Sweet dreams all met with derision. This train it was armed for collision. It’s a shame, it’s a shame, it’s a shame.
October 31, 2010 § Leave a comment
“I’m not going to die in this hospital, you’d better take me back outside, they don’t let me smoke and I can’t get drunk!”
I don’t want to die in the hospital – Conor Oberst and the MVB.
It’s been four days since I crawled out of the burning wreck of our dream that was our Mini Cooper.Me and Mossy had spent the whole time drifting in and out of sleep walking around like gormless zombies, so this blog post may be a little draw out and strange, maybe misspelt, maybe grammatically poorly structured. Maxi spent the last four days in intensive care until his condition was deemed stable enough for him to shifted to a less serious ward. It isn’t a sense of happiness that greets news such as a friend surviving an incident such as this. Just an overwhelming sense of relief that drains your energy and reminds you how much sleep you have lost worrying about said friend. None felt this feeling more than dear Mossy, he would never have forgiven himself had Maxi died, and luckily he wouldn’t have to.
We aren’t happy with our position; we are stuck in a rut. We are back were we where. We are messy and probably heading home due to lack of transport, what have we learned for our little escape? We have learned that we are not bullet proof if anything that overwhelming feeling of being somebody that comes with being young was starting to fade fast. I know that during the recent periods of my life I have tried to cover all my emotions with a sense of bolshie arrogance, often people would dislike me on meeting me because it would perhaps appear that I was taking the piss out of them when that really wasn’t the case, that’s just how we say hello. Maybe what I’m trying to say is don’t judge a book by it’s cover, don’t even judge it by the first few pages, judge the book on the difference between it being in your life and if it was not. Whether the book be a mediocre Austin style novel about high societies short comings or maybe the books is an insane stream of consciousness from a teenager who is scared because he doesn’t know what’s going to happen next, because he’s clutching at straws hoping that he will get his big break that claims he doesn’t need.
I was hoping that our insane youth would stretch a duration so I could write more about it, like most people hope it will last there whole lives. But just when you start to have the most fun you do something stupid like fucking it up. Maxi’s legs are still messed up and he is on crutches whenever he leaves his bed. We can’t ever escape these bodies and we’re tied to those thoughts in our heads, but the fact of the matter is all you can do is distract yourself, its going to catch up once you get just a little too old. So take a hard look in the mirror your shadows long the day is done and it just wasn’t meant to be.
October 28, 2010 § Leave a comment
First night in Rome.
“No you won’t fool the children of the revolution”
(two Rolls Royce’s short)
Children of the Revolution – T.Rex
When you start a night with such reckless sense of indifference towards authority you are bound to get in trouble. If you are English, drunken, in a group and in a foreign city you are bound to get in trouble. If you partake in acts of petty vandalism and vandalism of a police car then you are bound to get in trouble.
Our problems started early this morning. Well in fact, they outdate the morning by a long way, but our immediate problems started around 2 am local time. Mossy had decided that it would be a good idea to mimic The Rendezvous, a famous piece of art in which an artist strapped a camera to the front of a vintage Ferrari and let his friend, a former F1 driver none the less, to rag the car through the streets early morning Paris. It is truly beautiful and I hope you seek it out.
But ladies and gentlemen, we were not in Paris, we did not have a vintage Ferrari, and Mossy could drive but he was no ex F1 driver especially not with a third of a bottle of Sam in him and Maxi screaming and waving the Bandera de México out the sun roof. The engine whined and screamed as Mossy snatched between gears his eyes fixed intent over the wheel, Maxi was screaming and yelling about Spanish bombs in Andalucía. We hit a right hard and the back stepped out, Mossy held it, in such a small car it is impressive to even get the back to step out in such a way, Maxi rattled around the edges of the roof as the tires squealed under the speed, I just sat fascinated by the whole spectacle of it all. The cab smelt of stale cigarettes sambucca, sweat and burnt rubber. The engine noise was battering and relentless like working in a factory that was hurtling through space with a deranged Mexican screaming out of the window. The lights stayed green for as and we hurtled though another set. The music, the screeching rubber, the high pitch wail of the engine over the high tempo music and foreign screaming, truly I was in the company of madmen and madmen were in the company of me.
