Observations: Pour Homme

As previously promised, I’m going to share some of the opinions the French have of us Brits. I’ve previously talked about our ‘Booze Britain’ image, so will now focus my attention on some of the other things our French counterparts have to say about my little island’s inhabitants. For now, I’ll deal with the blokes...

One major observation I was given was the fact that we are a very reserved/conservative breed of man... when sober of course. We answer questions like “what do you fancy?” or “What are you up for doing?” with responses such as, “Oh I’m not fussed really, what about you?” or “I’m easy – it’s up to you”. We seem to have this social inability to make decisions for a group for fear or somebody else not wholly enjoying it – and it often ends up with us doing what somebody else had in mind. I find our reluctance to really pursue what we want curious, but I’m certainly guilty of it myself. I propose that it’s all linked to our uncanny ability to form orderly queues or our preference for whispering to each other rather than speaking at a normal volume when using public transport - anything to avoid conflict and annoying others. It’s the polar opposite of the way some suburban French men will practically shout at each other and generally make a racket even though they are standing mere feet from each other – this particularly annoying when waiting on the metro platforms as the volume is amplified by echoey high ceilings and hard concrete walls. You barely hear the sound of the trains coming.

But apparently our reservations even spread to our dealings with the opposite sex – the French paint us as men that are reluctant to be open and forward in a romantic sense, being painfully passive and timid when it comes to the pursuit of a women. I’m still frequently reminded of how awful it was of me when I kissed my now girlfriend’s cheek to say goodbye after the first weekend we met around a year ago. I thought I was being respectful by not getting stuck in and ‘Frenching’ her on a tube platform in the mid-afternoon. My kiss on the cheek was my way of saying, “Yes, I’m a gentleman, and I think you to be a classy lady – worth more than a cheap snog”. Apparently, her friends thought otherwise – to them I was some lousy English man who had the cheek (ahem, pardn the pun) to give her a mere peck and be on my way – so much so in fact, that if it wasn’t for the fact that my girlfriend was familiar with the ways of the English (“cold” and “stand-offish”) before, she may never had asked to see me again. I wouldn’t be sat here writing this if that was the case. 

I think the French woman should be thankful for our reserved and gentlemanly nature. Most Parisian women at some point have probably had the displeasure of being chatted up by those horrible blokes who wait at the entrances and exits to tube stations. They smack their lips together as though they’re summoning a dog or cat, and repeat the words mademoiselle in order to woo whichever lucky girl has crossed their path. Alas, this does not always work, and so to show their disappointment at being unsuccessful with their best lines, they’ll more often than not throw a barrage of insults as to why she’s not worth his time anyway. Charming. Of course I’m not saying all the French men are sexual harassers but the stereotype of French men being sleazy probably exists for a good reason. Ever heard of Serge Gainsbourg? - A man famous for openly telling Whitney Houston live on a chat show that he simply “wants to fuck her” and also for burning a 500 Franc note. No smoke without fire eh? (Apologies for the poor quality of the first video but it’s the only one i could find – seems like someone is trying to stop the actual footage being shown on youtube).

Another common word being bandied around as a way to describe Englishmen is ‘Hooligans’. Hearing a French girl say the word hooligans is lovely though, so it’s hard to take offense. In fact, French women can say just about anything to me and get away with it – there’s just something about that accent... Either way, on the whole, they have an image of us blokes as being loud, crude and vulgar. God knows why. Whilst not being the most flattering image of the men of England, it does make for a refreshing break from what seems to be the stereotypical British man in Hollywood. James Bond aside, we all seem to be tarred with the ‘posh-butler-doormat’ or ‘hapless-clumsy-buffoon’ brushes. Thank you Hugh Grant and co. I reckon it could be a good thing that the French think of us as being more like the geezers portrayed in films like Snatch or Lock Stock? Maybe for once in my life, people might think that I’m “an ’ard man”? My reflection in the mirror tells me otherwise. Word of warning to the French though -  judging a book by its cover can be perilous, particularly when dealing with so called hooligans. They don’t all don football shirts, tracksuit bottoms and cans of cheap lager, indeed, they come in all guises; step forward MP Bob Bailey.

Bowie: Man, Woman or Alien?

