is more of the same. Yes, it looks like the feeble gates holding back my whinging and cavilling have opened and a flood of negativity has started to flow...

Mambo No. 5!!!

It's no secret that I am a big fan of music, and so when the opportunity arose to pop down to an open mic night a few weeks ago, I took it gladly. It was held at the American University of Paris (AUP) and promised to be a night where people could get up and perform music, poetry or anything else they fancied, without fear of judgement/heckling of any sort; it was to be a very pleasant and friendly evening which sounded lovely. Well… almost. I obviously had a few reservations, the principal one being that if the main selling point and therefore reason to come was to enjoy the welcoming, non-threatening atmosphere, then the music was probably going to leave a little to be desired. I don't actually think heckling is necessarily a bad thing - if dished out fairly and with proper justification of course. I reckon a bit of abuse from the crowd early on in your career can serve as an effective way of letting you know you have two choices: either you better damn well improve if you wish to continue performing for people and doing it for a living someday; or they call it quits, throw in their musical towel and get a real job. It would save the dignity of those poor souls that open themselves to abuse from an audience of millions by humiliating themselves on one of the many ‘talent’ shows the world can’t seem to get enough of.

Now I don't know if it is possible to convey the fact that I thought the music would be shite with a simple look or change of expression, but funnily enough, as I was pondering the prospect of a night's worth of interminable music, I was hurriedly assured that there would be a house band present to keep the show moving should nobody feel like getting up and sharing their inner artist with a half empty room of boozing Americans, a few Frenchies and one miserable English git. If, by any chance you would prefer a night of interminable music, simply go to one of the high street clubs of any town in any city in any country. My copious 'clubbing' experience dictates that these types of establishment are sure to play the latest 'hits' interspersed with the kind of 'cheese' and 'classics' that make me want to boil my own scrotum and douse it in vinegar before hacking it off with the sharp side of some velcro and stuffing it in my mouth in order to choke to death on it (Refer to the first line of this blog entry now). As it was, I anticipated an evening consisting primarily of a slick, professional music outfit with the odd sprinkling of melodic mediocrity. How wrong I was...

I bet a good ol' whizzpopper would have him in tears!

But before I give Ross-'the whingey arse'-bif the floor, I should point out that it wasn't all terrible. Firstly, the company I keep is exceptional and they can make even the direst situations bearable, so turning up with them was a good start! And there was actually one performer that, for some reason or another, charmed me a little. After 40 minutes or so, a timid looking American girl took to the stage with an acoustic guitar and a battered sliver of paper of lyrics. She sat herself down as though she was still mastering the skill and nervously slung the guitar over a shoulder with an awkwardness that suggested she hadn’t done it too many times before. She positioned the sheet of paper precariously on her lap and without much of an introduction, cleared her throat and started to play. Now I'm not going to beat around the bush; but the performance was bad - not awful mind, just plain old bad. She struggled to coordinate her singing (which was more like talking to a beat, or a one-note instrument) and strumming, stuttered a little between verses and missed a few of the [unimaginative arpeggio] chord changes here and there. She looked ill at ease and the only thing clumsier than her actual playing was her lyrics. She mumbled some flimsy metaphor about feeling small and insignificant on such a huge planet and spoke about having the ability to make giants cry with even the tiniest bits of dust (actually I think what I’ve written there is better than what she came out with – and I don’t think much to that either). Nonetheless, she deserved to be cut a hefty piece of slack as she admittedly was/is no professional. Aside from that, her delivery was sincere, honest and without pretence; she genuinely just wanted to share something she had created in an environment that would allow her to do so. It’s like a child that draws a picture of a blob for a head, with 4 sticks coming out of it that are supposed to represent limbs. They add balloons for fingers and some asymmetrical scribbles inside the blob to represent the eyes, the nose and the mouth and then they write ‘Daddy’ next to it. You’d be hard pushed to convince the elephant man to be happy with that kind of portrait, let alone a regular looking human. I don’t think I’ out of turn by saying that even the parents know it’s an awful attempt at drawing what we know as Man, but they still proudly display it on the fridge amongst the other tat said sprog has also conjured up. You can't criticise it, you can only appreciate what is there. Indeed, you have to equally appreciate what isn't there - that lack of quality and crudeness is what gives it well over half its charm. It was the same for the American girl performing her ditty about giants and the like. And besides, it's all good practise for her and will hopefully make her better for the next time, the time after that and so on. I sincerely wish her all the best for the future (although I’m not sure music will/should be a part of it).

Why is he still alive?

No with the niceties out the way, from now on I’ll be complaining. First up: The Compéres.  They were a male-female double act that behaved as though they were on prime time Friday night television – Friday night American television that is. I feel the distinction is important as the comperes were inexplicably arrogant, obscenely loud, painfully witless, unoriginal, boring and utterly clueless as to how to actually entertain an audience – in keeping with the likes of Letterman, Leno and Kimmel. Loud noise has never been so dull. And, like Leno, Letterman and Kimmel, they were oblivious to their own character flaws both as people and entertainers and carried on with a smug self assurance as though they were a gift from 'God' himself. The phrases, "Oh my god, that was so awesome", "Duuuude, I can’t believe that performance right now" and "we've got a real treat for you next" were uttered all too often serving to highlight further their obvious lack of sincerity or dynamism. They might as well have played a tape with a selection of generic/inane sentences recorded in a horrible North American whine. The final nail was hammered into the coffin of their dying performance when the female tried to gee up the crowd with, "Like, honestly, who can say that whilst being at AUP they have went [sic] a whole 24hours without drinking alcohol – ‘cause I know I can’t. Like seriously?". No more need be said about the failings of this double act.