We had been carrying on that alarming pace for too long, any unit of time to be acting like that is too long as we rattled through back alley after back road that run parallel to the central roads of Rome. The car squealed one last time as we took a right onto the Via delle Muratte, the back had really kicked out this time and was coming around, we were doing about 60 and started to snatch at the wheel wrestling it like the captain of a pirate ship, Maxi swayed in sunroof, he had lost control, we all had, it became that moment in a car crash were you just know that there’s nothing to do now and in a few adrenaline filled seconds all you will be able to do will to take into account the damage that has happened to your body, you brace you hope and you pray.
The momentum is was so strong, so constant, like a run away boat. We clipped the curve carried on going up, the car tilted to a 45 degree to the right. The engine must have been whaling louder because the revs were high and the wheels were spinning but I couldn’t hear it. We hung in the air at 45 degrees for a second about 3 feet from the ground. It’s a cliché, but it was slow mo, my stomach dipped and we were heading down again, here came the floor. We couldn’t tell our exact angle, we knew it was a fifty/fifty split whether when the right tire landed it would set us straight on put us onto the right side.
We lunged forward as the wheel set us straight at considerable damage to the wheel arch, but that was the least of our problems the car bounced, wobbled and at 50 miles an hour crashed head on into the bonnet of a parked car, we recoiled and back wheeled over the road, the car came to a dead stop when the back tires hit the opposite curb.
When I came too I was sat in what used to be the passenger seat. The front left stanchion had caved in and was an inch from my face, I wasn’t sure how much was booze and how much was concussion. The cab was smoking out, thick white followed by black smoke. What used to be the front of the car had basically become the middle. I began to choke and had to get out of it. I popped my seat belt and went for the handle, it took me a good kick to push the door through. I rolled over and hit the pavement. I was cut up and the broken glass didn’t help. My legs had been in the foot well and had suffered a pretty bad crushing. My head felt like it was just shrapnel, rattling around, thoughts bouncing about but not really meaning anything. A view of the car, yes, that’s what I needed. I crawled across the road trailing my legs behind, I felt a little battered and bruised but no breaks. I was still spinning upstairs I could feel the warm trickle of blood. I had crawled away enough now to get broad view of the car. I rolled back and looked at the wreck.
The bonnet was crumpled up to the middle of the front wheel arches and was steaming up. There was an easy quite other a subtle hiss of escaping steam. I waited in it the delicious ignorance of the moment, for the moment I didn’t know about the others, but that’s better than knowing that they are dead.
Mossy had popped his door out and was lying facedown on the Italian pavement groaning and spitting up blood. But what of Maxi? Fuck, that tit had been dicking about in the sunroof, I looked around some locals had gathered to Mossy and a crowd were further down the road. I got up to my knees took a right step forward but ended up back on the floor, another attempt and I was up. A crowd was gathering. I stumbled over to Mossy and grabbed him by the shoulders and started to drag him away from the car, the back seat had smashed and I pulled the guitar out, we were five meters from the car when I sat him down. We sat and looked at the car, the one we hit was a four by four and suffered minimal damage and the fire that had caused the smoke was starting to be visible. That was when I realised the odd way the crowd had laid themselves out, a few staring at the car, a few at us, but a large group, 20 meters from me, with their backs to us. I knew then that surely Maxi was in the middle of that. I started stumbling toward the crowd, suddenly aware of the glass and blood in my hair, the seemingly endless crowd parted, and there in the middle of them all, crumpled up as a bag of bones was dear Maxi Dos Santos, with a woman leaning over him with a simply say “Uomo giovane, penso che stai morendo, penso che stai morendo”.