Conveniently (and admittedly deliberately) it leads me on to my next topic; clothing (or more generally appearance). The Parisians I have met seem to make a special allowance for the fashion faux pas’s of the English and give the way we dress special treatment when compared to most other nations. You see, if the French see a man in the street that is dressed terribly, they make no effort to hide their distaste at his choice of attire. Oddly though, if they happen to catch him talking with a classic English accent – his bad clothing is not only excused, but almost celebrated. What once was deemed as simply bad is now rebranded as quirky or eccentric. It seems the way we dare to wear ball-achingly tight jeans, all manner of strange cardigans/knitwear and any piece of clothing that has a questionable gender associated with it, makes us original and intriguing. On the whole, whether we’re dressed in an interesting way or just dressed badly, our Englishness excuses it. I would guess geniuses like Bowie and Bolan have facilitated our ‘styling-without-ridicule’ across the channel – but whatever the explanation, the French find it charming. 

Jim'll have a bloody hard time fixing this.

Sadly, I’m not one who shares the sentiment. Without wishing to smash the illusions the French have of our dedication to individuality, I certainly don’t think there’s anything daring about kitting yourself out head to toe in the latest Topman mannequins’ offerings: there’s nothing the least bit alternative or original about it, as every last Tom, Dick and Tosser is doing exactly the same. Two words: Checked Shirts. And then there is every last moron who strives to look anything like a Jack Wills catalogue – you know the toss-pot university types paying silly amounts for generic garbage – half of which they wouldn’t have been seen dead in 5 years ago. It winds me right up. That said, as someone who is not very well read on all things currently ‘hip’ and ‘happening’, I’m sure the very people I’m talking about find my dress sense just as offensive/laughable. In a strange way, I guess I should be thankful for their efforts to be weird if it has facilitated my own poor sense of fashion being excused in France. There is hope though; it appears all we have to do as English men to look better, is wait – just let time run its course! I have been informed the older English gentleman is a much more smart and classy individual, and they come with quite a unique allure. Unique being the operative word there, as Mr Jimmy Savile is so kindly demonstrating up on the left there.

I was also told that one of the greatest things about English men is our great taste in rock and roll music. As someone who doesn’t understand and thoroughly despises the popularity of tripe such as Rihanna/Bieber/Gaga etc, I feel that to be recognised for having good taste in music is a wonderful thing. Whilst I’m at risk of disproving this theory, I want to share with my male readership a video which seems particularly relevant considering much of this blog was “clothes related”.  Thanks to Billy, Dusty and Chris for this wonderful lesson delivered to you in the medium of rock ‘n’ roll!

Next time, I’ll deal with the stranger half of the English population: The girls!

A la prochaine

Une bière, s'il vous plaît.

I thought I’d share a few things that have come to my attention, regarding the way the perceptions the French have of the British. I was going to compile a list of the feedback I got and talk about each point but I feel one particular topic deserves a whole blog entry of its own. I promise to share the other observations in another blog. 

But, obviously the topic of this entry is alcohol. Yes, drink, booze, liquor, grog, juice, grandad’s old cough medicine – call it what you like, but it seems to be the number one thing that comes to mind when asking a French person for some English stereotypes. It is summed up quite nicely by this comment I received from a lovely French lady, “I don't have that much to say about [English] boys. The only thing that comes to my mind is that they like to get pissed drunk. Like if they don't puke, it's not a good night“.  Isn’t that wonderful? The one thing that sticks out is our fondness for a pint or two. The girls are thought of no differently. Without wishing to get too serious, the consequences of our relationship with the bottle can have quite a sobering effect (pun intended – I am a gimp) and I wonder if I, and indeed my nation, should try to address our drinking behaviours. It has certainly been an eye opener living, or more specifically, drinking with the French; to say that our attitudes to alcohol are different is an understatement. Whilst they appreciate and carefully select a fine wine to complement whatever fine food they happen to be eating of an evening, we are happy to drink whatever is on offer at Tesco’s and call it a liquid dinner.

Example 1) My first ever “pre-lash” session in Paris (of course the French don’t call it pre-lash). Three (English) friends and I were simply invited to have a drink at somebody’s flat before we ‘hit da club’. As we arrived at a chic apartment in a posh area of Paris, the hosts were so surprised at our extravagant generosity and told us we needn’t have brought so much wine. Little they did they know that the bottle of wine in each of our hands was not for the other party-goers to share – no, no, no. They were to ‘get us started’ and properly warmed up before we tackled the crates of beer we had. Looks of both confusion and horror started appearing on people’s faces as they slowly realised this fact. I recall the gasps of exasperation when, due to a lack of wine glasses, we filled pint glasses with the wine and hastily started glugging it. The worst part is, we took wine because we thought that would make us look a little more sophisticated. That was us making an effort! It’s a good bloody job we didn’t opt for the usual cheapest bottle of vodka and cheap cola as mixers. I wondered if the French have ever heard of the Strawpedo - they hadn't. I felt so ashamed of our irresponsibility and lack of class... at least until the booze started doing the job.

