Dudley Sutton's Bill Farrell from The Football Factory: A Real Bloke
Real Blokes can build things. And if said things break, said blokes can also fix them - with whatever tools are available. Real Blokes can hold pool cues. They have the ability to tease the cue back and forth with almighty precision as they prepare to let the white ball introduce the red to the corner pocket. The manner in which they do so is assured and controlled. Hearing the sound of a huge break or the balls smashing against each other and the throat of the pockets is the sound of masculinity itself. It should be followed by a well-deserved gulp from a pint, (for real blokes drink pints you see), and a smug gasp of satisfaction. Real Blokes are able to throw things. Far. They're able to open jars without struggling. Discovering the bite point of any clutch is innate and allows them to drive almost any vehicle - which they can then park without difficulty. Real Blokes can lift heavy things and know the inner workings of engines and other mechanical thing-a-ma-jigs. Real Men don't use words like thing-a-ma-jig. These things and many more are what separate the men from the boys.
Obviously, I am not a real bloke and am not able to do any of these things. In all honesty, I think the Real Bloke gene didn't so much skip me, but marched right past me disgusted at my lack of masculinity. I'm the kind of bloke who dreads being challenged to ironic arm wrestles (with a younger sister or a slender girl for example) as I have a genuine fear of losing. Embarrassingly, I can still remember having to get my own mother to drive me to and from band practices (didn't have a drive license - still don't!), and to lift my bulky amp and guitar from the boot, then carrying them both as I followed behind - tail falling limply between my legs, spaghetti arms pathetically hanging by my useless sides - s I carried the 'easy' stuff! I remember wondering, "When exactly are my muscles supposed to start developing?" The answer still eludes me.
Another delightful Real Bloke
Having recently been involved in helping some friends move apartment, I've rediscovered just how puny I really am. There was such pressure in trying to look like one of the lads as we ferried furniture to and from vans/cars etc. We'd exchange nods as we passed each other, everybody else looking completely relaxed and bloke-ish - me with the kind of face you see on someone that's been holding in a fart for a good half hour. I tried to blend in - forcing myself to respond to the question "Is that heavy?" with the most assured "Nahh nahh nahh" that I could muster. The whole while I felt like a fraud - desperate to tell them that I was weak and wouldn't be offended if they put me on door holding duty or something of that nature.
And when it came to my own recent flat move, I was once again left ruing my lack of masculine know-how. Finding people to help shift belongings was fairly easy as I have a very generous and kind set of friends over here (particular props go to my friends 'Gros' and 'Babe'; a Real Bloke and his girlfriend who I'm sure could take me in a fight). But once TRG and I were in with all our stuff, we realised there were some things we would just have to do ourselves. The echo of footsteps and shifting boxes danced between the bare walls, singing choruses of "Bet you can't build this" and "Good luck lifting that". I had often wondered when exactly Real Blokes were first supposed to learn how to use a drill, put up some shelves or purchase a spirit level etc.*. It was clear that time in my life had finally come.
*I went with an iPhone application in the end. #Mincer.
But something changed in me in the few weeks we moved to our own place. As useless and weak as I am, the knowledge that I had only myself to rely on in order for the flat to become livable gave me a determination I had never felt before. In days gone by, I would have simply asked my dad or brother to do the work for me but now I was determined to become the man I always thought I could never be. Over the next week or so I did the following:
Scrubbed an entire kitchen floor to ceiling (sounds easy but required grit and determination - I had to deal with grease that was half a centimetre thick at times, and also electrocuted myself on a frayed wire behind the oven)
Built all the (admittedly flat pack) furniture. This included a TV stand, coffee table, extendable dining table, chest of drawers, bathroom cabinet complete with cupboards, bookshelf and a sofa bed.
Put up a shelf
Cleaned what must have been years' worth of pigeon shit from the balcony
Installed some sliding doors to separate the living space and bedroom
I was on a testosterone fuelled roll. I was becoming more and more masculine by the day - my hands had become calloused and blistered, stubble growth had started to increase and the smell of my pits had started to deteriorate. And so in keeping with one of the most sacred behaviours displayed by Real Blokes I realised I had become fed up with all the DIY and decided to leave a few things unfinished. So now, whilst TRG may look at me and see a scrawny little worm of a boy, every time she is blinded by the kitchen light that is missing a lamp shade or every time she reaches for some bog roll from a bog roll holder that has yet to be put up and has to twist round to grab it from the cistern, she will know, without any shadow of a doubt, she is with a Real "Bri'ish" Bloke.
So that you can enjoy my handiwork, below are some pictures of my new gaff (taken with a cheap panoramic app so I won't be expecting a Pulitzer). As a real bloke I didn't feel the necessity to clean before taking them.
Here you see the TV stand, room dividers, coffee table and the dining room table. I built 'em, so I feel I have the right to clutter them with my junk - it's a testament to the build quality they're still standing. The shelf I put up is on the left. How long that stays there though, is anyone's guess.