October 28, 2010 § Leave a comment
– David Ford
Originally written evening after first night in Monte Carlo
“Lazarus Lazarus, why all the tears?”
I woke up in the mid morning sun out to sea, on the deck of the anchored “Paddy Valentine”, a 45 foot sea cruising boat with kitchens and bed rooms, it was truly a work of art, I wasn’t used to such splendour. I was under a blanket with the tambourine girl at the bow, is the bow? The pointy bit at the front, as you might have guessed I don’t come from a proud sea faring tradition. I was fully dressed in my clothes from last night while she had changed into a bikini. We hadn’t had sex I hasten to add, we were too tired and drunk, we just sat, talked, kissed and watched the sun come up before we went to sleep. She could really play guitar and she knew her music too. She was most pleasant company indeed. It was her fathers’ boat and she had invited us back to it after our last song. We drank together then the separate groups tailed off. I think Maxi and Moss were downstairs, lets just say that last night I think they both laid in the lap of luxury. I had nicknamed her “Misses Tambourine Woman” Obviously due to the tambourine but also because the boat was named after a character in the Bob Dylan song Hurricane. Also when drunk I have a tendency to forget names. It turns out her father owned a string of Hotels across Europe, including the one those unfortunate boys had gone back too. She was 20 and was on holiday with friends. I had a large amount of respect for her, I loathe the spoilt rich kids, but I understand that it is an easy trap to fall down, so I have a large amount of respect for anyone brought up around piles of money and still has a firm grip on right and wrong, great taste in music and clothes, and is a really good kisser.
She was smiling when I awoke, and we went through to the boats lavish kitchen to make whatever breakfast we could. We put on Ryan Adams Gold and danced around the kitchen like a married couple on a good day, it was sweet. Maxi and his partner joined us soon, both displaying classic sex hair. They had both hit the tequila pretty hard when we got on the boat and were nursing bad hangovers, despite all the bad spirits they had had, they were in good spirits. Mossy immerged next, the pills had put him in one of those funny morning moods, his partner was still asleep. The girls had found some watermelon in one of the many fridges. It was a breakfast that I was used to eating only at festivals because it was cheap, full of vitamins and water. I don’t know why I don’t eat it more often actually, probably because it’s not really something that someone of my age buys. Damn you stereotypes, you will be the death of me. Maxis girl suggested that we take the short sail to the harbour to meet up with the boys again, she joked that she thought that the boys might have thought that we had raped them, killed them and stolen the boat, we all laughed. Miss Tambourine girl set the boat into motion; there was a small motor on the back or helm? I don’t know what it’s called. All I know is she had a big wheel to stand behind and it suited her. Maxis girl was operating one of those pulleys that swings the sails around, at least she knew what she was doing.
We pulled into the harbour around 11.30am local time into a permanently reserved space. As if the boat itself wasn’t testament to the splendour and wealth of the girl’s father he had a permanently reserved spot in the Monte Carlo harbour front.
The goodbyes were lingering. We realised that if we were to continue in on this trip in such a manor then we would have to get good at them. Just a nice clean cut, with a lingering possibility that this would not be the last time we would meet. We met up with the mini and broke from Monte Carlo like a bullet from a gun, our paranoia aided by our hangover told us that it was not wise to take a very wealthy mans yacht out to sea with his teenage daughter and her friends and that it was best we made ourselves scarce. We would leave that princess of the principality to her wealth and effortless charm, the road is calling us, this time to the bright lights and love of Italy.
P.s A note from the Author to you the reader-written today. Listen guys, I know that I only started this site a few days ago and have been putting the diary up from our trip up but I have to say that I’m overwhelmed by the response, I’m not really one for caring about the stats but they say that there’s a lot of you. I just want to say thank you, you guys have been fucking great, more than I would have expected, you guys are the fucking best and it’s nice to know someones actually reading- I swear a lot when I’m grateful. Seriously thank you. I’ve put some sharing options up so it easier to share it around the web. Thank you.