Example 2) I was also in France for the world cup final. I went to a friend’s flat and brought a few tinnies with me – you need a beer to watch the football, I’m sure that’s a strict rule written somewhere. Anyway, I was planning on having what I thought to be a social drink. By the end of the game, I had drank about 7 or 8 of the stubby little cans of Kronenbourg (funny how you never remember the exact number eh?). I’ve done the math, and that made it only a shade over four and a half pints. To me that is almost the dictionary definition of a social drink. But to the French, that is what is called binge drinking. After the game, as I was getting my coat and getting ready to leave my girlfriend took me aside and asked quietly, “Are you ok? A lot of people noticed you were drinking quite a lot tonight”. I was horrified to think of them watching me and commenting as I went to and from the fridge that night - I felt dirty and ashamed. Did they think I had a problem? Did they think less of me? I would hate for them to see the English idea of drinking quite a lot, that’s for sure. 

Example 3) Having missed the premiership’s opening weekend as I was in Belgium (where I drank lots of beer and bought two cool beer glasses by the way), last night I chose to decline an invite to dinner and went to a French bar alone to watch the United game. It was an Australian bar so I felt quite happy to sink the 7 pints of Fosters while I was there. I should point out that I got there an hour early (the time difference still catches me out!) and didn’t drink them all in 90mins. However the people around me were mostly French, and as such I realised that 7 pints is still rather excessive - even if spread over the course of the evening. As happy hour came to an end mid way through my session, and I ordered myself two pints at once, the girl who was sitting next to me at the bar moved away. I’m sure she did so for a genuine reason, but I couldn’t help but think that maybe I was being perceived as one of those people in a pub you should just avoid. You know the type of mad old codger that you steer clear of for fear of being drawn in to a conversation or shouted at - every bar seems to have one. After all, I was sat at a bar alone, getting pissed and, because of my reactions to the football, appeared to be talking to myself. All the classic hallmarks of a mad old codger. Have I become one of those blokes? One of the losers that you see in films; drinking alone at a bar, and shouting at the telly? I probably would have considered that a bit more if I wasn't too busy getting pissed by myself. But why did I feel the need? There was no peer pressure. No atmosphere in the bar. In fact, there was nothing at all that would have been conducive to a little bender. In hindsight, it all seems a bit sad. 

The picture to the right was taken at the urinal in the toilets before I left. There are a series of pictures of women staring down at you that I think are supposed to have a look on their face that shows how impressed they are by your knob – call it Australian humour I don;t know. But I couldn’t help but notice the one that was in front of me was laughing at mine - is it just me? Was it the world’s way of telling me I’m a loser? A clever metaphorical representation thrown up to show me that my behaviour was sad and desperate and that the French thought it pathetic? Or maybe she was just laughing at my little knob. I’ll never know.

I think I have learnt something though. Being in France has allowed me evaluate my own drinking behaviour, and therefore the behaviour of my countrymen. It appears we Brits seem to rely on the social crutch of getting tanked up so that we can properly cut loose and enjoy ourselves – in fact, more often than not, the sole aim of the night is to get blottoed. This particular clip shows what we have all been like at some time in our lives. Doesn’t look too good does it? (If you can’t be arsed to watch the whole clip, my particular highlight is around 5 minutes in. But before you think this man is a charming drunk, skip to 7:25 and hear what he has to say - unbelievable). Obviuously we don’t get like that all the time (not all of us anyway), but recently I have been wondering if our whole attitude towards alcohol, and are behaviour whilst under the influence is really the best way to go about things. Besides, it’s too bloody expensive to keep that up in Paris – binge drinking here would require re-mortgaging a house. For your information, a 330 ml bottle of Heineken will set you back around €8, which is at the time of writing is roughly £6.60. Disgusting.

