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| 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.
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| “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)]
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| 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
