God and Charlize Theron: Happy Holidays.

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... 

All the best.

Open Mic Shite: Part 1

I'm aware that my last entry was a bit of a moan and maybe a little hyperbolic at times. If you didn't like it, you won't like what I've written below either as it is more of the same. Yes, it looks like the feeble gates holding back my whinging and cavilling have opened and a flood of negativity has started to flow...

Mambo No. 5!!!

It's no secret that I am a big fan of music, and so when the opportunity arose to pop down to an open mic night a few weeks ago, I took it gladly. It was held at the American University of Paris (AUP) and promised to be a night where people could get up and perform music, poetry or anything else they fancied, without fear of judgement/heckling of any sort; it was to be a very pleasant and friendly evening which sounded lovely. Well… almost. I obviously had a few reservations, the principal one being that if the main selling point and therefore reason to come was to enjoy the welcoming, non-threatening atmosphere, then the music was probably going to leave a little to be desired. I don't actually think heckling is necessarily a bad thing - if dished out fairly and with proper justification of course. I reckon a bit of abuse from the crowd early on in your career can serve as an effective way of letting you know you have two choices: either you better damn well improve if you wish to continue performing for people and doing it for a living someday; or they call it quits, throw in their musical towel and get a real job. It would save the dignity of those poor souls that open themselves to abuse from an audience of millions by humiliating themselves on one of the many ‘talent’ shows the world can’t seem to get enough of.

Now I don't know if it is possible to convey the fact that I thought the music would be shite with a simple look or change of expression, but funnily enough, as I was pondering the prospect of a night's worth of interminable music, I was hurriedly assured that there would be a house band present to keep the show moving should nobody feel like getting up and sharing their inner artist with a half empty room of boozing Americans, a few Frenchies and one miserable English git. If, by any chance you would prefer a night of interminable music, simply go to one of the high street clubs of any town in any city in any country. My copious 'clubbing' experience dictates that these types of establishment are sure to play the latest 'hits' interspersed with the kind of 'cheese' and 'classics' that make me want to boil my own scrotum and douse it in vinegar before hacking it off with the sharp side of some velcro and stuffing it in my mouth in order to choke to death on it (Refer to the first line of this blog entry now). As it was, I anticipated an evening consisting primarily of a slick, professional music outfit with the odd sprinkling of melodic mediocrity. How wrong I was...

I bet a good ol' whizzpopper would have him in tears!

But before I give Ross-'the whingey arse'-bif the floor, I should point out that it wasn't all terrible. Firstly, the company I keep is exceptional and they can make even the direst situations bearable, so turning up with them was a good start! And there was actually one performer that, for some reason or another, charmed me a little. After 40 minutes or so, a timid looking American girl took to the stage with an acoustic guitar and a battered sliver of paper of lyrics. She sat herself down as though she was still mastering the skill and nervously slung the guitar over a shoulder with an awkwardness that suggested she hadn’t done it too many times before. She positioned the sheet of paper precariously on her lap and without much of an introduction, cleared her throat and started to play. Now I'm not going to beat around the bush; but the performance was bad - not awful mind, just plain old bad. She struggled to coordinate her singing (which was more like talking to a beat, or a one-note instrument) and strumming, stuttered a little between verses and missed a few of the [unimaginative arpeggio] chord changes here and there. She looked ill at ease and the only thing clumsier than her actual playing was her lyrics. She mumbled some flimsy metaphor about feeling small and insignificant on such a huge planet and spoke about having the ability to make giants cry with even the tiniest bits of dust (actually I think what I’ve written there is better than what she came out with – and I don’t think much to that either). Nonetheless, she deserved to be cut a hefty piece of slack as she admittedly was/is no professional. Aside from that, her delivery was sincere, honest and without pretence; she genuinely just wanted to share something she had created in an environment that would allow her to do so. It’s like a child that draws a picture of a blob for a head, with 4 sticks coming out of it that are supposed to represent limbs. They add balloons for fingers and some asymmetrical scribbles inside the blob to represent the eyes, the nose and the mouth and then they write ‘Daddy’ next to it. You’d be hard pushed to convince the elephant man to be happy with that kind of portrait, let alone a regular looking human. I don’t think I’ out of turn by saying that even the parents know it’s an awful attempt at drawing what we know as Man, but they still proudly display it on the fridge amongst the other tat said sprog has also conjured up. You can't criticise it, you can only appreciate what is there. Indeed, you have to equally appreciate what isn't there - that lack of quality and crudeness is what gives it well over half its charm. It was the same for the American girl performing her ditty about giants and the like. And besides, it's all good practise for her and will hopefully make her better for the next time, the time after that and so on. I sincerely wish her all the best for the future (although I’m not sure music will/should be a part of it).

Why is he still alive?