As it turns out though, the French do love a drink, and more often than not, they’re as drunk as the next man by the end of an evening. It’s just their approach to drinking is so different; the alcohol isn’t the focus of a night, and they can enjoy themselves just as much without it. I remember being in a bar in Soho back when I lived in London. I had just met some French people and it was early in the night; i.e. the music was blaring but nobody dared grace the dancefloor as they weren’t nearly drunk enough. However, when a song came on that the French lot seemed to like, they all started salsa dancing and singing in the middle of the floor. They had yet to touch a drop but were still going for it. I can’t remember ever seeing a [sane] British person do the same. They singlehandedly created and maintained the atmosphere in that place and they didn’t need booze to do it. I thought it was great and genuinely inspiring. That is until I caught my reflection in the mirror - I died a little inside when I saw I was one of the many English people in there standing rigidly and awkwardly on the sidelines, unable to relax whilst sober. What is our problem?  Why do we fear doing such things in a sober state? It's something I vow to change, and I think being around the French will certainly help that - they think we're all weird anyway. Me cutting my best shapes on the floor can't damage a credibility that doesn't exist.

The French do things a bit differently to the British. Rather than drinking their night’s worth of booze in the first two hours and bumbling around in a confused daze for the rest of it, they drink casually and refill their glasses when they feel like it - not because they have just been forced to “Down It you cunt” as they’re playing God Save the Queen. If they do end up getting squiffy along the way, then they enjoy and embrace that too. There is a dignified balance to their approach and it’s something I think I might try out. I’ll leave you with the words of Herman "Jackrabbit" Smith-Johannsen, who was a super-centenarian who lived to the ripe old age of 111. When asked the secret to his longevity, he replied, “Stay busy, get plenty of exercise, and don't drink too much.  Then again, don't drink too little.”

Now I’ll drink to that.

Santé.

l’Assurance Maladie (Part 2)

It’s a bright Parisian morning. I’m listening to ZZ Top’s “Legs” in the Parc Montsouris  which was the venue for my Swedish Gym triumph. I’m not taking part today though – too lazy you see. I’m all up for buying in to new experiences, but I’m in no way, shape or form obligated to be a loyal customer. Anyway, I’m sat on a bench watching the class be put through their paces and I’m particularly enjoying the performances of a cheeky little toddler who’s trying to follow the steps (she’d definitely show me up) and a nutter in a mustard coloured dress-shirt and brown corduroys. He’s running around clapping his hands and clicking his heels with no regard to what the rest of the class is doing. He’s gone rogue. This man is now my hero, even if he is a half-wit. Back to the point though, I thought now would be as good a time as ever to write the second half of my Health Insurance debacle. I must look so sophisticated typing on my laptop while everyone else is here to work out. (By sophisticated, I mean like an arsehole). Anyway, here goes...

 

I googled 'French Nurse'. Sue me.

You may remember that I came away from my last visit with one measly attestation form to fill in. Since then I have found out that I didn’t even need to go to the centre to get this - I could have saved myself the time, effort and bother by downloading it. Isn’t that wonderful? No point being bitter though – if anything, my last experience taught me to be better prepared this time around. I had no intention of making any more visits to the looney bin this year!

I spent the night before my excursion running through some phrases with “the missus”; the logic being that if I could remember them by heart, I’d be much more comfortable in saying them out loud when the time came. We’d even have time for a quick recap in the morning.  Unfortunately for me however, I am what one would call a lazy git and by the time I woke up the next day (let’s just say it wasn’t before midday) my girlfriend had already gone to work. No last minute cramming after all. I was still quite confident though – a lot of what we had discussed the night before had miraculously stuck in my more-often-than-not useless ol’ noggin. I was confident and it showed in the way I got ready that morning. A Hollywood montage showing me running through phrases as I paced the flat and cleaning my teeth with intermittent nods of assurance in the mirror would have been fitting. It was epic. I walked with so much swagger on my way to l’assurance maladie it almost hurt. As I got to the building I pushed the button on the ticket machine with an authority that let the public know I was no arse scratching buffoon, but someone who was here to get a job done. I could see a couple of first timers in there – their feet shuffled once too many times and their eyes were just that little bit too busy for them to pass themselves off as seasoned veterans like myself. I pitied them.

