The French Kiss

'Ooh, what do we have here?'

The French approach to kissing is a curious old thing. There have been countless books and blogs etc. that outline the when's, where's and how to's on this subject. So I won't bother spending any time explaining the need to increase the frequency and time spent on kissing the further south you go... as an actress said to a bishop, but will instead give my take on the art of French kissing...

When I think too much about it, the act of sending your tongue to writhe around with another persons' seems a bit strange and a more than a little alien like. Sometimes I wonder what on Earth we're doing, and perhaps more significantly why the hell we're doing it (I should point out I'm using 'we' to signify humans, and not specifically The Real Girlfriend and I). The mouth, particularly in the morning, harbours some of the least enticing smells, particularly in the morning or if one has been gorging on French cheese and garlic, so I can’t imagine why and indeed when the practice came about. Wikipedia, despite its faults and issues of reliability seems to have covered the subject fairly comprehensively so if you're interested have a read. For those like me that may also be curious about the etymology of the phrase French kiss, I found the following:

• French letter "condom" (c.1856), French (v.) "perform oral sex on" (c.1917) and French kiss (1923) all probably stem from the Anglo-Saxon equation of Gallic culture and sexual sophistication, a sense first recorded 1749 in French novel. I'm not sure seeing two middle aged trolls going at it on the metro equates to sexual sophistication, but it certainly isn't a rarity in these here parts. 

• In Greek mythology, after an argument with Erato (muse of love and erotic poetry), Zeus decided to punish her with a curse that forced her to kiss the blokes she liked with her tongue. She was a bit gutted as she faced rejection until some dude from Gaul (an area of Western Europe) came along. Instantly she fell in love - the curse forcing her to smack a wet one straight on his lips. From then on, this kiss became the symbol of true and passionate love. Erato cheekily chose not to mention to Zeus the pleasure she got from her "curse" and kept up the habit of the "Gallic Kiss", later christened the French kiss. This explanation is clearly bollocks but it makes a nice little story so I decided to include it.

Fascinating stuff eh? But I also have a little theory of my own, and it stems from the fact the French spend so much of their time kissing each other (I maintain it's the reason for a lot of lateness in this country - it can take you half an hour to leave a party). If you think about it - and I have - if you've been kissing your friends and family all your life simply to say hello or goodbye, this practice probably won't be sufficiently romantic when trying to demonstrate a different kind of love; there has to be a 'next level' for that special someone*! 

(*and anyone else you want to get off with (there's a nice phrasal verb to teach in my next class)

'Typcial' English boys

As a teenager in England, I would have given my left bollock to get that close to so many girls on a daily basis; it's the stuff [wet] dreams are made of. During my dark and dry adolescent years, I was left spellbound by even the slightest accidental physical contact with girls; slight shoulder-to-shoulder brushes or even the touching of feet under the table rendered me brain-dead, and I would savour the sweet perfumed smell carried by the rush of air created by a passing female (probably running away from my slack jawed, dribbiling mug). All the while my French counterparts were regularly experiencing the wonderful softness of a girl's cheek brushing their own as her lips gifted them kiss after kiss! Not a million miles away from the depiction of the void in coolness between the French and English depicted in The Inbetweeners. That kind of thing would have left me floating for months on end - due to both thoughts of romantic idealism, and the torrent of jizz that would have inevitably flooded the scene as my face gratefully accepted the attention of a girl's mouth. To say it would have set my heart racing anyway is an understatement on par with calling Andy Murray a bit vanilla. 

A 'typical' French boy

As much as the French guys must love the practice of kissing their friends, and their friends' friends etc. (you can still see the 12/13 yr. old boys' excitable faces as they realise they get to kiss yet another girl), they must have eventually become a little desensitised to the power of a woman's kiss. It's for this reason I think it only natural for French men to have come up with something a little more 'saucy' than the peck in order to get their hearts racing again. And the public display of this type of affection - with its full-on, tongue wrestling, lip smacking action - is prominent across Paris, transcending age, gender or indeed most other socio economic classifications. There's a 'Ooh... oh. what do we have here?' moment to be had on a regular basis. It begs the question; what levels of debauchery and filth will the quest for pleasure lead us to...?

 

 

Moving on...

