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.