The walls of my bog. Real Blokes Mr. Jimmy Page and Mr. Gus Young are just out of shot on the right.
Bookshelf full of women's nonsense fiction. I can't even lay claim to the 1kg weights under the sofa - they belong to TRG.
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.
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!
The story continues exactly where it left off; fresh from the harrowing experience of the first viewing, I made my way directly to flat number two...
My criterion has been met!
Not wanting to repeat the same mistake of tardiness, I rushed to the metro to get to the next flat in plenty of time. The problem with arriving early however, is you're forced to wait with the other desperate flat hunters until the estate agent arrives. We were rounded up like cattle, literally penned into a small area just in front of the building, all of us (not so blissfully) unaware as to what lay beyond 'the beep'*. Would it be mass slaughter, or would one of us be lucky enough to be shepherded towards the light at the end of our house hunting tunnel? Standing around with the other beasts was unbearable; there was that awkward dynamic that you find in the waiting rooms for job interviews, what with all the small talk, false friendliness and smiles less genuine than a speech from David Cameron (the slimy little worm that he is).
*It's what the French call the little thingy-majiggy we use to hold up against something or other in order to unlock a door. An magical electric key sort of thing. Or more simply, 'The Beep'.
But this was a great flat and we all knew it and so our glorious desperation to be the future tenants of number 72 allowed us to temporarily ignore any shame or self-loathing we might feel as a result of schmoozing (is that a verb?) complete strangers in such a vile and public manner. I've never been happier to not be able to express myself freely, as I'm afraid of the levels I may have sunk to in order to gain some sort of upper hand in the whole charade. Sometimes it's best not to allow your inner "c" have its say. I was still able to clock some middle-aged boot's game immediately though, with her feigned interest in my accent, my job and reason to be in France etc. I could see her dissecting every answer I gave whilst stealing glances at the book I was reading, the bag I was carrying and the clothes I was wearing in a bid to determine how big a threat, if any, I would be to her application. Being on the wrong end of such meticulous inspection was all the more unnerving as it was done with a permanent smile and a menacingly gentle voice. She almost made me feel unclean. Almost. Little did she know my confidence was being buoyed by a pair of fresh-on boxer shorts from the delightfully safe Next. And where I come from, that practically makes you royalty! They inspired a bit of fight in me and I thought to myself, "Yeah, I may be younger and poorer than you, but my worm and bobbies are being housed by a brand favoured by middle aged men from the dizzying heights of middle class!" On a more sinister note, I also couldn't stop myself thinking, "We'll see who the real threat is when we get to that 8th floor balcony and find out if this decrepit old crow can still fly?"
The pressure was obviously getting to me, but then it was getting to everyone. There aren't many things as despicable and sole destroying as artificial laughter (hearing and performing), but it still resonated coldly off the walls of our pen. There were about 8 of us in total. I almost felt like I was part of a line-up of whores; exposed and vulnerable, worrying about the type of person that would eventually lead me away. "Please be clean, please be clean" I begged. When the two agents finally got there (boasting a good hygiene rate of just 50%) silence fell, the tension tangible. We shuffled into the building in single file with a mutual understanding that we weren't to talk anymore. It was judgment time.
Thankfully there was no rickety, fun house staircase inside (as is often the case in Parisian apartment buildings) to cause me to trip like the clumsy buffoon I am and betray my as of yet cool exterior. The lift housed all of us which was another surprising bonus seeing as most Parisian apartments' lifts are either doll's house sized or non-existent. We were told we would be shown round the flat individually on a first come, first served basis. This was most welcome as sometimes it can be a melee of people milling around the same shoebox with no regards to your personal space. Just like the Metro in fact. That said it was rather unsettling to see how keen the others were to admit that I was the first to the cattle pen, as they could have easily taken advantage of my poor language skills and jumped ahead of me. It wasn't typically French behaviour and it certainly wasn't Parisian of them so I couldn't help but be a tad suspicious. Not quite sure if I was being shafted or not, I settled on giving the middle-aged woman a look that I hoped said, "If you've screwed me, woman, I can make it all look like a tragic accident" and followed the agent into the flat. I could only assume the others took this as their opportunity to conspire to sabotage my application.
Tu veux une biere?
The place turned out to be great. It had newly refurbished rooms, a huge living space (relatively speaking of course), a separate kitchen, a bathroom with bath, a separate toilet, built in wardrobes and a generously sized balcony. Also, as a man blessed cursed with copious amounts of hair in and around the nether regions, I was tremendously excited at the prospect of having a bidet on hand whenever I should need it. Skids in my finest Next's could finally be a thing of the past! And all this without even touching upon the cloth fact that there are a mouth-watering number of bars offering excellent Happy Hour rates in close proximity. I couldn't give the estate agents our file quick enough!