I marched to the desk with purpose when my number was called, and of course it was my nemesis from the week before who was guarding the post. A mixture of gratitude and disappointment came over me as I realised she didn’t remember me as the English moron from a week ago. Predictably, her opening gambit was a flurry of French that was trop rapide for me to catch. Experience told me to hand over my ticket. Experience was right. It gave me my first opportunity to riposte, albeit at less than half the pace and fluidity; “Bonjour”, I boomed, “je suis venu la semaine derniere pour proposer ma demande etre ayant droit. Alors, maintenant je pense que j’ai tout les documents.” [Roughly: “Alright love, I was in your gaff just the other day tryin’ to sort out my insurance and that. I reckon I’ve got the whole caboodle you asked for). I’m not sure whether the French I used was perfect or not, but I said it with conviction to show her I was no pushover. Before I let her retaliate and bamboozle me with Round 2, I handed over an envelope so that I looked important. It photocopies of my birth certificate, passport and all manner of other documents I thought would be relevant to my application (all meticulously compiled by my assistant*). When she pointed me in the direction of the utopian waiting room beyond I knew my attack had been successful. This fight was over, but honestly, I felt a little disappointed. Of course I was glad to have made it to the sacred mint green, linoleum paradise, it’s just that it seemed a little too easy and anti climactic. Either way, I took my place on one of the acrylic seats, picked up a leaflet and pretended I could understand it. 

Before long I was called into one of the private consultation areas. I hoped it would be someone that didn’t have a rod jammed quite so tightly up their arse like the bint that was on the first desk. As I stepped forward into the booth, I was delighted to see that I was confronted by the French equivalent of Damon Beesley, although in fairness, he was slightly less camp. But if Le Marais has taught me anything, it is that the French gay population seem to like the look of a tall, slim English bloke. I have had more lustful looks from men in the few times I have visited Le Marais than I have had from women in my whole life. Play the trump card again? Mais bien sûr mes amis! I sat down and gave it the old je ne parle pas... routine in my most English of accents. The old queen bloody loved it.  I turned it up a notch and told him, mais je voudrais essayer de parler en francais. His eyes practically exploded. I then simply gave him the exact same routine as I gave to dragon-face from earlier. Bingo. I watched as he pored over my information (that sentence is strictly literal – no innuendo or euphemisms intended whatsoever). I nearly pushed him over the edge with a timid, C’est bon? The look on his face spoke a thousand words – even if all was not bon, he would have made it so. He gathered all of my documents and lovingly stapled them together (again, not a euphemism). He then told me (in broken English) that he thought it was great I had tried to speak to him in French. He assured me that he would take care of my file (behave...) and that all would be sorted in a matter of weeks. 

On reflection, it appears I successfully flirted my way to a carte vitale. I’m as yet undecided as to whether I’m proud of that or not. Either way, all I have to do now is to wait for the information to be processed, and my social security card will be sent to me in the post. Ahhh La Poste, another of those remarkably reliable and efficient French services...

*My “assistant” is actually my girlfriend. Watching too much Mad Men makes me misogynistic – I don’t mean it really. I blame TV... I hope she doesn’t read this.

l'Assurance Maladie (Part 1)

Now that I don’t live in England, or rather, now that I don’t pay any taxes to Queen Lizzie’s lot in England, the NHS no longer wants to pay for my health care. As a result, I recently had to tackle the French social security system in order to apply for my ayant droit - my entitlement to French healthcare. This posed two major problems: 

1)    I don’t speak French (yet!)

2)   They can only be bothered to open weekdays from 9am - 4:30pm on weekdays, so my wonderful French girlfriend who would usually come along and take care of such things would be at work. 
 

I would have to take on the system alone which was going to be more challenging than my usual, “je voudrais une Kronenbourg s’il vous plait”. Oddly enough though, this little adventure started out quite well. I looked up the address (had it spoon fed to me by my petite amie) and found the place no problem at all. You see in Paris, lots of doctors’ surgeries and other medical buildings are only very subtly signposted – I guess because they don’t want to have to deal with the sort of idiot who can’t follow directions or read a sign. (Either way, I’m sure it reduces patient numbers which gives them more time to smoke cigarettes and practise being promiscuous). Naturally, I was more than a little surprised when I managed to find the right doorway at the first time of asking. The walk through to the entrance of the health centre was interesting only in that it was impossibly long. How does such a small space afford such a long path? - It defies the laws of our universe. Unlike the insides of some other Parisian buildings, there were no gardens or plush courtyards to be found here. There was only dusty concrete and an impressively large piss stain up the side of one wall. A metaphor for how my visit would go maybe...

Subtle I'm sure you'll agree. Also, this man is wearing a beret. Parfait!