"Drugs 'r' baaad... mmm'kay"

Unsurprisingly, there were no "awesome" performances on the night - in fact it would be generous to describe any of them as less than average. But a few people really irritated me (which admittedly isn’t that difficult these days). There was The African American Girl who wailed sentences such as "We are the children" and “We must fight” whilst clutching the sides of her head with both hands and feigning a look of despair and grieving. She was positioned in such a way that she seemed to be throwing the words at her own kneecaps - over and over again, with only the incessant hammering of bongos and a discordant/retarded electric guitar for accompaniment – none of which were harmonious. I was also careful to note her choice of the pronoun ‘We’ in her lyrics (if you can call them that). Bearing in mind she is an American girl living in Paris, attending a university that costs around $35,000 to attend and has probably never had to worry about much beyond the realms of what colour t-shirt will best hide the stains from the shit spewing from her mouth, her message of suffering in both a social and financial context experienced by African Americans in today's society is a little hard to swallow. I have no issue with the message, but the preacher lacked credibility - it would be like having a drugs awareness campaign fronted by Pete Docherty and Amy Winehorse. I'm not sure their respective histories qualify them to speak on the subject with any real authority. Additionally The African American Girl had an awful voice, littered with abysmal attempts at artificial falsetto and other vocal gymnastics. I don't think there are many things more embarrassing than watching a mediocre singer perform as though they’re a professional and put every ounce of themself into it. You are not Beyoncé. You are not one of “the children”. Sit down, shut up and kindly remove yourself from my line of sight and my range of hearing.

The 'Poet'

Next up? The Poet. A 20 something girl that thinks her forté is writing and reading poetry. It isn't. She was a very long girl in the most literal of senses - long hair, long body, long legs, long nails and perhaps most annoyingly, a long face. Like so many artists, she didn't conform to the norm with regards to her choice of clothing. And for the record, wearing a pair of Joe 90 glasses and buying your clothes exclusively from vintage shops and sacrificing any aesthetic quality for simply the age or uniqueness of the garment does not make you an artist. It makes you a knob. But in what I guess was a bid to look interesting and alternative, The Poet wore nothing but black - not too dissimilar to Morticia Adams, except she had a bit more colour to her skin. She definitely looked eccentric (NB Eccentric does not equal Artisitic) but one couldn't help but notice that she was head to toe in designer wear. For me this detracted somewhat from her intended artistic aura and the level of authenticity I felt she was trying to achieve by dressing so differently to everyone else (That's not to say that true artists shouldn’t be allowed to enjoy the luxury of the Gucci's and Prada's of this world mind – I just can’t see them being as interested or motivated by material goods as your average man/woman on the street). To be honest, she looked a little bit… how best to put it.... I'll go with like a slapper. Or maybe tart? No - definitely slapper! She looked like a Grade A slapper. Her poem was absolutely appalling as well - the premise was something along the lines of: if you want to have your TV thrown out of a window, fuck a rock star; if you want to eat good food all your life, fuck a chef; and so on through a list of different occupations/vocations and the respective behaviours associated with them. None of the observations were original, witty or even articulated in an interesting way, so no points there honey. Even the poem was purely meant to shock, again she failed; expletives tend to lose their impact if you flinch and become visibly uncomfortable as you utter them - the vulgarity was often needless and add nothing as well. Not to mention the fact she repeatedly forgot the words and had to keep referring to a shitty bit of paper held in her quivering hand. So no points for delivery either. The poem ended with what I think was supposed to be a list of filthy bedroom antics one might crave ("if you want to hear beautifully articulated moans while your girl's in the saddle" was a highlight), in order to inspire a crescendo of lust and desire, and to slowly build some sexual energy/tension. At the point of climax, just when the audience could take no more (because it was quite frankly, crap), at the height of our desperation to the hear the end and how we can fulfil our dirtiest urges, the words "fuck a poet" fell out of her [potty] mouth. What’s my review of the whole debacle? Well put it this way, I certainly don’t think anyone will be fucking her anytime soon. Poet my arse! As much contempt as I hold for The Poet flaws, she wasn't even the worst thing there. Not by a long shot…

To find out who, in this collection of talentless dullards, irritated me the most tune in next week… or whenever I bother posting the next bit. I think this is already a bit long for one blog entry and I want to [at least try to] keep my audience interested - all 9 of you. A cheeky cliff-hanger (although it’s probably a bit generous to call this one) never hurt anyone. Apart from maybe Sly Stallone.

So, A la prochaine…

Enchanté... or maybe not.

Meeting people can have its advantages.

In Paris I meet new people all the time. My job alone means that I see around 20 to 25 different people every week, but I also meet lots of new people socially. It means that bumping into and spending a lot of time with complete strangers has become the norm for me. There are always new names to learn (and inevitably forget), new faces to study, and new stories to hear which can be great. I don't want to sound like one of the many mindless cretins on this planet and say that one of my interests is 'meeting new people', but I do generally enjoy it. (In my experience, people who list meeting people/socialising as one of their interests, are generally not worth talking to. They'll probably cite 'Goin out wiv m8s' and 'Drinkin' as hobbies too. Meeting new people isn't a valid hobby, it's simply something that happens. Whether you like it or not, it's just one of life's inevitabilities. You wouldn't list 'taking a dump' or 'getting old' as your main hobbies and interests? Although, if you do class doing a jobby as one of your past times/favourite things then feel free to get in touch as I think you'd probably provide some interesting conversation - much like this idiot abroad at 1min 28 seconds.