And thankfully for me and The Real Girlfriend, the estate agents seemed to take a liking to it. After just one week we were invited to have a meeting with the landlord and go for a second viewing so that The Real Girlfriend could see the place for herself (my pictures left a little to be desired). Now, the main estate agent's appearance could be a fountain of inspiration for nasty insults, but as he was very very nice to us, I won't stoop so low as to start throwing them around "willy nillily". Although, I should point out that he is a man that not only clings on to the last desperate wisps of hair on his head, he actually makes a futile attempt to arrange them in a cheeky little centre parting, a la Five's Ritchie Neville circa 1997. There were barely enough strands of hair left to make it visible, but they were parted, unmistakably, down the middle. Not even enough sense to choose a contemporary comb over! (To his credit though, it was straight as an arrow). I was worried that his envy of my thick head of hair might get in the way?
And well... All I can say is the devilish charms of an English man and the sumptuous looks of a French woman make for a deadly combination. Perhaps the pain staking organisation of our file may have also contributed slightly to our success. Either way, Mr Combover got over his hair envy and allowed us to sign for the flat there and then! Literally the 3rd flat we had seen, and already we had our names on the contract. Who was it said flat hunting in this city was difficult? Piece of proverbial piss!
Sooo... Just the small task of moving everything we own across one of the world's busiest, dog shit ridden cities to go then. Oh, and clearing away a dead lady's crockery and cutlery as well. Lovely.
On a brighter note, I imagine I'll be writing my next entry in my new surroundings! Until then, take it easy.
So it was time to take to the streets and start visiting new flats...
No. 33 22: Kitchen with a view...
First up, I had to meet Carvalho, the estate agent who was to show me around the first of our shortlisted properties. I like the word properties as I think it makes me sound like a real grown up, as opposed to my actual gangly, overgrown-12-year-old self. After being stood outside number 33 rue Jevais pasdire for some time, I was beginning to wonder if he'd even show up. To pass the time I enjoyed a bit of people watching where, over a period of only 20 minutes or so, I saw the following:
A 50-something year old bloke dribbling profusely as he walked, leaving a spattering of spittle on both his coat and the pavement;
A young guy walking with that bizarre gangster bounce that saw him hop/skip with every second step as though a metronome was knocking on the door of his prostate. Might also explain his aggressive rapping at a volume just short of shouting. I felt it was unfair the way his behaviour sent the messages, "Everybody look at me" and "Don't you dare fucking look at me" at the same time. It made me uncomfortable;
A family laden with what looked to be their year's worth of food shopping. The mother and daughter seemed to be mercilessly taking the piss out of the teenage son as he carried what looked like twice his weight in groceries. I witnessed him burst into tears and strop off in a bid to escape their taunts. As the devil women passed me, they casually stopped to laugh about it like I was in on the joke. Of course, I nodded and smiled to maintain the pretense that I both understood them, and wholly agreed with the way they'd laid the foundations for the boy's inevitable emotional breakdown in the future.
The only person I saw that looked remotely normal was a bloke that was mincing up and down the street as he muttered into his phone. He came complete with baby shit brown brogues, a purple file-o-fax (who knew they were still in use?) and an overly fussy scarf that flailed in the wind as he went about his business. I wasn't sure if my short time people watching had exposed me to a fair sample of the local population, so remembering where it is I come from, I kept an open mind [Exhibit A, Exhibit B, and Exhibit C. On the up side, Corby's facilities have actually been compared to those of Paris in the national news].
Burly French man chucking a baby in the bin.
As I pondered the circus I found myself in, a burly French bloke (they do exist) emerged from the lobby of number 33. He approached in that lumbering manner that all needlessly muscular people seem to, scowling and eyeing me suspiciously as he did so. There was no 'Bonjour, ça va?' Instead, some quiet but ferocious sounding words seethed from the chiseled piece of granite that was his face. I couldn't make them out and so decided to gamble by responding to his opening gambit with a cheery shout of "Carvalho!" as though we were all friends that hadn't seen each other in a while. I offered my hand to cement the greeting, but he looked at me like I'd just come in his mouth. When, after a painfully long awkward pause, he still didn't shake my hand, I guessed this probably wasn't Carvalho (turns out he was the gardien of the building). I tried to explain in the minutes that followed just what on Earth I was doing there, but the size of his forearms and his immovable frame rendered my French even more hopeless than usual. He didn't even bother trying to make sense of my rambling, choosing to return to his lair without so much as another grunt! The shrug of his shoulders as he turned away suggested that all I'd manage to communicate was that I was a useless English wimp that couldn't cause any trouble even if I wanted to. A couple of hundred years ago, I'd definitely be the sort of child they put in the bin for having no possible use in battle.