Simon Blake ( not the famous one )
October 27, 2010 § Leave a comment
-“I take my hat off to the busker man.”
We pulled over around 4am in motorway service station. We needed the sleep if we were going to keep up this relentless bravado. Those places all seem to look the same in France. We had no idea of our destination; we just knew we were travelling south. We have driven along way and have very little idea of where we really were. Maxi had slept most of run and Mossy was still behind the wheel pushing the car to stay awake. I hate to sound like an old man but it was nice to have a quiet seat to sit in. I think we are all grateful for the comparative tranquillity of the road. My phone rang around lunch time, my heart skipped a beat as I went to answer as my brain rushed with questions, the other two carried on completely unaware of the drama unfolding inside my brain. Could it be Paris Girl? I pressed the green button and held the phone up to my ear; I paused for a second to see if the other person was in any great rush to speak before I muttered “Hello?” It wasn’t Paris Girl, it was the magazine, they had enjoyed my article on the Paris hotel and were contributing to my account. Good news I suppose.
Myself and Moss decided to pull our heads out of the sand somewhere around 5pm, we consulted a road sign as to where we were. We had no idea how far we had come. We had been on and off the road for around 8 hours. We had loved the simplicity of the motorway too much to really hold down any direction. We slowed a bit on the motorway near one of those bigger blue and white French motorway sign. The places posted were Lyon, St Etienne and Valance. We heading for the heart of Lyon, we would pass through but not stop. The reason we weren’t stopping were 2 fold, first of all we were still content in the car so it was wise to keep pushing, to get so far away from England that we can’t just turn around again. The second reason was we have lined up our next target on this mystery tour. We would be leaving France for the principality of Monaco. A night in Monte Carlo was an exciting prospect. On top of that the money for the magazine had cleared and despite the mini drinking petrol like it was its 18th birthday. I knew that the magazine would love on article on a get up and go cheap holiday in somewhere as luxurious as Monte Carlo. Things were looking up, Maxi was stirring from his deep sleep in the back seats, a sleep so deep that he had not even realised that during a stop me and Mossy had fashioned him a handle bar moustache with some charming sideburns all made of felt tip pen. But soon we would have shaken off that after drinking lull and we were looking down the barrel of one of the most glamorous places in word. We are young , we have money and a long list of reasons to smile. Despite unfortunate lingering thoughts of left behind lovers.
We passed through Lyon and Valence and down to the south coast with the excitement of the night ahead. Between us we didn’t watch much motorsport but we all watched the drama of the Monaco Grand Prix. The crashes helped, but it was such a glamorous setting that it became part of the story, and we found this charm irresistible. The prospect of partying with the social elite was an opportunity we would not be turning down. The fact that Monaco was a tax haven meant that it was chuck full of rich kids. Rich kids have a lot of money, which means limitless food, drink and drugs. Also they are usually thick as pig shit and easy to take advantage of. The rich only deserve having advantage taken of them if they become spoilt, and spoilt kids were a penny a pound in Monaco and we fully intended to find some.
We got into Monaco around 9pm and the night was starting. There was magic in the air that night, as there had been in Paris. We drove the mini through the famous streets, through casino square, around that famous U turn, and down towards the harbour front. The harbour was full of expensive boats which was a good sign for the night to come. We found a safe underground car park for a small cost and went to walk the harbour front to see what we could find.
