Public Transport: The Eurostar Experience - Paris to London

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

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

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

Heinous Pig.

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

Onslow and a poor man's WAG.

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

A happier, more inebriated me.

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

Ahhhh, much better!

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



A la prochaine.

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

Fry her.

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.