Minutes later the real Carvalho called me on my mobile wondering where I was (by this time I was severely late); turns out I should have been at number 22 and not number 33 (The Real Girlfriend isn't perfect after all!). So I hurriedly made my way down to 22, and was delighted to see who was waiting for me; it was only the guy with the puppy-shit brown brogues, the purple file-o-fax and the rather fussy looking scarf. Up close, he had a 14 year old girl's moustache and an appearance akin to an underfed, bronzed Tim Henman drowning in wet look gel. And so, feeling some masculine pride return, I shot him a cheery "Carvalho!" like we were old friends, shook his hand and followed him in to the flat. It wasn't awful but it wasn't a particularly nice place either; there was a building site view, horrendous mirrored kitchen cupboards and a uselessly small lift - Carvalho practically had his head up my arse on the way back down to street level. Even though I wasn't bowled over by the place, I was a beggar not a chooser, so I left him our file, shook his moisturised hand again and said my Saluts. All in all, I was glad to be leaving number 22. I hoped the next viewing would be more up my street with a few less nutters.
...and 'original' features.
One thing that did occur to me as I handed over our however, was that it really did contain all manner of personal and financial information. All the sensitive stuff was in there; copies of passports; bank details; wage slips - pretty much everything but a stool sample! Should I, or anyone else for that matter, hand such things over so willingly? Carvalho seemed nice enough but was a suit and a set of flimsy business cards really enough to warrant total trust and confidence in him not being a crook? Shouldn't there at least be more admin to go through? Sure, it's a nuisance, but there is some comfort to be had when dealing with paperwork, terms & conditions and the like. I would like to see an office, some filing cabinets, maybe a potted plant, cheap company biros, a computer, a desk tidy and the mandatory jobsworth that looks like boredom personified sitting behind the desk. But no no, here in Paris there is none of that: no record of them taking your information; no receipts; no data protection disclaimers; no identification. Not a sausage. And I've since been told I won't even get the file back whether my application is successful or not. If I had any money for them to pilfer, I'd be slightly concerned about it. With my level of student debt, you'd be better off breaking into the five year olds of this world's piggy banks if you want to make a quick buck. Honestly though, if you want to run an identity theft racket or be a professional con artist, forget silly emails from Nigeria, just come to Paris and say you're an estate agent. Desperate mugs like me will be more than happy to give over all the information you need so long as I get a 5 minute viewing of a poor-to-mediocre flat. Madness.
Anyway - one down and God knows how many to go. Hopefully the second viewing will be better...
My moving to Paris a little over 6 months ago was quite sudden and spontaneous. Very little thought went into the logistics and planning of the move and I think I grossly underestimated just how big a change it would be. But having found a job and a basic, but not insignificant grasp of the language, things are a little easier; I haven't exactly steadied the ship, but at least the seasickness has subsided... for now. Things could be better however, and that is why myself and The Real Girlfriend* have decided it's time to look for a new flat that will improve our general day to day lives (I wanted to say 'time to jump ship and look for a new flat', but I didn't want this to become an entry laden with nautical analogies). You see, unfortunately for m'lady, she was burdened with my arrival and was practically forced to take me in. Come to think of it, I'm not sure we ever actually discussed where I would live if I decided to move to France; it was more a case of me assuming that was the plan as I turned up on day one with a case full of my crap clothes and a stupid look on my face. I wonder if she ever regrets that...? Either way, I have been living in her flat ever since it's been lovely...
All in a day's work for Mezza**.
... Except for the fact it's not really a flat. Strictly speaking, it's a studio apartment for one, but what that really means is it's a glorified cupboard that happens to have a 'shower' fit for a contortionist's act and a kitchen that could pack away into your average rucksack (Which reminds me - bloody marvellous). It's barely big enough for one person, so it's lucky all I arrived with was a guitar and some clothes - the majority of which have to live in a box under the bed (in filthy piles in the corner). My dignity is intact however, as a carrier bag has been kindly reserved for all my delicates (skid-stained ball rags), to be shoved lovingly to the bottom of a wardrobe. The toilet squeezes itself in next to the shower, but despite the bathroom door's best efforts to make it seem like an entirely separate space, it is still only a mere 6 or 7 feet from the bed we sleep in. One can well imagine that the phrase, "You might want to open the patio door dear" is heard quite frequently. In fact, if there's a hell, I may well be on my way for subjecting another human being to the sounds and smells of my body ridding itself of the digested remains of 8 pints of weak, pissy lager and a cheap kebab. The stench can make the living quarters less than pleasant (As a side note, since when has hair around the arse been a valuable evolutionary trait?). That said it's probably going to take a whole lot more than an extra 15 or so square metres to spare the nostrils of anyone unlucky enough to share a place with a bloke - after all James 'Mezza' Meyrick has been known to poison the air of whole houses before. Maybe The Real Girlfriend will have to get used to that side of things...