 

The inside of the health centre looked much like those I’d been to in England – sterile, dull and full of weirdos. My particular favourite was the gentleman shamelessly picking his arse whilst in full view of everybody else in the waiting area. Lovely jubbly! Rather than focus too much on the fart-hole fiddling French man, I decided to try and suss the place out instead. It became clear that the queue in which I was stood led to one of two identical desks where some sort of assessment took place. Two steadfast guardians manned the desks, separating me and my fellow man from the sacred land beyond; sure, it was another waiting area but it came with the luxuries of hard plastic seating and an array of complementary pamphlets and leaflets. All that was missing were some pearly gates and some long white beards. Those that were lucky enough to be passed through did so wit a skip and a smile, whilst those that didn't make it would more often than not voice their disappointment with choruses of putain and merde. Now even I know that’s not French for, Thanks for your help and have a nice day. The French do love a good swear word.

When I found myself at the front of the line some 15 minutes later, I suddenly realised how grossly underprepared I was. I hadn’t rehearsed anything to say and had no idea what questions I may be asked. When you're in a country and don't speak the language, even the most mundane of tasks requires at least 30 minutes homework! I felt a little nervous and even considered leaving. How on Earth was I going to communicate with this woman? I desperately tried to throw some vocabulary together in my head but it was no use. It was my turn to be judged! I started to shuffle forward, but the woman was already demanding something from me, and she seemed a little angry too. She thrust her hand out ready to receive something that I was obvuiously supposed to give her. I hadn’t the slightest clue what she said, and I knew I didn't have what she needed. I had no other option but to play my trump card! I’m not proud of it, and I hate to manipulate people, but this was a desperate situation! So I widened my eyes, smiled apologetically, tried to look a little clumsy and flustered and said with my best English accent, “Je suis trés desolé, mais je ne parle pas francais”. I expected her to smile back adoringly (the French love the English thanks to Hugh Grant, Love Actually and all that other nonsense). She was supposed to tell me that my lack of French was no problem and that she’d love to practise her English with me. We’d laugh and joke about how we think the French smell and have hairy armpits, and she’d probably poke fun at our teeth and cuisine. What I got, however was a shrug that was devoid of both care and compassion. She sat back in her chair, with an expression on her face that said, “I couldn’t give a shit where you're from pal – either you talk to me in French or you can fuck right off”. I couldn’t believe it – simply being English wasn’t good enough for this tyrant. Didn’t she know that nobody from England can speak another language?! She looked at me blankly and said something else. I managed to catch the words trois cent vingt-deux. Apparently she'd been asking for my ticker with the number 322 on it. Turns out I was supposed to get one from a machine at the front door in order to book my place in the queue. Clearly my sussing out of the place wasn't quite good enough. Not to worry though, the proud owner of ticket number 322 was on hand to kindly shove me out of the way and spare the woman the trouble of explaining it to me again.

I trudged back past the nose pickers and the arse scratchers to find myself where I had been a good 20 minutes previously  - right at the back of the queue. Sure enough there was a ticket machine plopped right there – I wondered how I missed it the first time around - it seemed so obvious now. I took my ticket (#327 as you can see) and was thrilled to find out I had at least another 9 minutes to wait before I’d be near the front again. 

I couldn’t help but notice that the ticket-hungry monster from earlier was eyeing me suspiciously all the while I was queuing. It was only as I got to within one person from the front that I realised what she had been doing. Knowing that I was next, and that I wasn’t going to be the easiest interaction of the day, she got up and left her desk. She obviously couldn’t be bothered to deal with the English moron today - it appeared I was going to be the other poor woman’s problem. 

Thankfully she was much nicer, although her English was only marginally better than my French.  We spent the next 10 minutes keeping up the facade that we could understand each other. She would say something, and I would respond with a series of nods and over enthusiastic smiles. She knew I didn’t understand a word, but it was all she could do. At the same time she understood none of my responses. When I found myself pointing to the words United Kingdom on my passport for the 3rd time in the vain hope that somehow this would translate to “I have recently moved to Paris and need to apply for a French social security number”, I knew the cause was lost. In the end, we exchanged a glance that accepted defeat. Our game was over. She very politely handed me a form (its purpose still unbeknowns to me) and said with that most charming of French accents, “You come return here if you want” – bless her. I finished the pleasantries with the most genuine “Mercy Boo-coo” I could muster, took the form and my passport and headed for the door. I thought about letting out a few expletives on the way but that’s no way for an Englishman to behave. I knew I had to discuss the form with someone who could explain it to me, and come back a damn sight better prepared... 