It was a warm clear night and the harbour was all light up. It was a beautiful night. This small principality was about to show us what it could do. It a strange place Monaco, like a legoland for rich people, sheltered by those big mountains that seal us all in together. Like another planet where everyone’s exclusive and nothing in the outside world counts. We planned to set the world spinning before we hit the casino. It was around 9.30 when Maxi had a charming idea that would set quite a tone for the night. We returned to the car but only to remove the guitar and a dusty tambourine that Maxi had brought because he couldn’t be arsed to bring a bass. So on that evening my closest friends and Itook the art of busking to the Monte Carlo harbour front, to what is, in average persons wealth, the richest city in the world. I will always remember the first song, myself and Maxi were tipsy and starting on the Tequila while Mossy had dropped some sort of a ridiculous drug with a ridiculous drug name that I forget, something like Diamonlexsesanitine. The song was “Can’t Stand Me Now” by “The Libertines” I played, Maxi sang and hit that old tambourine with Mossy was dancing like an occupant of acid house. We were content, if this was the astonishing steps we had to take to be happy then I was glad that despite the odds we had made it. In our states we didn’t really think about the crowd we would draw. Mossy would set the tone for this. A group of seven preppy but pleasant English rich kids came over who recognised the song. The three girls of the group were drawn in by Mossys mad dancing, they danced him giggling away while the four boys in the group stood watching. They all had very well made and expensive clothes, but only the girls had taste. Mossy had drawn one of the girls in to his personal dance and then started holding hands and singing the harmonica solo, it was charming. First impressions are everything when meeting a girl, but if you can be doing something truly magical or even insane then that can be an invaluable contribution towards having your wicked way. The song ended and the girls cheered while the boys reluctantly clapped, we could tell from this moment that everyone had done the simple boy maths, three girls and seven guys, their odds had been cut from three girls and four guys and they were not happy about this. The way they saw it, for then at least, it was those four boys and us three boys, if they could remove us they could get back to trying to remove each other. This was the score inside every boys brain, but we were not going down without a fight, three boys and three girls worked, and we liked their clothes and the way they moved, they were up for a laugh, and we were up for that.
Our second song was “Same Jeans” by “The View” the three girls carried on dancing while the boys didn’t do themselves any favours by staying standing by this spectacle. They really should have joined in but instead they let their obvious annoyance at us show which only frustrated the girls who just wanted to have a good time. These gentlemen were Cleary amateurs, that or they were more used to things just on a plate. They had nice clothes, top brands, dressed on daddies’ dollars. Ralph Lauren jumpers, deck shoes. They girls had class though, sweeping dresses, beautifully made up, like if three American prom queens met under a street light to dance to a pauper’s pipe. The boy’s frustration was there to be built on; it made them very easy targets.
The third song is always a tricky one to choose. We had done sing along and happy placed songs. It was time to do Mossy a favour a lower the beat maybe get a bit of slow dancing happening on that makeshift dance floor that was the Monte Carlo dockside. The song we chose was “La Cienega Just Smiled” by “Ryan Adams” I hope your taking notes on those by the way because so far those are some fucking A-Class songs. From the opening chords it can be told that this song is a slow one. Mossy offered his hands out to slow dance with the girl who he had been holding hands with before, shyly but with a broad smile she accepted. One of the other girls had tailed off to the boys and tried to pull one of them in to dance, but he declined as a point of preserving a united front with the other well dressed gentlemen. That boys loss would be Maxis gain, he had been finding it hard to tap out a beat to such a slow song, and so dropped the tambourine and offered the girl a dance she took. The delicious rift was starting to widen between the girls and boys. The remaining girl was reluctant to go back to them, seeing and with her girlfriends dancing she took a seat next to me a started to smoke the cigarette that Maxi had left burning in one of the loops of the tambourine. To my astonishment she broke into the slow rhythm with all the right words. I couldn’t help but be impressed by that. At the end of the song the boys announced that they were “Going back to the hotel.” Their unwillingness to dance had frustrated the girls who simply said “We’ll see you later then.”I don’t feel bad about what we did, the rich boys had fucked themselves and they will learn from that.