Scatological issues aside, the fact that we have only one room in our current place throws up a few additional 'difficulties'. For example, if The Real Girlfriend wishes to watch one of 'her shows' (I refuse to name them as I don't want fans of these shows stumbling across my blog with a keyword search and potentially littering the place with their defence of such tripe. I know that would require a little more notoriety on my part, but I'm taking no chances). You see, like any other human being I would rather not partake in something that is likely to make me claw my own face off in an attempt to mush the insides of my head to deactivate my brain. And sometimes this is how 'her shows make me feel' so I have limited options. I either: leave; sit on the balcony; sit on the toilet; or have something blaring through some earphones for the duration of the nonsense. In today's society, cosmopolitan though it may be, leaving the flat generally requires putting some clothes on so I'm not a fan of that option. Sitting on the balcony in winter is mental, and as much as I like going to the toilet, it's a difficult place to be if I've made a recent deposit to the Banque de la Jobby. But then the earphones aren't a perfect solution either: there is always going to be a quiet moment in whatever I'm listening to that allows the odd punch line/morsel of canned laughter/interminable singing to weasel their way in through my sonic barrier and subsequently defile my ears. Of course, there are always two sides to these things, and I'm quite sure listening to me watch numerous football matches at the weekend (where the only thing more brain dead than the 60,000 thugs banging and hooting incessantly, is the deranged pair of monkey spastics they've let loose in the commentary box) isn't her favourite thing in the world either. Trying to resolve the issues seems futile as we'll never see eye to eye on the matters; and besides we don't even have the space to let any passionate and explosive (aka French) argument culminate in one of those dramatic door slamming finale it deserves. Instead we'd have to get up, stomp the feet and sigh a hell of a lot before taking our place at the end of the very same bed with the maximum amount of disruption caused to the other. Doesn't really give the desired effect and makes it hardly worth fighting in the first place. If you think
So I'm sure you agree the need for a bigger flat is obvious - just for the bath alone (watch above video now if you haven't already, and do things in the correct order next time - it's there for a reason). Unfortunately, that means flat hunting in Paris, which I'm told is more than just your average pain in the arse; seems this is a proper sphincter-stretching-with-sharp-edges type pain in the arse. The demand for accommodation here is so high, the landlords can be as choosy as they like when it comes to their future tenants, which leaves desperate clowns like myself jumping through hoops to meet their approval (or rather The Real Girlfriend being forced to do the hoop jumping for two people as I am an idiot). I don't wish to be quoted on it, but I was told that there are up to 60,000 empty flats in Paris just because the landlords can wait for prices to rise that little bit more before selecting the tenants they will be fleecing for the foreseeable future. Even then it's ridiculously judgmental; having the wrong name, nationality, sexuality or even job can be held against you - whether you can afford the place or not. It would make colouring in your own scrotum with a tattooist's needle seem like a quick and easy procedure. It almost feels like you're seen as shit throwing, fire starting maniacs until you prove otherwise, so we're left to scrape together every last piece of evidence to show that we're worthwhile citizens. Thankfully The Real Girlfriend has meticulously prepared a file containing all manner of items in order to make us seem like the perfect tenants and not the aforementioned defecating pyros. We also managed to shortlist some flats that matched both our criteria: For me, a balcony so that I can sit out in the sun in the summer months wearing nothing but a guitar and some sunscreen for my tattooed ball bag; for The Real Girlfriend, enough space to be able to accommodate friends and host parties - which I guess we would be nice. And so last week, armed with our file and my infallible English charm, I was sent to view them a couple of places.
I don't want to drag on too much, so you'll have to wait to find out how I got on.
Cheery bye.
*I wanted to abbreviate this to TRG, but read aloud, it could sound too much like the word 'trog'. ** This is a genuine photograph from the man's toilet, and this was on a relatively clean day. A real man's man one could say.
Every day, I'm faced with what are surely two of the most awful things man can be faced with; a diabolic pair of events whose daily inevitability fill me with dread and misery.The first of course, is hearing the chilling sound of my alarm and having to tear myself from my filthily delightful pit. It seems to get harder every day, with no amount of extra dozing time ever enough to ease the pain of waking up. The sole consolation is knowing that I have a cosily small shower to squeeze into afterwards where I can enjoy the forgiving caress of warm streams of pH neutral magic and the associated steamy goodness it rustles up. But like everything in life, the pleasure can only ever be temporary. Whilst the shower is a wonderful comfort to me after the ordeal of getting out of bed, it can't last forever. In fact it's usually just as I'm finishing up rinsing (the bobbies and the leg hair are hotspots for soapy congregations) that the fact I'm due to encounter the second most difficult thing of the day dawns on me. That of course is drumming up the will power to leave my humid paradise and face the bitterness of cold air meeting sodden skin. There is no consolation waiting for me on the other side of the plastic door. No shower for after the shower. Al I have to look forward to is a fit of shivers, goosebumps, and a shrivelled little worm for a penis. That said, the first two have been allayed slightly by the recent acquisition of a towelling robe - not since Milli Vanilli has something been so bent yet so tremendous at the same time. I should point out that it's white. But I didn't source the robe myself of course - it was kindly offered by 'the girlfriend' (probably sick of me moaning about the shower situation) and fetched and delivered by two of our lovely neighbours. So if anything my wearing it is a sign of gratitude, and my bentness should be excused. Although it'll take a lot more than a €22 Ikea bath robe to help me with old wormy! Either way, the thought of having to get out of bed and the idea of having to leave a warm shower a bit later on, haunt me every day whether I have slept well or not. They are made infinitely worse in the winter.