Whether it's a new colleague, a friend of a friend or just a chance meeting with a stranger it definitely can be an interesting and enjoyable experience. English author Danny Wallace actually lives by the mantra that “strangers are friends we haven't met yet”. A lovely sentiment sure, but my cynicism gives me a firm pat on the shoulder when I read it. I actually think I hate everyone I don't know. Come to think of it, I probably hate most of the people I do know as well. But I really despise strangers. Whether it's the knob’ead breathing on my neck in the metro, the owner of the rotten armpit that's melting my eyes or the absolute "C" that thinks I want to hear the accordion being played at 9 in the morning. I hate dawdlers, old women that let their dogs shit all over the place, the arseholes that wear the shiny, puffy jackets and have both ears pierced. I hate other people's children, people who talk too loudly on public transport, people who have no manners, Phil Neville – the list goes on. I loathe them all. Strangers aren't friends we haven't met - they're all tossers that are yet to have the chance to change my scornful opinion of them. To quote W.C. Fields, “I am free of all prejudices. I hate every one equally”. That said, I can still be won over; basically I'll hate you until you talk to me and prove you're not hate worthy. NB not many people can prove that

Recently, I went to Jim Hayne's Place which is just down the road from my flat. Jim's an old American expat who has been in Paris for a good few years now and every Sunday he opens his house and holds a dinner party for around 70 or so strangers. Guests range from just 18 yrs old to 80 yrs old so it’s definitely an eclectic mix. You simply call Jim during the week, tell him you're coming and he'll make sure there's some grub for you (He's also nice enough to provide some beer, wine and soft drinks). There are no tables though as there are just too many people in his converted art studio of a kitchen which means you have to precariously balance your paper plate in one hand and your drink in the other. It makes eating rather difficult, but if you’re like me and just turn up for the grog, you’ll be fine.

 Some say, it's a "great place to meet people" so I went with an open mind and my best 'smiley-come-talk-to-me' type face so as to welcome as much conversation as possible and really get involved. Predictably, everyone was a bit tense and stand off-ish at first. I mean, of all the people, how do you decide who to randomly introduce yourself to? Won’t the other people in the vicinity be offended that I didn’t go to them? And what if you get stuck with a right nutter? Obviously I headed straight for the booze, and then with a cold beer in hand, I started talking to an English girl called [inset name as I've forgotten] and her French friend called [who knows?]. They were genuinely nice people, but it was classic small talk; what do you do? Why are you in Paris? Etc. Nothing to write home about so naturally I made my excuse to revisit the bar area (which was basically a table that had been shoved next to a bush outside) and tried to select my next ‘new friend’ for the night. It turned out to be a Scottish bloke who was actually writing an academic piece about Jim himself - turns out he was quite influential in Scotland in the ‘70s or something like that. To be honest, the Scottish guy was a bit boring a well so I went to the bar to get yet another drink. 3 bottles in the first half hour was probably a bit excessive (In the end my ‘I’m getting a drink’ excuse popped up many times throughout the night as I dodged the dullards that had decided to burden the party with their presence).

My social prowess knows no bounds.

I did genuinely meet some interesting folk though. Jim himself obviously has some tales to tell, what with being a writer, a traveller and a major influence on Scotland. Not that I heard any first hand though; my attempt at interacting with him was woeful to say the least. Here sat a man who has had a dinner party every weekend for the last 20 odd years, met thousands of people from all walks of life, each surely with something fascinating to say and the best I could come up with was, "Must be a lot of dishes to clean every week eh?” He has a cleaner come in on the Monday if you're wondering. And he didn't smile when I jokingly suggested bringing some of my own dirty dishes round for cleaning. He didn’t show any signs that he wanted me to stay near him either so I moved on. Amongst the guests was: an Australian banjo player who'd popped in for a beer as his gig had been cancelled; an exceptionally tall and ginger-bearded Englishman who was in France attending Clown College; a Canadian guy just making a quick pit stop on his tour of the world; one of those models that is a bit ugly but was presumably chosen for her height and 'interesting' features; and a writer who has had some of her plays produced professionally. I was impressed until I met her husband who conveniently happens to be a director of arts at the very theatre where her plays were performed. Turns out it's his job to select the plays that are to be produced each year. Funny that.

So as much as I tried to be an open minded, friendly and all round good guest, at this point my cynicism reared its ugly head. I was getting agitated with people talking about themselves (ironic as that’s all I do in this blog), started doubting their stories and began spending my time deciding what physical feature I disliked about them the most as I pretended to be listening. I was on a slippery slope to all out misery so when I met two English bimbos that had nothing worth talking about (but took great pleasure in talking a great deal), I was pushed over the edge. Woody Allen said that "Life is divided into the horrible and the miserable” and I think he’s not far off with that. These two bints couldn’t stop bragging about how cosmopolitan their lives were, what with travelling to all of Europe’s major cities and meeting so many “amazing artists and creative minds”. They then proceeded to make racist comments followed by a justification of "I'm allowed to say that because my parents are Indian and she’s got Indian in her too". I'm afraid that doesn't cut it with me so I left and hoped she'd go and antagonise someone else (preferably a ‘Fred West’ type character with a soft spot for those suffering from intellectual poverty). Racism eh – is it ever funny?

I blamed Jim for subjecting me to such drivel-spouting, shit-for-brains daddy's girls. It also started to become clear that some people were using the party solely as a networking event and were only interested in talking to you if you could help them in some way. This was also a little grating. There was an ugly, soulless approach to conversation exhibited by many of the guests - they were like social vultures scavenging the room for any morsel of opportunity for personal gain. I blamed Jim for that too – after all he was the one that provided the meeting place for all these abhorrent folk. Add on top of that the way he dismissed my (admittedly abysmal) offer of ‘washing up’ based conversation, you can imagine I wasn't such a happy bunny by this point. In fact, the more I thought about it, the less I held the opinion that Jim was the wonderful and kind man everybody said he was...

Big Jim and one of his fans.

Sure he opens his house, provides food and drink and a place to meet - but it certainly isn’t cheap! He’ll argue that the 25 euros charge is optional, not obligatory – but it’s interesting to see that his site spells out very clearly the recommended amount to 'donate'. He knows full well there’s unlikely to be a hoard of tight arses turning up without it, I'm sure. His web site also gives precise instructions on how to put together your envelope containing your donation, and recommends you have it ready before you arrive in order to save time. I bet he hears a little ker-ching in his head each time he ticks a person off his presence sheet. You could go to a restaurant for 25 euros a head and get much better food and service. So yeah, people say he is a sweet and brilliant man, but he’s taking in about 1750 euros every week and has been doing so for the last few decades. I’d be a sweet, brilliant, wonderful, all singing all dancing man for that kind of dollar. In fact I’d be anything you wanted me to be. And I'm yet to mention all of his books that he flogs whilst you're there – he has hundreds of them lining the room to make sure you can’t escape noticing them. Come to think of it, we basically paid him to enter his house/shop where he proceeds to take a further 15 or so euros from you by guilt tripping you into buying one of the many books he's written. The sight of middle aged women cooing, giggling and drooling all over him as he personally signed their books made me sick. Let it be known however, that from now on I openly invite anyone to come to my flat every Sunday; just leave me a message below and I’ll put on some sausage rolls and Panda Pops, sell you some of my doodles and you can hand over the readies at the door.

“Oh but he offers a wonderful social opportunity - a really great place to meet people”, says Joe ‘the moron’ Public. Well I'll say this; if you need a 'social opportunity' to meet new friends, then you don't deserve them - hang yourself already. If I want to socialise I’ll go to a bar with no entrance fee or obligation to buy merchandise, and I’ll moan incoherently at whatever collection of cells that happens to be standing next to me - human or not. I’m sure it’ll be a damn site more amusing, and won’t leave me feeling quite so bewildered about the utter pointlessness of so many of the people on this planet. So Jim, if you ever read this, you can shove your place, your books, and your gaggle of middle aged, cooing women up your arse. 

Rant over. Now go and be nice to people and make some friends. Do come again soon -  I promise I don’t hate you* 

Bye now.

*as much as I hate some people.

Idle hands...

Hi Ho, Hi Ho...

I believe I briefly mentioned the fact that I am a working man again. Don't worry; I'm not round the back of Aldi offering "5-quid-a-go". No, no, I have a real job. Or as real a job as is possible in France; you see they don't take the working life so seriously over here. According to Stephen Clarke, the English mentality is we 'live-to-work'. My own experience in London confirmed this: I used to see clever, interesting, socially adept people sacrificing any chance of a fulfiling private life by working 60 or 70 hours a week just to make sure they weren't entirely overlooked when promotions were dished out (Cue the credit crunch...) Their week days would end with a stale Waitrose meal-deal, an empty flat and what would probably turn out to be a wank that left them feeling empty inside (and I'm not just talking about their scrotums). You know the type; when you finish all exhausted and in a mess, jizz up your chest (missing the pubic hair if you're lucky) and sweat in your arse crack. You're then faced with the cold dead eyes of some porno bimbo being mercilessly shunted, as her all-too-forced and mechanical moans of "pleasure" reverberate in your head. You have to come [ahem... pardon me] to terms with exactly what it is you've been watching; some generic and often barabric scene of smut all just to bring yourself to another lonely orgasm. It is then you realise you are a sad little pervert. And it is tragic. Poker anyone?

The French mentality is different - I mean with work of course. Not wanking. I'm positive the tragic nature of male masturbation is universal (In fact, I believe the French call an orgasm La Petite Mort which is interesting). Their attitude towards work (again, according to Stephen Clarke) is that we shouldn't 'live-to-work', but 'work-to-live'. Now I don’t think that’s such a bad idea but it's the very reason France practically comes to a halt in August. The majority of the population simply pisses off on holiday for the month meaning whole businesses shut down and entire streets become deserted. Signs pop up in shop windows, cafes and restaurants, essentially explaining that they can't be arsed with August and so they'll be back in September. It's really quite remarkable. 

“Once made equal to man, woman becomes his superior.”

I'm sure the fuss the French have recently been making about the plans to raise the retirement age to 62 hasn't failed to escape the world's attention, even though the rest of us have to wait till we turn 65 (the men at least - what on Earth happened to equality?) During the protests in late September, I was particularly amused by the behaviour of the French as I walked home one night. Forget the images the media feeds you: streets rammed with people; public transport at a standstill etc etc. My experience showed me a much different picture of the protests. As I walked down Avenue du Général Leclerc (a pretty big street in south-central Paris), I noticed it was actually rather empty and quiet. There were a few buses parked here and there, but I couldn't see much marching or protesting going on. All of the apparently "enraged" French men and women had either retired to the copious number of bars and cafes that line the street, or were sitting on the kerb  enjoying cigarettes and wine. So not only can they not be arsed to work for just a couple more years, they can't even be arsed to protest against this happening. Apparently, the whole city of Paris is disrupted so they can have a cheeky fag and a chat. Is that allowed? Unbelievable. 62 isn't the end of the world either is it? (Well to some, 62 does literally mean the end of the world, but you know what I mean. Rest in peace Farrah Fawcett).

The fact that the French working week is so short anyway, means they probably only end up working a fraction of the hours the rest of the world does in a lifetime. Just this week, there was yet more strike action so a lot of the national rail/metro staff bunked off. The funny thing is, a lot of the rest of the population seem to think 'industrial action' is just another way of saying, 'Don't bother coming into work today', so loads of people stay at home. The devil makes work for idle hands does he? Well anyone who believes in (and I assume fears, not worships) the devil should stay away from France - as I'm sure it's the one country keeping the little horny bugger busy. The strike days actually make my daily commute a bit easier! I’m perfectly able to take the metro to work in peace, albeit with limited service (only 3 out of 4 trains that usually come every 2 minutes will be running - oh the humanity). 

Looks like I moved to the right country though eh? But with no real French ability to speak of [LOLZ] and a background in finance that I'd happily forget, my employment options seemed limited. In fact, even most bar work requires some level of French so it appeared I wouldn't be able to do anything at all! Well, you know what "they" say, "Those who can’t do, teach". So I spent 3 days (on what should have taken half an hour) 'adapting' my CV to make it more relevant to teaching jobs. Afterwards, I was ready to blast it out to anyone that would potentially employ me - schools, universities, whore houses - the usual. Total time spent job hunting? 6 days!! Applied, interviewed and hired all within a week. This country really is a piece of pish! [Although I have since been told it is because I am young and hunky, and that the manager who interviewed me is gay, that I found it so easy. True story (besides the hunky part - I'm fully aware I look like an alien grey with some Lego hair stuck on)]

Pointed shoe... Check. Array of paisley ties... Check.