We played another song, we knew we needed to bust the pace up a knotch, I went for “Bohemian like you” by “The Dandy Warhols.“ I had seen the Warhols once, at V Festival, they didn’t play that song because Vodaphone owned it, the fucking sell outs. However they did make up the over half of the musical love affair that made up the movie “DiG!”, greatest rock and roll movie ever, the other half being “The Brain Jones Town Massacre.” Anyway, how rude of me to go so off topic when there are pretty girls that need attending to. The song was perfect Maxi , Moss and the couple of acquired female companions broke into a crazy dance, while the pretty young thing who was next to me with a taste for Ryan Adams started taping away on the tambourine and smiling away. Tonight is going to be a good night.
October 27, 2010 § Leave a comment
Originally written the morning after.
-“When I get fixed, I am convinced that I will not get so broke up again.”
Unless it kicks – Okkervil River
Waking up in an immediately unfamiliar place is disconcerting, made even more disconcerting by the continuing unfamiliarity of that place. I could tell from one half opened eye that I had never been here before. Well not before last night at least. I could see out of open some tall doors that lead out of the balcony, judging from what I could see of buildings I was not on the bottom floor. I had established my floor, next I needed to find out where I was. My mind was beginning to get up to speed slowly. I was lying down, in a bed, and I was naked. That familiar trickle of excitement and fear rushed through my body. I dare not move in case raise any attention from whoever was next to me, that is to say, if anyone was even there. I inspected the room a little further just to clear my head. It was day and the sun was up and the traffic was moving. I was pretty sure I was in a hotel. I racked my brains about the night before. I could only get to the 2nd or maybe 3rd bar with Maxi and Moss, we were fucked up, I remember that much. Right then, the time had come, time to roll over, time to face my actions, time to see who I had done.
Quietly I rolled over, and there she was. And she was beautiful. If she had anywhere near the grace she had while she was awake as she did sleeping then I truly was in the company of someone who I did not deserve to be in the company of but I was far from complaining. She was about my age as far as I could tell. She had short stylish brown hair like a model, a beautiful face, so symmetrical and crafted. Long eye lashes that looked like they need no making up. And the fullest lips that I had ever seen on a girl. And here I was naked in her bed with no idea of the language that they spoke. Unaware of my surroundings, unaware of her pace or politics, unaware of her nature. She was just a stranger. The most charming stranger I had ever seen. Just that second a memory flashed across my brain and I snatched at it, Laughing! My brain screamed, yes! Laughing, and she was there and she was laughing, at last a bond that tied me too her. I thought more, I strained my brain, harder than I had pushed it for a while, and I was rewarded with the most beautiful memory. I remember it making me feel like I hadn’t really felt before, like my heart was dropping out of my body, straight through the floor, deep into the catacombs and carrying on going a fizzing swirl of emotions, like a wild drug, but without the quiet fear.
I had no idea of the time; my hangover wasn’t awful so I must have slept awhile. I was just lying there. This mystery girl was the finest company that I think I had ever woken up next too. I watched her through a half closed eye. I didn’t want her to judge me for staring at her should she wake up. Just then she stirred, she moved, my pulse raced, she was waking up. Her eyes opened and met mine for the second time. They flickered with mild confusions as I could tell that she had gone through the same Molotov Moment. A Molotov moment was a nickname that was passed in my group as the moment you wake up next to someone and try to think of who the hell they are. Named after the militant form of bomb the Molotov Cocktail that had the guarantee of blowing your memory clean away. I waited as her face flickered with the moment, trying to associate me with any memories. To be brutally honest I was praying for a smile, a fond memory, not a face that screamed regret. Like my brain was screaming at me now, my god man, look at her eyes. Just for a smile for this girl, my whole body raced in this silent moment, a very stationary insanity. She smiled, my heart started its new familiar decent through the floor, thank fuck, a smile should not have this sort of effect on a human being.