Should bring in the readers eh?
I hate the winter. It's colder, darker and wetter than the rest of the year which makes the thought of going outside seem plain stupid. Rolling over in the morning to see that uniquely grey, Parisian sky sucks the very life out of me. If I believed that this world was "designed" by a higher power, I'd feel pretty short changed at these moments. Let's imagine Maurice De Sully, who basically oversaw the construction of Notre Dame Cathedral, talking to God. We'll call him Mo.
Mo: Alright God mate? Cheers for making me and giving me life and that. The world's pretty good as well actually, cheers.
God: No worries Mo. I had nothing else on anyway.
Mo: Yeah sound, sound. You're a good bloke. Say thanks to your wee boy as well. I want to make it up to the pair of you. Can I take you out for a beer and that yeah?
God: Nah nah, sorry mate. Sounds like a good ol' night out but the missus has been on at me for going out too much lately. No can do.
Mo: Ahh really? Gutted pal. Well let me know if there's anything I can do. Still need that sofa shifting?
God: Nah did that last week. Got the boy to do it. About time he got off his arse and did something! There is one thing you could help me with though...
Mo: Yeah? What you after mate? I aint got any more of the Golden Virginia left if that's what you're after pal. Sold it to old Pope Alex didn't I?
God: Pope Alex? Pipe Alex more like!
Mo: Or Dope Alex!
God: What?
Mo: Nothing. Yeeaaaah Pipe Alex though. Ha ha. That’s a good one boss!
God: Ha yeeeah. He's always getting the last of the baccy though isn’t he?! But nah it wasn't that anyway - I'm trying to cut down on the fags - the missus, you know like.
Mo: Well you know what they say, you only live forever! Ha ha
God: Yeah I know mate! Try telling her that! Jesus, women eh?
Mo: Yeah yeah say no more pal. Under the thumb!! What can I do for you then?
God: Nothing major mate. Just wondering if you wouldn’t mind spending the rest of your life building me a nice cathedral on the river bank eh?
Mo: Errrr. Well. I guess I do owe you for everything I’ve got. Go on then, as it's you. It's a favour mind, and a pretty big on at that. If I don't get it done before I pop me clogs, can you promise me the best views of it from heaven? I want you to really go to town on the way this thing looks against the sky and all that.
God: Yeeaaah yeah, course pal. No bother.
(Skip forward about 200 years. Old Mo has popped his clogs and it looks like God is off the wagon)
Mo: Alright chief. Couldn't let us in could ya. Bloody freezin' up 'ere.
Pearly Gates Guard: You on the list?
Mo: Yeah yeah should be mate. Name's Sully, Mo Sully. Might be down as Mo 'skull it' sully.
Pearly Gates Guard: Ahh yeah, there you are. Silly Skully Sully, ha ha, I 'eard about you and your drinking ha ha. Man after me own heart! Straight in, up the stairs pal. Happy hour's still on if you know what I mean ha ha ha. No trainers next time though, eh?
(Mo goes on in to The Pearly Gates Inn to see God. Finds him upstairs in his office)
Mo: Woah bloody hell. It's a mess in here pal.
God: (in a drunken squeal) She left me. She bloody left me.
Mo: What?! Woah woah, slow down. What's going on? I thought you quit the drinking...
God: Said I'm boring... and I have self-esteem issues! Said she can’t keep giving me the self-assurance that I need. Said she wanted a tougher guy. Ran off with that Satan fella from down the road. Why do women always go for the bad guy? (sobs)
Mo: Hey hey. It aint so bad. Maybe it's for the best? She was bossing you around, telling you to give up the booze. You remember the nights we used to have in the 1200’s eh? Beer, wine, angels up to our eyeballs. The good ol' days!
God: (sniffling, quietly) Yeah they were good weren’t they...?
Mo: (softly) Yeah, yeah. And look (points around the room) you've got your own pub and everything now. You always wanted that didn't you? And the Cathedral's just about finished. Shall we have a look eh?
God: (suddenly) Oh, yeah right the Cathedral. Err, maybe not now though, you know not as i am?