And so now I find myself as an English teacher in a language school for French business men and women. I work no more than 30 hrs per week, including the lunches in French restaurants that I get paid to eat as long as I'm with the students and keep them speaking English. Piece of pish! The cream of France’s commercial crop comes through our doors for intensive week long English classes. Representatives from the likes of Chanel and Air France are under my sole supervision in the classroom and I fear the temporary reversal of superiority will start to go to my head. I am their Master. Their Guru. Their God [Ahhh, it has arrived]. It really is a fun and rewarding job though and I'd recommend it to anyone who doesn't fancy proper hard graft (and doesn't mind earning a pittance)! The first two weeks is training: essentially English lessons for the new teachers, as most Anglophones have no idea how to actually speak English, let alone teach it. How many of you can give me a sentence using the past perfect progressive tense and explain its use? Or differentiate between the 3 future simple tenses? I certainly couldn't 2 months ago! Once you're over that hurdle though, it seems to be plain sailing. Or at least it has been so far for me. Either way, I think it is appropriate to once again refer to myself as a City Slicker (visual proof can be found above). With that important detail covered, I think this is already a bit lengthy, so maybe I'll give you more details of the job another time.

For now, just keep in mind that, "All work and no play make Jacques a dull boy" (and despite the rumour, wanking won't make you go blind... just a little short sighted in my case).

It's Friday tomorrow. Go and enjoy yourselves

Metro Boulot Bateau

Not even a full pint!! (sorry for the bad quality)

The French have the phrase Metro Boulot Dodo, which is a joyful little bit of syllabic and rhymic consistency. It also nicely describes what we Anglophones might refer to as ‘The Daily Grind", or "The Rat Race" – you commute (via the metro), you work all day (boulot; pronounced boolo = job) and then you come home to sleep (dodo = baby talk for sleep) only to do it all again tomorrow. Being just a young pup, I’ve only put up with this gruelling type of regime for a year when I worked in London. Then I bottled it, left the country and ended up in France. Obviously it would be lovely to treat Paris as a kind of lifetime holiday, but when you have to part with around a tenner for a pint, the necessity of having a job becomes all too apparent. As it happens, I’ve managed to convince a nice little language school that I’m able to teach English to  French businessmen. I’ll tell you about that next time I reckon. All you need to know for now is that I’ve rejoined the rat race and can once again relate to the saying Metro Boulot Dodo (although for my first few weeks at work, it has been more like Metro, Boulot, Beaucoup de Kro, Dodo). As such, I , like any other normal person, need to let off some steam after a hard days work!

This is where ‘the man in the white hat’ comes in to his own. He's a bloke that organises plenty of parties in Paris with Thursday nights throughout summer being no exception; on the south bank of the Seine, just a little further down from the Musée d’Orsay sits the Concorde Atlantique. It is of course the venue for the...[drum roll]... Metro Boulot Bateau! A pun that I’m sure would make the French equivalent of The Sun extremely proud (For any Anglophones, bateau = boat. And anglophone means you speak English) Excellent eh?).As it's the end of summer, and hence the end of the MBB, I thought I'd tell you about it...

You see what interests me about the MBB is the behaviour of the male population on the boat. It’s incredible. A lot of them are what I guess you’d call Paris’ version of city slickers; slimy hair that is so oiled it looks artificial, horrid bold pinstripes to their suits and ridiculously shiny shoes that are often shite. They wave their credit cards around at the bar and without thinking splurge 50 euros a time on a few cocktails - of course there is nothing wrong with extravagance, flaunting it however, is rather more sad. They choose to set up camp at the bar and if you dare ask them to move slightly so that you can buy a drink yourself, they react as though you had just offered them a pint of dog shit whilst popping a cheeky digit up their arse. In short; they’re wankers.

Full of 'em.

‘Wankers’ are a sub set of the male population that I detest but am utterly fascinated by. The behaviour of a wanker is almost always uniquely harrowing, not more so than when seeing them in a “pulling environment”. Their predatory nature coupled with the dead, lifeless look in their eyes makes the theme tune to jaws all the more appropriate for their ‘sharking’ activities. In England, we all know at least one shamelessly sleazy bloke; Mr James Meyrick being my example. I often used to find myself apologising to groups of women for his behaviour, but at the end of the day he was only one man, and thus the amount of damage he could inflict was somewhat limited. In France however, notably at the MBB, the majority of men are sleazy making them an almost irrepressible force. They bounce from groups of women all night along propelled by an unfailing combination of alcohol, bravado and most importantly, libido. No amount of insults, looks of disgust or rejection seems to affect them as they scour the premises for this week’s victim. Worse still, they hunt in packs; circling a chosen group and identifying the marks with communication so effective it’s almost telepathic. They have an instinctive way of spoting the weaker females and will then expertly isolate them from the safety of their group - it's like a cross between sheepdogs herding sheep, and a pride of lions hunting wildebeests; It’s executed with a ferocious efficiency that would be impressive if it wasn’t so abhorrent. As I watch from the sidelines, I almost expect to hear David Attenborough narrating the spectacle as it unfolds “The alpha male of the pack ascerts his dominance by clamping his forearms down on his chosen mate 's backside despite her desperate protests. The rest of the pack look on – hopeful of the chance to mate with the her once their leader has finished”. They zero in on a poor girl, leading with the crotch and then seem to try and thump (that is thump, not hump - I think the word gives you a better feel for the aggressive nature of the attacks)her with their nether regions. It's a technique much akin to the SNL Jim Carrey school of seduction. If they fail, they simply move on to the next one. You have to give them credit for persistence I suppose.