“Good Morning” I said quietly in a low hangover voice. “Good Morning Indeed” She replied, her smile still intact my brain fizzed with the brand new information that I took from this simple greeting. A French accent but well spoken English which would go a little way to explain how we came to be where we were. The little “indeed” indicated a sort of cheeky wit that I found irresistible, well to me it indicated that at least. And while she said it she shifted in a way that made the cover we were sharing flop down and reveal a naked shoulder. We smiled, we laughed a little, and it was beautiful. I had to grab this conversation and direct it towards more information but before I could my train of thought was interrupted. “You are that English boy aren’t you?” she smiled maintaining solid eye contact, a rare thing to do after a one night stand. “I suppose that’s me, your that French girl right?” I asked, a cheap joke, but I got a laugh. I almost felt embarrassed that my cheap trickery had lead to this. My brain clicked in, the troublesome logic was back. This is a beautiful girl, and she is therefore, extremely dangerous, I had to pull away before she got into my brain and stayed for longer than I would care to mention. But all these hazardous warnings that I had sworn by mere hours before were irrelevant. Because I was smiling like a six year old when their football team win, and to me that was all that mattered. Fuck my brain, after years I still attach myself to people I barley know knowing that the only result has been brief stints of ecstasy followed by months of mind numbing depression. I swore to myself that the next time I felt these feelings I would pull out, quit while I was ahead. But such a pretty girl, in such unusually and poetic circumstances.
Some people will never be pleased, here I was in the company of a beautiful woman who I had spent the night with and my brain couldn’t help but find fault. I was sure know that the drink had carried on, this was not sober thought. I had to question my thought in this state. I racked my brain. Maybe past relationship had told me that this could be as good as it gets and you can only win here if you walk away now. We laughed some more which made leaving harder. I told her that I had to get up to meet someone and for some reason assured her that it wasn’t a girlfriend or wife. She just smiled in the most beautifully charming way. I wrote my phone number on her mirror in lipstick, I was always one for the classics, she laughed as I did it. I pulled on my clothes, I pulled on the coat, and it had survived another night. I kissed her goodbye, I learned away but she pulled me back in. It took me 25 minutes to leave after that, she had my number. She was smiling when I left, rapped in a duvet. To anyone who thinks that my actions are impossible to justify then you’ve never been in love.
There is a way that all men walk after they have had sex with a beautiful woman. It can be seen around 8-9am in almost every built up area in world. A man, alone, looking unwashed and slightly dishevelled but walking with his shoulders back with the presence of a king. It was a walk I had taken on that morning. I headed down the corridor to the lift, straight in, down to the bottom floors and straight out the door, a nice clean cut.
Paris was bright that morning and despite leaving such a beautiful girl I was happy. The trip had come true. I got to the tower around 13:15 and Mossy was waiting for me, Ernest McLain got the conversation.
Moss: Lourell you slut, I know exactly where you’ve been you dog. She was hot from what I remember man, but mate we were so fucking toasted.
Myself: Yeah man, was extremely pretty. Man I don’t remember much, but I love what I do remember. Where the fuck is Maxi? And where did you end up?
Moss: Mate I woke in this girls bed and her old man or someone, I don’t know who the fuck he was, but mate he was pissed and that fucker had a bat and was not happy, he was screaming French, I grabbed my trousers and was straight out of the window. It was hilarious.
Myself: Where’s Maxi man? We should get back to the car pretty soon.
So we waited under the tower for 45 minutes and then Maxi rolled on up looking worse for wear. He was sucking on a bottle of water surely hopping that he could regain some of his energy. We spotted him a long way off and he started the long walk towards us. Myself and Mossy had a laugh at the state of him during Maxis long journey towards us. Ernest McLain took this onboard too.
Myself: Oi oi stranger, where the did you get too?
Maxi: I have no idea man, I don’t remember a thing, I woke up in an alley with a phone number written in felt tip on my arm, man, I’m too scared to ring it. We really tore it up last night didn’t we?
Maxi: I didn’t man, Jesus, I feel that someone has stabbed me up. Jesus.
Mossy: Haha man, we better go check out the car.
Myself: Yeah man, where the hell is next?
