Twist, Curl, Smile.

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.

Advertisements

Tagged: , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

What’s this?

You are currently reading Twist, Curl, Smile. at No Longer an Astronaut..

meta

%d bloggers like this: