Idle hands...

Hi Ho, Hi Ho...

I believe I briefly mentioned the fact that I am a working man again. Don't worry; I'm not round the back of Aldi offering "5-quid-a-go". No, no, I have a real job. Or as real a job as is possible in France; you see they don't take the working life so seriously over here. According to Stephen Clarke, the English mentality is we 'live-to-work'. My own experience in London confirmed this: I used to see clever, interesting, socially adept people sacrificing any chance of a fulfiling private life by working 60 or 70 hours a week just to make sure they weren't entirely overlooked when promotions were dished out (Cue the credit crunch...) Their week days would end with a stale Waitrose meal-deal, an empty flat and what would probably turn out to be a wank that left them feeling empty inside (and I'm not just talking about their scrotums). You know the type; when you finish all exhausted and in a mess, jizz up your chest (missing the pubic hair if you're lucky) and sweat in your arse crack. You're then faced with the cold dead eyes of some porno bimbo being mercilessly shunted, as her all-too-forced and mechanical moans of "pleasure" reverberate in your head. You have to come [ahem... pardon me] to terms with exactly what it is you've been watching; some generic and often barabric scene of smut all just to bring yourself to another lonely orgasm. It is then you realise you are a sad little pervert. And it is tragic. Poker anyone?

The French mentality is different - I mean with work of course. Not wanking. I'm positive the tragic nature of male masturbation is universal (In fact, I believe the French call an orgasm La Petite Mort which is interesting). Their attitude towards work (again, according to Stephen Clarke) is that we shouldn't 'live-to-work', but 'work-to-live'. Now I don’t think that’s such a bad idea but it's the very reason France practically comes to a halt in August. The majority of the population simply pisses off on holiday for the month meaning whole businesses shut down and entire streets become deserted. Signs pop up in shop windows, cafes and restaurants, essentially explaining that they can't be arsed with August and so they'll be back in September. It's really quite remarkable. 

“Once made equal to man, woman becomes his superior.”

I'm sure the fuss the French have recently been making about the plans to raise the retirement age to 62 hasn't failed to escape the world's attention, even though the rest of us have to wait till we turn 65 (the men at least - what on Earth happened to equality?) During the protests in late September, I was particularly amused by the behaviour of the French as I walked home one night. Forget the images the media feeds you: streets rammed with people; public transport at a standstill etc etc. My experience showed me a much different picture of the protests. As I walked down Avenue du Général Leclerc (a pretty big street in south-central Paris), I noticed it was actually rather empty and quiet. There were a few buses parked here and there, but I couldn't see much marching or protesting going on. All of the apparently "enraged" French men and women had either retired to the copious number of bars and cafes that line the street, or were sitting on the kerb  enjoying cigarettes and wine. So not only can they not be arsed to work for just a couple more years, they can't even be arsed to protest against this happening. Apparently, the whole city of Paris is disrupted so they can have a cheeky fag and a chat. Is that allowed? Unbelievable. 62 isn't the end of the world either is it? (Well to some, 62 does literally mean the end of the world, but you know what I mean. Rest in peace Farrah Fawcett).

The fact that the French working week is so short anyway, means they probably only end up working a fraction of the hours the rest of the world does in a lifetime. Just this week, there was yet more strike action so a lot of the national rail/metro staff bunked off. The funny thing is, a lot of the rest of the population seem to think 'industrial action' is just another way of saying, 'Don't bother coming into work today', so loads of people stay at home. The devil makes work for idle hands does he? Well anyone who believes in (and I assume fears, not worships) the devil should stay away from France - as I'm sure it's the one country keeping the little horny bugger busy. The strike days actually make my daily commute a bit easier! I’m perfectly able to take the metro to work in peace, albeit with limited service (only 3 out of 4 trains that usually come every 2 minutes will be running - oh the humanity). 

Looks like I moved to the right country though eh? But with no real French ability to speak of [LOLZ] and a background in finance that I'd happily forget, my employment options seemed limited. In fact, even most bar work requires some level of French so it appeared I wouldn't be able to do anything at all! Well, you know what "they" say, "Those who can’t do, teach". So I spent 3 days (on what should have taken half an hour) 'adapting' my CV to make it more relevant to teaching jobs. Afterwards, I was ready to blast it out to anyone that would potentially employ me - schools, universities, whore houses - the usual. Total time spent job hunting? 6 days!! Applied, interviewed and hired all within a week. This country really is a piece of pish! [Although I have since been told it is because I am young and hunky, and that the manager who interviewed me is gay, that I found it so easy. True story (besides the hunky part - I'm fully aware I look like an alien grey with some Lego hair stuck on)]

Pointed shoe... Check. Array of paisley ties... Check.

And so now I find myself as an English teacher in a language school for French business men and women. I work no more than 30 hrs per week, including the lunches in French restaurants that I get paid to eat as long as I'm with the students and keep them speaking English. Piece of pish! The cream of France’s commercial crop comes through our doors for intensive week long English classes. Representatives from the likes of Chanel and Air France are under my sole supervision in the classroom and I fear the temporary reversal of superiority will start to go to my head. I am their Master. Their Guru. Their God [Ahhh, it has arrived]. It really is a fun and rewarding job though and I'd recommend it to anyone who doesn't fancy proper hard graft (and doesn't mind earning a pittance)! The first two weeks is training: essentially English lessons for the new teachers, as most Anglophones have no idea how to actually speak English, let alone teach it. How many of you can give me a sentence using the past perfect progressive tense and explain its use? Or differentiate between the 3 future simple tenses? I certainly couldn't 2 months ago! Once you're over that hurdle though, it seems to be plain sailing. Or at least it has been so far for me. Either way, I think it is appropriate to once again refer to myself as a City Slicker (visual proof can be found above). With that important detail covered, I think this is already a bit lengthy, so maybe I'll give you more details of the job another time.

For now, just keep in mind that, "All work and no play make Jacques a dull boy" (and despite the rumour, wanking won't make you go blind... just a little short sighted in my case).

It's Friday tomorrow. Go and enjoy yourselves

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