We left Paris this afternoon. The city had been good too us and we wouldn’t be forgetting it in a hurry. Now we were pushing the car south, I watched the big city lights fade as we drifted into the suburbs. I couldn’t help but wonder about that girl, as was so typical of me I hadn’t collected a name, to me she was just “Paris Girl “. Naming girls like this was a bad habit that I had slipped into around the age of 16. Maybe it was better this way, no affairs, no arguments, no bad times, no embarrassing moments, no lies just love.
October 26, 2010 § Leave a comment
Originally written October 22nd
-“Middle class thugs on lower class drugs.”
Interpretation of a song by the Wombats.
We had arrived in Paris last night and were too wasted to do anything. We have checked in too a small hotel near the other side of the river to the Eiffel tower. This morning we were sat in a cafe called Les Deux Magots, it was classy, too classy for us. We must have looked out of place with the effortlessly cool looking young French men who we saw buzzing around on there new mopeds carrying helmets, wearing leather jackets, with pointy Chelsea boots made of Italian leather, smoking cigarettes in a way only the French can. Mossy was smoking in a sort of 1970s rock star fashion, from behind a pair of mirrored aviators, he was very London sheik in messy jeans and a classic band t-shirt. Maxi was smoking a big fat suspicious cigarette, he had pulled a bandana out of somewhere and was pulling it off in a way only someone with Mexican blood can. I have written up some lies about a hotel we had driven past in Rouen and sent it to the magazine in the vain hope that they will swallow it and keep the money rolling in. There have been no complaints from them yet. Across the street we had enjoyed the finest in French street performance, a man in his underwear had been kicked out of his house by his extremely angry woman who was now showering him what we guessed were his own clothes. We roared with laughter, fighting couples are the finest universal entertainment regardless of language. None of us had ever really grasped the French, we never had too, we could order beer, English is the world’s language at least until the Chinese start running things, even then we will have our needs seen to. We had parked the mini in an alleyway and were too nervous to stray too far away from it. We are in good sprits still finding it hard to believe that our little pipe dream has come true, and when things like that happen it gives them an amine and dangerous sense of confidence. The world is our oyster.
Paris is a beautiful City. There’s an effortless class that the French apply to almost everything they do. Their language is beautiful, the most dangerous for a woman to have by far. They are stereotyped with a sort of snotty “better than you” sort of attitude, and if any other country carried the same amount of class in its language they would think the same. Unfortunately this attitude is reinforced by the fact that some people from some of the countries that fought the Nazis walks around the City with a little voice in that back of there head that just repeats “they owe us, they owe us.”
There’s a magic quality to the woman of Paris. They move like with the grace of ballerinas and stay thin due to cigarettes and fine food. There’s nothing sexy about a girl that smokes, unless she can smoke with grace and class, and French women have a knack for that. They usually have a fine taste in art, and arty girls are always attractive. The Parisian women are a beautiful stereotype that I have no shame in reinforcing, why shatter such a beautiful illusion? Myself, Mossy and Maxi were going to try and find a slice of stereotype reinforcement later this evening despite the handicap of knowing little French.
We have charged a bottle of cheap champagne to our room in the vain hope that magazine will foot the bill. We walked to the Arc de Triomphe and got as far under it as barriers would let us. The evening is drawing in on us, a night in Paris set our pluses beating with that sort of excitement that comes with loud music and makes you move faster and move your arms when you speak, it makes you want to scream and shout. Thats how we feel tonight, it is all part of our charm. Our hearts are beating faster than normal, and in a world where the language barrier would need crossing we would need that extra little bit to make the jump. The corks has been popped and we are drinking from the bottle. Right now it’s 6 O’clock local time. We have set a condition, if we get broken up and all technology fails us we would meet under the Eiffel tower at 1pm the next day. There a sense that tonights going to be one of those nights that we will never forget, the first of our trip that wasn’t spent crashed out, we are going to set our souls on fire and burn down the fucking sky.