I hope (if you followed the previous link) that you enjoyed that old classic from Haddaway. I kid you not; that very song has been playing as I watched a posse of Wankers begin its perverted onslaught. One problem with the MBB nights though, is that the DJ is a moron. Whilst I’m not really well read on the art of DJ’ing, even I can tell that he is talentless. Not only is his ability to seamlessly blend one song into another abysmal, his song selection is also poor. If they're charging 8 euros for a bottle of beer, you'd think they'd get a good DJ in. But it doesn’t stop Wankers going mental for it! Why does The Black Eyed Peas’ - Tonight’s gonna be a good night send them into a frenzy of joy? It's like they're hearing the most fantastic song ever written for the first time (This little sketch demonstrates nicely how arbitrary and awful it is. Any English speakers should be able to get the gist). 

To be honest, I’ve never understood dancing or why people do it. It's just not in me and I much prefer to stand in a corner supping a beer. If that makes me sad or boring, then so be it – tell it to the tosser standing next to you that’s waving his arms about and spilling a Mojito on your hush puppies. From my vantage point on the sidelines, I think you can really see how weird the club environment, along with the dancing within it, is. Essentially, a bunch of people (mostly wankers) cram themselves into a small space, flail their limbs to the beat of the “music” (and I use the term music very loosely) in a manner that would otherwise see them branded as insane. They drink too much, sweat a lot, smell, get in each other’s way and generally annoy the bollocks off me. You can’t even tell the moron that thinks he’s Patrick Swayze how big a cock you think he is because the music is too bloody loud. If extraterrestrial life did exist, what in God’s name would they think of us? Primitive and inane bobbing to noise all in the name of fun?! What’s even sadder is seeing people who are clearly uncomfortable with the notion of dancing, awkwardly stepping from side to side and intermittently raising an arm or two as a "classic" tune comes on. They clearly hate it but they have to smile and pretend they’re enjoying themselves because social rules tell them to. It’s times like that I miss the good old fashioned English pub! Grow a pair and join me and the other miserable gits standing at the side moaning – it’s much more fun!

The fact I returned to the MBB again and again over the summer, and genuinely managed to have a good time, is testament to the company I kept. For those people I am thankful (I notice some of the girls I used to go with are even part of the MBB website's slideshow on the home page - "big up respect to all ma bitches aiight!") and bizarrely, I'll miss the Thursday night tradition of attending the MBB. It just goes to prove that it’s not where you go, but who you go with, that is the difference between a good night and a bad one. In fact, I have plenty of fond memories of the shit holes I used to frequent back in England and am thoroughly looking forward to popping over soon to visit another one. Mine’s a pint...

Observations: Pour Femme ( + The Bint Itinerary)

I'm sure she has a "bubbly" personality.

So, I was going to write about French people’s perceptions of English women. I had already started writing this entry, but having just come back from a little trip to England (Bristol to be precise), I feel I have plenty to say on the matter myself. I’ll give you a quick break down of the feedback my French compatriots gave me regarding that weird and [rarely] wonderful thing that is the English woman. Unfortunately it’s mostly negative...

• They like to wear ridiculously short skirts - regardless of the occasion, the climate or their body type.
•  They wear far too much makeup – often to their detriment. Anyway, caking your face and eyes in makeup only makes you look more tired and rough if ever you dare to go au naturelle. It really is a vicious cycle! 
• Linked to point 2, is the fact that they wear awful amounts of fake tan. The tragic thing here is that the French men have said to me that the white skin of an English girl is both charming and alluring. So why hide it under layers of orange? 
• Their choice of heels is astounding – most of the time they’re incapable of walking in them. 
• They choose to not wear tights or coats in winter – which to a French person is particularly ludicrous given our geographical position on the planet

Essentially, the way the English woman dresses herself dominates the observations. In short, to quote a friend of mine, “They’re not well dressed – at any age”. Although apparently the way they “dare to wear bright colours, interesting shaped clothing and up to date fashion, even if they’re not a size 6” is something that is admired. Now is maybe a good time to tell you about Michel Audiard. He was a French screenwriter who once wrote "les cons, ça ose tout, c'est même à ça qu'on les reconnaît", which roughly translates to “idiots dare everything, that's how you spot them"(Whilst idiots is not the most accurate translation of the les cons, I think one c-word per paragraph is probably enough. I’m sure you get the idea). I’ll let you form your own opinions on that one.

Some other brief observations not related to clothes are: 

Worthless tart.

• They make great writers (no specifics were given here – personally I find the works of Jane Austen interminable, and I’m not sure the young lady on the right will be winning the Nobel rrize in literature any time soon).
• They’re “vulgar” and “lurid” –it seems the positivity towards the English birds was short lived.
• They’re bad cooks, although this may be linked to the fact that English cuisine is not rated too highly by a lot of French people. I know though, that the only roast dinner better than y mother’s, is her mother’s!
• They drink far too much – well, see my early entry related to this!

Alas, it seems the French aren’t too impressed with Blighty’s efforts at producing a good woman. I’m all for patriotism, but on the whole I have to agree. Whilst I had these kind of thoughts before I came to France, having gone to Bristol and seen English women en masse for the first time in just over 3 months, I was horrified. In England, a night out in the pub seems to justify wearing skirts so short and tight they constantly require adjustment and yanking down so that they cover the, more often than not, fat arse of the girl wearing it. Whilst this is unattractive in itself, the way that the tightness of the skirts/dresses restricts the girls’ movement and forces them to waddle about like penguins makes for a doubly unpleasant sight. It’s honestly mind blowing – what sort of man do they want to attract? It’s as though they’re in fancy dress (that’s like a costume party to any non English speakers who are reading) and the theme is cheap whore/tart/slag.

