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...