Mo: Come on, it'll be good for you - finally see the old slag finished eh? ha ha. Let’s have a little loo... WHAT THE F..I can’t beli…Oh for God… Jesuuuus! Fucking Hell mate!! What've you done with this fucking sky? 30 odd year I put into this bloody building, not to mention the poor bastards who rotted whilst doing this up for the following 100 bar years! All I wanted was to see it finished and set against one of those sunsets you said you’ve been working on! You’ve let me down fella!
God: I know I know. It's the drink! I wasn't thinking clearly. It's a mess an...
Mo: Too fucking right it's a mess. What've you done? Sloshed a brush in some drain water and just fucked it all over the place? Jeez... It's... a..I...I don't know what to say mate. You've let us all down! It's the most depressing thing I've ever seen!!
God: (head in hands) I know I know. I'll fix ii, give me some time, I..I..err.. Spring time! I'll have it fixed by Spring I promise!
Yes this may be a little over the top and a fairly long winded way of describing something (might be a little blasphemous as well, but take it with a pinch of salt!), but once I started I struggled to stop. Maybe I'll write a book involving my depiction of God. Seriously though, if the Parisian cityscape in winter was an actual painting, I wouldn't want to look at it! It's as though the artist has spent hours meticulously crafted the beautiful buildings and architecture, then got bored of the piece. And so, lacking the patience to do the sky any justice, he's just sloshed a monotonous dirty white all over the top of the canvas in a "Fuck It" type manner. The lack of depth or variation in colour gives it an unnatural and thoroughly depressing look which does nothing to improve my general feeling of weariness in the mornings. Fallacies have never been so pathetic (I'm sure I've stolen that last 6-word line but I can't remember exactly where from. It's not word for word plagiarism, but it might as well be. Just so you know). I won't bother going into to much detail about how much I hate snow and those who pray for it to fall as I can see I'm already digressing a little. Just be assured that I do hate it and am sure it doesn't look so pretty when you're falling arse over tit on the stuff. Sure, Charlize Theron looks pretty, but would seeing her beauty up close and personal be worth it if it meant she proceeded to bugger you with a duty free sized Toblerone? It's probably best no one answers that - I simply trying to demonstrate how much I hate the weather in winter.
The last few weeks however, have been really rather lovely despite the weather's best attempts at scuppering my holiday plans. As I've fluked my way into a relationship (a real one with a real girl and everything) I was lucky enough to attend two excellent Christmas parties - the contrast between them couldn't have been more severe.
Christmas Party
La Féte de Noël
Location
In the heart of the 17eme just a short walk from Arc de Triomphe.
Good Points: It’s located right next to a bar which kept us ‘warmed up’ until the pary started at around 7:30pm. The 17eme is quite a well to do area which is nice for someone who is from Corby.
Bad Point: Dog shit fucking everywhere – sick of it.
On the other side of the Arc de Triomphe in the 8eme arrondissement.
Good Point: It’s a business district so is pretty swanky. Makes me feel like a slicker which feeds my arrogant side.
Bad Point: It’s a business area so it’s full of genuine arrogant slicker types that have much more money than me.
Venue
The reception area of the language school I teach in.
Good Points: Familiar; laminate flooring so no worries about spillages; good central heating; free champagne.
Bad Points: No waiters so had to get own beer from fridge and pour champagne myself; quite small so got very hot in there.
Some hotel
Good Points: Impressive high ceilings; exquisite décor; large dining area and separate dance floor; waiters topping up your drink whenever necessary.
Bad Points: A bit too posh for me – never felt totally at ease; it was a bit of a bloody maze in there so was worried about getting lost; there was a dance floor which meant I had to stand at the side while everyone had fun. They have the same bollocks disco music in France, and the same ‘uncle-at-wedding’ dance moves. Hideous.
View from the building
One window showing the inner courtyard of the building and the offices opposite. The fag ends are meager bushes were a delight to behold!
Stunning view of the St Augustin church made all the more dramatic by the lighting and the snow (I know, I know – but it was Toblerone up the arse time after that, believe me)
Attendees
Group of Anglo teachers mainly, with the odd French employee dotted round to add a little class to the proceedings.
Good Point: Obviously know how to party and don’t mind cutting loose.
Bad Points: Someone there is sure to have remembered everything that was said and done, so any embarrassing moments will come to light (none so far); I’m the youngest and so the piss is dutifully taken out of me.
Highly skilled engineers and salesmen from a technological start up that looks like it’s about to hit the big time.
Good Point: As they were nerdlingers, nobody was forthcoming or particularly social meaning small talk was almost nonexistent for me.
Bad Point: Nerdlingers they may have been, but they were all shitting money (some of them very, very young) which made me seriously consider my own life choices.
Starter
A good few pints at the bar next to the school. It’s time like that I feel that I am winning at life.