Obviously I’m generalising, but on my night out in Bristol I really was hard pushed to spot a girl who looked like she had even a hint of class. And that is the biggest tragedy – I know that whilst of course some of them are indeed braindead, many of them actually have brains and personalities that I’m sure are quite charming. They’re drastically underselling themselves by opting to reveal as much flesh as is possible without actually being naked and dressing like pornstar Barbies It screams, “Yes I’m a bimbo but I hope the fact that you can see my knickers, because my skirt is too short, and my tits, because they’re falling out my shitty skimpy top compensates for my lack of a personality and/or brain”. How many times have you seen a girl like this? Sure, she is a braindead mong and almost a shade away from being a full blown caricature, but I recall 95% of the girls from my university days looking not too dissimilar to her at all. And these were educated women! Women who were in the upper echelons of academic achievement and yet they still dressed like cheap tarts! Why are they compelled to do such a thing?! It belies all their other qualities and facets and makes them wholly unattractive (in my opinion anyway). No one wants to bring a scrubber home to their mother!

Classy Bird

I know that it’s easy for me to criticise as I’m on the other side of the channel and am with a very classy French lady, but surely we should all recognise that you don’t have to squeeze into the smallest dress you can find in order to look “sexy”. Sometimes less really isn’t more! Obviously ‘peacocking’ is a natural and wonderful phenomenon, but it doesn’t mean you – but why not also rely on your brain and must bare all or worst still, completely change your natural look in order to attract someone. Why not rely on some of the cognitive and intellectual abilities we, as humans, were blessed with in order to attract the attention of a potential mate.

French women, on the whole (you do still see a few dodgy looking birds around the Gare du Nord and Chatelet areas of Paris] seem to have nailed the art of dressing with class. Their outfits are elegant but not overly conservative/vanilla and they manage to juggle being tasteful as well as sexy. On top of that, they barely apply any makeup when they go out – it’s all very light, fresh and natural looking and they are much better for it. For one, it means they don’t develop crow’s feet on their eyes or have wrinkled foreheads when they’re 19 and 20 – in fact I have met many French women in their late 20’s and even their 30’s who have fresher, younger looking skin than most English girls who are at university age. Whatever happened to the idea of the precious and delicate English rose?!

Obviously the whole topic of dress sense and taste is a hugely subjective area, but I think anyone that has seen any English town/city on any given Saturday night will know what I’m talking about. Similarly, I think anyone who has also been to France recently will be able to recognise the sheer contrast between the two nation’s women, and at least see where I’m coming from.

I suppose that I should re-iterate that this was a grossly generalised piece of writing and hope I have not offended anyone with either the my observations or the ones that I have relayed on behalf of the French. I know not all English women are classless skanks with wardrobe tendencies that border on the whorish. But you know what they say... no smoke without fire eh? Feel free to come back at me with your own comments below if you have observations of your own, be them contradictory or otherwise.

For now though, I’ll leave you with something that a good friend of mine wrote to me by way of a rant. I think it’s an extremely funny and [sadly] remarkably accurate description of the mentality of some (and I mean only some) English girls. I have altered some parts very slightly but I can take no credit for it. It is called The Bint Itinerary and it goes like this:

8:00pm: Pack numerous outfits and head over to hosts house to get ready.
8:15pm: Arrive at hosts house and greet others bints in the standard fashion - over-enthusiastic "Hi!!!" , “Heyyyaaa” etc and kiss on cheeks.
8:30pm: Evaluate which skirt/dress is the shortest and accompany with fake tan and copious amounts of make-up until finished, whilst listening to the current [insert generic crap club] playlist.
9:30pm: Drink more than you can handle at pre-drinks, normally vodka with some exotic fruit juice that may as well be coke. Initiate contact with any male targets via SMS in preparation for meeting up later.
10:00pm: Arrive at 1st bar and drink shots to build enough confidence to hover around the 'coolest' group of guys in the venue. Look for approval from all group members before doing so.
10:15pm: Dance in exactly the same way to every song that is played until the above mentioned guys approach.
10:20pm: Ask the guy what sport he plays and/or how much money he earns. Then go back to group and laugh about guy regardless of his answer.
11:00pm: Recieve text from previously mentioned male target regarding end destination and then persuade group of girls to go there using whatever excuse necessary.
11:30pm: Immediately ditch friends in order to meet up with guy.
12:30am: Vodka from earlier catches up on you and you realise that you might end up embarrassing yourself. Immediately return to group of girls.
1:30am: Realising that you are all too drunk to last until the end of the night, agree to leave the club going home via a takeaway for some 'comfort' food.
2:00am: Arrive home together and discuss what an amazing night you've had and talk about all the guys that you could have pulled if you had wanted to.
3:00am: Go to bed without removing make-up.
10:00am: Wake up looking rough/real. Again talk about the amazing night before. If any girl leaves the room or goes home early, bitch about her behaviour from the previous night.

Above all else...ensure that you drink enough alcohol to be able to blame any embarrassing situation/incidents on being drunk so as to preserve your self-perceived status.

Pretty close to the mark, eh? If you need a fix of Rock n Roll, I think the title of this [dangerously close to being plagiaristic] track is relevant.

Ciao.

Observations: Pour Homme

As previously promised, I’m going to share some of the opinions the French have of us Brits. I’ve previously talked about our ‘Booze Britain’ image, so will now focus my attention on some of the other things our French counterparts have to say about my little island’s inhabitants. For now, I’ll deal with the blokes...

One major observation I was given was the fact that we are a very reserved/conservative breed of man... when sober of course. We answer questions like “what do you fancy?” or “What are you up for doing?” with responses such as, “Oh I’m not fussed really, what about you?” or “I’m easy – it’s up to you”. We seem to have this social inability to make decisions for a group for fear or somebody else not wholly enjoying it – and it often ends up with us doing what somebody else had in mind. I find our reluctance to really pursue what we want curious, but I’m certainly guilty of it myself. I propose that it’s all linked to our uncanny ability to form orderly queues or our preference for whispering to each other rather than speaking at a normal volume when using public transport - anything to avoid conflict and annoying others. It’s the polar opposite of the way some suburban French men will practically shout at each other and generally make a racket even though they are standing mere feet from each other – this particularly annoying when waiting on the metro platforms as the volume is amplified by echoey high ceilings and hard concrete walls. You barely hear the sound of the trains coming.