No with the niceties out the way, from now on I’ll be complaining. First up: The Compéres.  They were a male-female double act that behaved as though they were on prime time Friday night television – Friday night American television that is. I feel the distinction is important as the comperes were inexplicably arrogant, obscenely loud, painfully witless, unoriginal, boring and utterly clueless as to how to actually entertain an audience – in keeping with the likes of Letterman, Leno and Kimmel. Loud noise has never been so dull. And, like Leno, Letterman and Kimmel, they were oblivious to their own character flaws both as people and entertainers and carried on with a smug self assurance as though they were a gift from 'God' himself. The phrases, "Oh my god, that was so awesome", "Duuuude, I can’t believe that performance right now" and "we've got a real treat for you next" were uttered all too often serving to highlight further their obvious lack of sincerity or dynamism. They might as well have played a tape with a selection of generic/inane sentences recorded in a horrible North American whine. The final nail was hammered into the coffin of their dying performance when the female tried to gee up the crowd with, "Like, honestly, who can say that whilst being at AUP they have went [sic] a whole 24hours without drinking alcohol – ‘cause I know I can’t. Like seriously?". No more need be said about the failings of this double act.

"Drugs 'r' baaad... mmm'kay"

Unsurprisingly, there were no "awesome" performances on the night - in fact it would be generous to describe any of them as less than average. But a few people really irritated me (which admittedly isn’t that difficult these days). There was The African American Girl who wailed sentences such as "We are the children" and “We must fight” whilst clutching the sides of her head with both hands and feigning a look of despair and grieving. She was positioned in such a way that she seemed to be throwing the words at her own kneecaps - over and over again, with only the incessant hammering of bongos and a discordant/retarded electric guitar for accompaniment – none of which were harmonious. I was also careful to note her choice of the pronoun ‘We’ in her lyrics (if you can call them that). Bearing in mind she is an American girl living in Paris, attending a university that costs around $35,000 to attend and has probably never had to worry about much beyond the realms of what colour t-shirt will best hide the stains from the shit spewing from her mouth, her message of suffering in both a social and financial context experienced by African Americans in today's society is a little hard to swallow. I have no issue with the message, but the preacher lacked credibility - it would be like having a drugs awareness campaign fronted by Pete Docherty and Amy Winehorse. I'm not sure their respective histories qualify them to speak on the subject with any real authority. Additionally The African American Girl had an awful voice, littered with abysmal attempts at artificial falsetto and other vocal gymnastics. I don't think there are many things more embarrassing than watching a mediocre singer perform as though they’re a professional and put every ounce of themself into it. You are not Beyoncé. You are not one of “the children”. Sit down, shut up and kindly remove yourself from my line of sight and my range of hearing.

The 'Poet'

Next up? The Poet. A 20 something girl that thinks her forté is writing and reading poetry. It isn't. She was a very long girl in the most literal of senses - long hair, long body, long legs, long nails and perhaps most annoyingly, a long face. Like so many artists, she didn't conform to the norm with regards to her choice of clothing. And for the record, wearing a pair of Joe 90 glasses and buying your clothes exclusively from vintage shops and sacrificing any aesthetic quality for simply the age or uniqueness of the garment does not make you an artist. It makes you a knob. But in what I guess was a bid to look interesting and alternative, The Poet wore nothing but black - not too dissimilar to Morticia Adams, except she had a bit more colour to her skin. She definitely looked eccentric (NB Eccentric does not equal Artisitic) but one couldn't help but notice that she was head to toe in designer wear. For me this detracted somewhat from her intended artistic aura and the level of authenticity I felt she was trying to achieve by dressing so differently to everyone else (That's not to say that true artists shouldn’t be allowed to enjoy the luxury of the Gucci's and Prada's of this world mind – I just can’t see them being as interested or motivated by material goods as your average man/woman on the street). To be honest, she looked a little bit… how best to put it.... I'll go with like a slapper. Or maybe tart? No - definitely slapper! She looked like a Grade A slapper. Her poem was absolutely appalling as well - the premise was something along the lines of: if you want to have your TV thrown out of a window, fuck a rock star; if you want to eat good food all your life, fuck a chef; and so on through a list of different occupations/vocations and the respective behaviours associated with them. None of the observations were original, witty or even articulated in an interesting way, so no points there honey. Even the poem was purely meant to shock, again she failed; expletives tend to lose their impact if you flinch and become visibly uncomfortable as you utter them - the vulgarity was often needless and add nothing as well. Not to mention the fact she repeatedly forgot the words and had to keep referring to a shitty bit of paper held in her quivering hand. So no points for delivery either. The poem ended with what I think was supposed to be a list of filthy bedroom antics one might crave ("if you want to hear beautifully articulated moans while your girl's in the saddle" was a highlight), in order to inspire a crescendo of lust and desire, and to slowly build some sexual energy/tension. At the point of climax, just when the audience could take no more (because it was quite frankly, crap), at the height of our desperation to the hear the end and how we can fulfil our dirtiest urges, the words "fuck a poet" fell out of her [potty] mouth. What’s my review of the whole debacle? Well put it this way, I certainly don’t think anyone will be fucking her anytime soon. Poet my arse! As much contempt as I hold for The Poet flaws, she wasn't even the worst thing there. Not by a long shot…

To find out who, in this collection of talentless dullards, irritated me the most tune in next week… or whenever I bother posting the next bit. I think this is already a bit long for one blog entry and I want to [at least try to] keep my audience interested - all 9 of you. A cheeky cliff-hanger (although it’s probably a bit generous to call this one) never hurt anyone. Apart from maybe Sly Stallone.

So, A la prochaine…