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.