Some fish with some bright bluey/green sauce and vegetables around it. Obviously ate just the fish and then tucked into the bread. Served with a cheeky white wine (I’m sure that’s not how a wine reviewer would describe it, but it’s all the same to my under developed palate)
Main
Champagne, beer and a handsome little piece of homemade quiche. All of which was most welcome and appreciated.
Possibly the finest chicken I’ve had (so fine I didn’t even know it was chicken) with rice and some kind of curry flavouring. Served with some of the red coloured white wine. Tasted like white wine but more differenter.
Dessert
Scoffed about a kilo of homemade cookie bars and washed ‘em down with some more grog. It was one of those “stood in the corner alone with your eyes half open, unashamedly gorging on whatever your pissed up self can find whilst swaying and dropping crumbs everywhere” moments. Definitely winning at life.
A plate of 4 desserts which were all lovely. A few more glasses of champagne and the chocolate from the obligatory coffee that comes at the end of al French meals. Obviously left the coffee. Why anyone likes it is beyond me. I think it tastes like smoke.
Entertain-ment
None provided (as far as I can remember), but I seem to recall a few teachers having their own little sing song session towards the end. No music, no backing track – in fact no accompaniment at all. It was every bit as good as it sounds.
A cheeky little music quiz (which our table won thanks to my girlfriend and her savant/shazam-esque music knowledge) and a DJ. Quiz was great (bottle of champagne thank you very much). DJ was a DJ.
Après
Carried on the party with those committed to the party cause, butchered some Cult songs on the guitar whilst sipping Cognac… which is disgusting (What was Boycie thinking?) before hailing a cab home and getting in just before 3am. Teaching the following day was brilliant.
In one of the most cosmopolitan capital cities, we failed to hail a taxi and had to trudge in the snow for nearly two hours in order to get to a night bus that was still operating in the ‘adverse’ conditions. Ms Shazam was wearing Christmas Party shoes as she obviously wasn’t anticipating the walk so the atmosphere wasn’t pleasant. Rest assured dear, the pain you felt in your feet was comparable to the pain I felt behind my eye balls as a result of your complaining! (I hope enough time has passed for me to get away with that one)
Verdict
Given the choice between the two, I think the first party is more suited to my persona. As much as I enjoyed the fine dining and swankiness of the 2nd party, for me all you need are some pals and some liqueur in order to have a bloody good time. That is how I know I’m scum. Et fier de l’être.
I also managed to get back to Blighty, albeit 24hrs later than expected thanks to the "snow chaos", for a few more festive drinks. What better way to celebrate little JC's birthday than getting pissed eh? It's what he would've wanted what with his water/wine shenanigans. The ultimate capitalisation, some would say, on the gifts he was given. He inspired me to write a little poem - you have to read it just right to get the syllables to fit the rhythm but hey, I'm no Lewis Carroll;
There was once a man called Jesus,
One of Earth's outstanding geezers,
To have a good time,
He'd turn water to wine,
And from our inhibitions, he'd free us.
Is that blasphemous...?
Whilst at home I enjoyed the annual Boxing Day pilgrammage to Storm Nightclub. It was here I heard the greatest sentence of my whole holiday. The place was crowded with an equal spattering of underage tarts (shouldn't that be an oxymoron?) and knuckle dragging meatheads. Some were dressed in tracksuit bottoms and hoodies, others in the latest Henleys T shirts nicked from TK Maxx. As my frustration at the lack of brain cells in the room just about hit its peak, the DJ asked (presumably to 'gee up' the masses), "are there any unemployed bums in da house?" This was met with such rapturous applause and thuggish screaming, it was both hilarious and frightening. Never has a town been so accurately summed up in such a short space of time; a tragic lack of ambition with no idea what opportunities are there for them if they want them. John Stuart Mill wrote, "it is better to be a human being dissatisfied than a pig satisfied; better to be Socrates dissatisfied than a fool satisfied". But as the majority of these people probably think that Socrates is a club or a new weak as piss, fruit flavoured spirit, maybe it would be best to just let them continue to wallow in their own shite, grunting and squealing like the farm animals they are (not sure if I want that to be a metaphor or not). They know no better, and so why not leave them in a state of blissful ignorance? It's like when I see a dog or cat licking its own genitals or eating shit; awful, but it's what they do. As long as it doesn't affect me, I can live with it.
In fact I have decided to try and keep this in mind from now on in a bid to lighten up. It's the new year afterall isn't it? For now at least, the greyness of winter is fading and the skies are starting to brighten (literally - I'm not going all hippy). Also, I don't go back to work for another week and a half and am writing this as I wallow in my own little filth pit. To all those back at work already, I have two words; the first is "Ha". Joking aside, I hope my 9 followers have had a lovely Christmas and would like to wish you all the best for the coming year. If you're a pig/fool and you're satisfied, brilliant. If you're dissatisfied in any way the seek to change it, but I think I'll leave the motivational speeches to the experts...