I’ll let you know how I got on when I returned in the next post as this one is already a tad lengthy. In the meantime, I’ll be scratching my arse and picking my nose whilst studying French online language resources. À Bientôt.

Gym Suédoise.

This is the exact spot!

In keeping with my decision to embrace new experiences, I recently (and reluctantly) attended a Swedish Gym class. For those that don’t know it, the best way I can think to describe it is like a hybrid of circuits, aerobics and dancing which I’m sure you’ll agree, is not the greatest combination of activities for someone with zero coordination and a general lack of ability to move gracefully. So my reluctance to attend didn’t stem from the thought of exercise, rather, a fear of looking like a twat. However, with one sentence, I was swiftly reminded, “You are a twat”. How could I forget such a definitive part of my personality? My inner twat. Either way I had no reasonable excuse not to go. So I donned my tatty off-white football shorts, threw on an old shapeless t-shirt and some grubby converse and prepared to get moving. Indeed, I looked like a twat.

Unfortunately for me, it is summer and so this was to be an outdoor Swedish gym session held in one of the many parks dotted around Paris. This meant of course, that not only would I be dressed like a knob’ead whilst making a fool of myself, I’d be doing it in full view of the Parisian public. Brilliant. I tried to stay positive by busying my mind with thoughts of French female buttocks in tight lycra flexing and stretching (which happened to remind me of a video explaining the benefits of a good work out by the way), but this proved futile; I was sure my experience would be horrible.

The class was a fair old size, maybe around 60 people in total, with exactly none of them possessing the sort of buttocks I had previously been daydreaming about I might add. I was surprised to see that there were also a few blokes dotted around as well, all equally poorly dresses as myself (and apparently all equally disappointed at the lack of lycra clad buns on show). The group arranged itself in a circle around the needlessly toned instructor, his bronzed body only serving to make his greying hair appear silver and precious under the sun. It was his crown, and it declared him our leader. The fact that we were all stood in a circle not only gave the impression that we were all here to worship this Swedish Godlike figure before us  (ironic eh??), but also meant that it wasn’t just those next to me that could see how useless I am. Everyone in the circle (and park for that matter) would soon see me floundering around with about as much grace as Anne Widdecombe trying to shave her own arse.

Sure enough, within the first 10 minutes, whilst trying to emulate the instructor’s can-can-esque movements to some bizarre euro dance track, an old woman to my left started sniggering. Now I didn’t expect to be good at this Swedish gym malarkey, but I certainly wasn’t prepared to be ridiculed by some fat hag who has to draw on her own bloody eye brows. Worse still, she didn’t even try to conceal her amusement – it was as blatant as the day is long. Even my “gym buddy” had to stop exercising due to laughter. Surely they could have at least laughed behind my back so I didn’t notice. Is that not the polite thing to do?? 

“Well”, I thought, “Bugger this.” I wasn’t there to have the piss taken out of me! I decided to ignore their jibes and commit myself to every kick, punch and star jump - their laughter was my fuel. I was thrusting my arms and legs with a renewed vigour – I’d show these heartless Frenchies what good old English mettle is. The rest of the session was a bit of a blur as I sweated and puffed my way to the moral high ground. I know the instructor was impressed by my commitment – he probably saw a bit of himself in me. I tackled all that was thrown at me; crunches, push ups, all manner of stretches and dance moves, running, jumping... the list goes on. Sure, it was ugly, but it was triumphant.

It was during the warm down though, that I couldn’t help but notice the aforementioned fat hag. My oh my was she a mess; barely able to stand, soaked with sweat and panting like a tired dog. Even her silly little eyebrows were smudged! I was thrilled. I had triumphed over hilarity adversity while she was but a shell of her former arrogant and giggly self. But I am an English man; moral, humble and polite. I believe that one must be gracious in victory as well as defeat and so rather than laugh at and point out the failings of the pitiful and hunched frame before me, I simply walked past silently with my head held high. I would not and did not highlight her feebleness or mock her inadequacy for the Swedish gym... 

... Not to her face anyway. I had a bloody good laugh at her behind her back on the walk home instead! In fact I believe it was Hunter S. Thompson offered these words of great pertinence:

“For every moment of triumph, for every instance of beauty, many souls must be trampled”. 

Well, consider yourself trampled you old boot!

Same time next week?