I recall now, with relief, the first weekend I met The Real Girlfriend and the grave error I very nearly made on a London underground platform. We'd met the previous evening and had enjoyed a lovely breakfast before spending the best part of a morning and afternoon together. When the time came to go our separate ways (thankfully only temporarily), I felt a pang of sadness as we were about to part, but was also overcome by that beautifully warm and tingly feeling you get when you're about to embrace someone you quite like - I believe the technical term for it is 'a semi'. Standing before me was a beautifully exotic French girl waiting for a goodbye I hoped she would remember. Having spent a night lying next to her talking (circumstance allowed for nothing more), I was desperate to have her. But I was more desperate to show her that I saw her as more than 'a cheeky bit of weekend skirt', and had very high opinions of her. So in my most genuine and gentlemanly manner, I leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek before looking her in the eye and saying goodbye. In my head I thought I was showing her that I respected her and that I wasn't another idiot looking to get lucky. As it turned out her friends thought I was being cold and disrespectful, and couldn't believe I'd done that to her in front of them. They were horrified at my lack of mouth to mouth athletics! In fact, if it wasn't for TRG's knowledge of the reserved nature of British people, I probably wouldn't be writing this. But before you go making snap judgments about what a little bender I am, or feeling sorry for this poor girl who must've felt rejected and unwanted, also bear in mind the fact that I have since found out that I was actually the 3rd bloke she'd kissed during her short weekend in London. Brilliant. And no, 3rd time's the charm doesn't make me feel any better about it!

Either way, she forgave my frigid faux pas and invited me to see her again in Paris a few weeks later. I quickly got over my bronze medal situation too and the rest, as they say, is history! So... moral of the story? Well I'm not so sure to be honest, but my advice is this:

If she's European, and you like her, best get the tongue down her throat before someone else does. You might even pop in a digit while you're at it for good measure - really show her what an old romantic you are.

Happy Snogging.

Public Transport: The Eurostar Experience - Paris to London

Sharing the limited space that a train offers with members of the public can be a harrowing experience. The Eurostar, whilst being cleaner and more pleasant than the abominably bleak RER suburban trains, is no exception. The lack of space always leaves you squirming to relieve the strain you’ve been putting on one of your arse cheeks, only to plunge the other one into discomfort. What follows is a constant yo-yoing of the hips in a desperate attempt to find some bearable position. In doing so, you inevitably encounter that awkward and gross situation when your kneecaps happen to brush against those of the person sat opposite you. It’s perverse and weird. The politics of the arm rest situation is bad enough, but having to worry about touching some ugly (it’s always worse when they’re ugly) person’s knee is a worry I could do without. That feeling of being all too aware of every stifled leg movement you make and that ever present self-consciousness of your own limbs means relaxing isn’t possible. The person opposite is always a fucking space-hog as well, even if they’re tiny. They let their various body parts spill over the invisible but obvious lines marking your respective seating areas and have no regard whatsoever for those of us with that crippling disability, lankiness. There should definitely be 30 minute shifts whereby one person is allowed to stretch their legs while the others’ must stay tucked in. For subjecting me to such displeasure a feeling of disdain for the person sat opposite me usually builds quite rapidly. By the end of a long journey I’d happily see them thrown under the next train, such is the extent of my discomfort.

It is the reason I always choose the option of an aisle seat with no table. However, sometimes one doesn’t have the luxury choice – if say, for example, one is a moron and has mistaken the time of arrival written on the ticket for the time of departure, consequently missing the train altogether. Then, due to having a non-refundable ticket, one has to pay quite a pretty penny for whatever is available on the next outbound train. Of course, I am said moron and this is exactly what happened to me the last time I chose to go back to England. So it was as the last, sorry remnants of my bank account were being pissed away to pay for the new ticket, a thought occurred mockingly to remind of the knee-touching trauma I was going to have to endure if lady luck wasn’t willing to play ball. Let me tell you now, lady luck didn’t even show up for the game. Just how bad a woman she was to send in her place was about to become all too clear…

I walked to the train feeling pretty annoyed that I had a table seat, trapped on all sides with no freedom to move. If we can have free range chickens, we should have free bloody range train journeys! I was already a little ‘peeved’ from the whole missed train debacle and just wasn’t in the mood for it. As I was looking for my seat, my heart sank as I caught a glimpse of the personified ‘kick-in-the-sack’ that was waiting for me (See Picture). Fast food of any kind should be banned from all public transport, with the punishment for breaking the rule being to cook the perpetrator in the same way as their meal. Who are these shameless inconsiderate slobs that feel it is ok to chow down on a pile of stinking slop in such close quarters? The airless carriages have no power to rid your nostrils of the heavy odour that has set up shop in there (I will never forget the time a couple on an Easy Jet flight whipped out a couple of Burger King meals that had been festering in their grubby little ruck sacks for God knows how long). The level of inconsideration astounds me – their arrogance and nonchalance as they stuff the holes in their heads with garbage is disgusting. I was so angry at the woman on the train as she gorged on her meal big enough for a small nation, I decided to capture her doing so in order to shame her (See below).  