But apparently our reservations even spread to our dealings with the opposite sex – the French paint us as men that are reluctant to be open and forward in a romantic sense, being painfully passive and timid when it comes to the pursuit of a women. I’m still frequently reminded of how awful it was of me when I kissed my now girlfriend’s cheek to say goodbye after the first weekend we met around a year ago. I thought I was being respectful by not getting stuck in and ‘Frenching’ her on a tube platform in the mid-afternoon. My kiss on the cheek was my way of saying, “Yes, I’m a gentleman, and I think you to be a classy lady – worth more than a cheap snog”. Apparently, her friends thought otherwise – to them I was some lousy English man who had the cheek (ahem, pardn the pun) to give her a mere peck and be on my way – so much so in fact, that if it wasn’t for the fact that my girlfriend was familiar with the ways of the English (“cold” and “stand-offish”) before, she may never had asked to see me again. I wouldn’t be sat here writing this if that was the case. 

I think the French woman should be thankful for our reserved and gentlemanly nature. Most Parisian women at some point have probably had the displeasure of being chatted up by those horrible blokes who wait at the entrances and exits to tube stations. They smack their lips together as though they’re summoning a dog or cat, and repeat the words mademoiselle in order to woo whichever lucky girl has crossed their path. Alas, this does not always work, and so to show their disappointment at being unsuccessful with their best lines, they’ll more often than not throw a barrage of insults as to why she’s not worth his time anyway. Charming. Of course I’m not saying all the French men are sexual harassers but the stereotype of French men being sleazy probably exists for a good reason. Ever heard of Serge Gainsbourg? - A man famous for openly telling Whitney Houston live on a chat show that he simply “wants to fuck her” and also for burning a 500 Franc note. No smoke without fire eh? (Apologies for the poor quality of the first video but it’s the only one i could find – seems like someone is trying to stop the actual footage being shown on youtube).

Another common word being bandied around as a way to describe Englishmen is ‘Hooligans’. Hearing a French girl say the word hooligans is lovely though, so it’s hard to take offense. In fact, French women can say just about anything to me and get away with it – there’s just something about that accent... Either way, on the whole, they have an image of us blokes as being loud, crude and vulgar. God knows why. Whilst not being the most flattering image of the men of England, it does make for a refreshing break from what seems to be the stereotypical British man in Hollywood. James Bond aside, we all seem to be tarred with the ‘posh-butler-doormat’ or ‘hapless-clumsy-buffoon’ brushes. Thank you Hugh Grant and co. I reckon it could be a good thing that the French think of us as being more like the geezers portrayed in films like Snatch or Lock Stock? Maybe for once in my life, people might think that I’m “an ’ard man”? My reflection in the mirror tells me otherwise. Word of warning to the French though -  judging a book by its cover can be perilous, particularly when dealing with so called hooligans. They don’t all don football shirts, tracksuit bottoms and cans of cheap lager, indeed, they come in all guises; step forward MP Bob Bailey.

Bowie: Man, Woman or Alien?

Conveniently (and admittedly deliberately) it leads me on to my next topic; clothing (or more generally appearance). The Parisians I have met seem to make a special allowance for the fashion faux pas’s of the English and give the way we dress special treatment when compared to most other nations. You see, if the French see a man in the street that is dressed terribly, they make no effort to hide their distaste at his choice of attire. Oddly though, if they happen to catch him talking with a classic English accent – his bad clothing is not only excused, but almost celebrated. What once was deemed as simply bad is now rebranded as quirky or eccentric. It seems the way we dare to wear ball-achingly tight jeans, all manner of strange cardigans/knitwear and any piece of clothing that has a questionable gender associated with it, makes us original and intriguing. On the whole, whether we’re dressed in an interesting way or just dressed badly, our Englishness excuses it. I would guess geniuses like Bowie and Bolan have facilitated our ‘styling-without-ridicule’ across the channel – but whatever the explanation, the French find it charming. 

Jim'll have a bloody hard time fixing this.

Sadly, I’m not one who shares the sentiment. Without wishing to smash the illusions the French have of our dedication to individuality, I certainly don’t think there’s anything daring about kitting yourself out head to toe in the latest Topman mannequins’ offerings: there’s nothing the least bit alternative or original about it, as every last Tom, Dick and Tosser is doing exactly the same. Two words: Checked Shirts. And then there is every last moron who strives to look anything like a Jack Wills catalogue – you know the toss-pot university types paying silly amounts for generic garbage – half of which they wouldn’t have been seen dead in 5 years ago. It winds me right up. That said, as someone who is not very well read on all things currently ‘hip’ and ‘happening’, I’m sure the very people I’m talking about find my dress sense just as offensive/laughable. In a strange way, I guess I should be thankful for their efforts to be weird if it has facilitated my own poor sense of fashion being excused in France. There is hope though; it appears all we have to do as English men to look better, is wait – just let time run its course! I have been informed the older English gentleman is a much more smart and classy individual, and they come with quite a unique allure. Unique being the operative word there, as Mr Jimmy Savile is so kindly demonstrating up on the left there.

I was also told that one of the greatest things about English men is our great taste in rock and roll music. As someone who doesn’t understand and thoroughly despises the popularity of tripe such as Rihanna/Bieber/Gaga etc, I feel that to be recognised for having good taste in music is a wonderful thing. Whilst I’m at risk of disproving this theory, I want to share with my male readership a video which seems particularly relevant considering much of this blog was “clothes related”.  Thanks to Billy, Dusty and Chris for this wonderful lesson delivered to you in the medium of rock ‘n’ roll!

Next time, I’ll deal with the stranger half of the English population: The girls!

A la prochaine