Heinous Pig.

I know risking offending the woman was dangerous as she could easily have gobbled me up, but I was so enraged by the sound of her grotesque greedy lips smacking together I felt I had to take the picture. She couldn’t get it down her throat fast enough; sitting there huddled over the table, ramming bits of lettuce and chips in her gob before the gargantuan piece of burger she’d just torn off had time to even touch her desperate tongue. She made feeding time at the zoo look like an example perfect table manners. Bizarrely just after I'd taken the photo of her, she actually asked the people opposite to snap her, I imagine so that she can show her folks at home that a live pig had managed to navigate modern transport. If she ever reads/sees this, I hope she feels thoroughly ashamed of her behaviour.

Onslow and a poor man's WAG.

Of course, that wasn’t all that bothered me on this trip. The couple that sat opposite me were equally despicable, but for extremely different reasons. Whilst they were French, and I couldn’t understand everything they said, they were unmistakably thick. Stupidity is universal and blatant. The bloke seemed much dimmer than his chubby WAG wannabe girlfriend. He sat there with a vacant gimp-like expression on his face for the duration of the journey. If you can imagine a younger, French version of Onslow from Keeping Up Appearances then you’re just about there. Worst still, he had a pair of tatty jeans that fit him in the way that's unique to fat blokes that have a strangely non-existent arse and skinny legs. There were tatty holes in the denim which meant it would be his naked, pubey knee that would be touching mine. His girlfriend sat there gawping at her phone for the entire trip whilst he tried to snuggle in to her neck with desperate kisses and tongue gymnastics. It was revolting. Again, I felt the need to take the risk and photograph them, just to give you the clearest image of the scenario. Coupled with the blimp next to me burping away as she polished off her Quick meal, I was feeling more than a little nauseous. But the sheer arrogance of these people to think that they could treat such a public space as though they were in their own front rooms really, and I mean really, fucked me off. I felt like giving them a taste of their own medicine, blasting out loud rock music while miffing one off in old fat pants' chicken sandwich.

A happier, more inebriated me.

Add a pair of brats with blaring Nintendo’s to the mix, and their mother that was busy sampling 1000 ‘old-women’ perfumes, and you have a sensory nightmare. I won't even bother talking about the Japanese family of maniacs that was playing cards in a panicked and deafening fashion – I have no idea what was going on so I can’t possibly describe it. I didn't dare take pictures of these last two groups though as I felt it might look a bit weird, some bloke sitting on his own taking pictures of children. There are some things you just shouldn’t do - angry or not! Nevertheless, I was pretty tightly wound throughout the journey. So much so that I started taking detailed notes on my phone so I remembered it all for this blog. It distracted me well enough for an hour, but eventually I'd finally had enough of the farmyard that was my carriage and went in search of a drink! I bagged myself a few cold ones and, realizing the bar area was also full of cretins, decided to drink my beer in the sanctity of the mid-carriage area. There was peace to be found in amongst the suitcases and luggage of the other passengers. I even received a mutual 'cheers' from a fellow boozer as he walked on through, presumably escaping his own claustrophobic catastrophe elsewhere, which raised my spirits somewhat - I noted it down.

Ahhhh, much better!

By the time the journey was over, I'd managed to get my way through 4 cheeky Stella’s and a couple of pots of nuts. I wobbled back to my seat in time to get my coat and bag, feeling just a little intoxicated. There was a little grin on my face and I was breathing out my nose slightly too heavily to pass as sober. To my astonishment, the Quick eating heifer gave a loud tut of disapproval; the hypocrisy was so rich all I could do was laugh to myself (out loud). I riposted with an ever so slightly sarcastic "Excusez-moi" and left the sanctimonious clown as I went on my way. After a trip like that, alcoholism makes a little more sense – anything to dull the senses that are constantly being abused by those around us. Sick of it.



A la prochaine.

PS Just before I finished this entry tonight, I helped take a friend that is moving out of Paris to the station. I gave him a hand with his stuff and as we got to his seat on the train, I couldn't believe what was sat waiting for him in the adjacent seat. Another pig gorging on food - this time a bag of fried chicken legs. Here's the picture!

Fry her.