Sunday, 27 November 2011

Snazz and Scuffles: Part 2

Oh la la! This post has been a long time coming.

Before I start, I need to address a few mistakes in my other post. First of all, I said the bar we went to last weekend was called Le Violin Dinde. Then Kayt corrected me and said it is called Le Violin Dingue. I then changed it and added a little comment saying "Oh dear! I called it 'The Meat Violin' instead of 'The Crazy Violin'! Silly me!"

But I wasn't being silly, I was being ridiculously thick, because dinde means turkey, not meat, (I was thinking of viande, which is, erm, in no way similar apart from the fact that it assonates with the end of dinde, although there's a strong chance that I'm pronouncing it completely wrong) so I had in fact called it 'The Turkey Violin' and I didn't even realise because my French is so fucking TERRIBLE.

Also, Le Violin Dingue is nowhere near Chatelet, I must have been drunker than I thought. In fact, I can't really remember a lot of the night, I started telling you last time how me and Amy were considering getting on the back of two scooters with two French boys... (Boys is definitely the right word- we made them show us their I.D and one of them was born in the nineties, the NINETIES! I know, I know. It's done now. Stop looking at me like that.)

As far as I can recall, one of them wanted me to try his helmet on and dance around in it, which I'm happy to say I didn't do; even in my Drunken State I knew that squishing my head into a helmet would be most unbecoming. I wanted to leave because it was about four in the morning and it was past our bedtime, but Amy was convinced we were about to be invited back to The Best After-Party of Our Lives...

From out of nowhere came two Horrible Men who were jeering at me and Amy and saying the most ungentlemenly things. I wasn't too worried at first because we were with two guys, but then one of them tried to push Amy against a wall and one of the Scooter Boys turned to me and said "You need to go home and get these men away from us."

I was absolutely furious. He was acting as if me and Amy had called the men over, as if were asking for it. Oh, that phrase I hate above all others- 'asking for it', not actually spoken, but insinuated, which was good enough for me. I saw red. I exploded. I might have called him a wanker in Greek just so they couldn't understand me and so the two Horrible Men would think we were Greek and stop treating us like 'slaggy English girls'. Somehow me and Amy managed to push the Horrible Men away and walked off to find the night bus.

Honestly, that is how I remember it happening...

However, the next day when we were telling Kayt about our night, when it came to this part of the story Amy interrupted me with howling laughter and said "That's not what happened at all!"

Bemused, I listened to her side of events, which are slightly different to mine. In a Left Bank Manc First, I got Amy to write down her recollections of the event and I am going to share them with you, just to prove I am not a Corrupt and Biased Blogger:

LBM has tried to sell Saturday night as if she was unwillingly dragged kicking and screaming into a series of ridiculous events. This is not the case. At all.
(Also I would like to preface this guest entry with – yes, I am Northern and yes I did have eyelash extensions and sleep with roller in but I am NOT an extra from desperate scousewives. I am a normal colour and can read and write. LBM was not painting a very pretty picture of me.)

So…. we were in the middle of lots of fun and I had it in my head that the longer we were out the longer the fun would continue. This kind of thinking has gotten me into trouble before (see tear gassing incident).

But instead of leaving to get the N11 (old faithful nightbus) as we SHOULD have we followed the scooter boy who seemed to be interested in bedding both LBM and I. I promise this is not why we followed him. LBM and I are close. Just not that close.

I just thought he might have a nice apartment and we could ride around Paris on a scooter. Earlier in the night he had confessed to having homes in both Chelsea and St Tropez (the less naïve amongst you are now sighing and holding your head in your hands) but I believed him and wanted to see how many square feet he had.

Upon leaving the ‘meat violin’ we hovered around the scooter boys and I am afraid my brain went into overdrive as I replayed the Paris episode of The Hills in my head only me and LBM had replaced the glamorous Americans with our drunk northern selves.

I was adamant we were going back with them for a party and offered the half drunk Evian bottle of red wine in my handbag as my contribution.

At this point some men who definitely did not have houses in Chelsea and St Tropez approached us and started to undo their pants. It was here that it all went horribly wrong.

Scooter boy gallantly stepped in and told the men that we were his girlfriends and not to approach us with their genitals. He did this as he was putting his scooter helmet on and it seemed to be this gesture that caused LBM to become apoplectic.

‘He’s just going to fuck off on his scooter and leave us and he’s telling us to go away! Go on then dickhead, fuck off on your scooter. ‘

He wasn’t. He was telling us not to engage in conversation with the men as it would only encourage them and it could end badly for both of us.

So of course LBM then turned her attention to the men attempting to flash us.

‘And you can just fuck off, you’re disgusting. Je suis Grecque ! Tejgdhvijlisddjgvg!’
 (Fake Greek, LBM likes to speak ‘fluent’ nonsense to all of our would be attackers and pass it off as other languages for some reason)

It continued in this same vein for about twenty minutes by which point the scooter boys looked more scared of us than the sex offenders. She then got it into her head that I was siding with the scooter boy in attempt to go home with him for a ‘party’. Understandably she was very angry at me for this. I had no intention of having a ‘party’ with him. (Let’s just say there were some age issues) I just thought it would be a good idea to keep the men who didn’t want to assault us in good, protective spirits so we weren’t left alone in the street with two would-be rapists. The more I tried to explain this to her, the more furious she became until it got to the point where I wanted to put my own face through a window rather than listen to her anymore.

To make matters worse we had now alienated the only people who were offering to prevent us being raped.

I decided this was a good time to leave (as did the scooter boys, funnily enough) and managed to drag LBM down the street before we ended up arrested or dead or trafficked into Senegal and forced to drive cars across the border. Things like this do happen, I’ve seen Panorama.

We argued all the way down
Rue St
Jacques, all the way across the river, all the way to the bus stop. We then stopped arguing because I noticed LBM was silently crying. I felt awful then as I thought it was because she thought I hadn’t defended her in our ‘mass brawl’ (mass exaggeration if you ask me) but no.

She had lost her scarf.

So the night culminated in a lost scarf and ham crisps in bed.

I really miss Paris.

Well well well. Rather put your own face through a window eh, Amy? I don't know what night out you went on, but it wasn't the same one as me. You have made the Scooter Boys look like normal, slightly valiant, nice guys and you have made me look like a swearing, aggressive horrible cow who pretends to be Greek and speaks in nonsense. In fact, the whole thing makes look suspiciously like a bit of a Dickhead. That can't be right...

Complete fabrication, every last word. We were being attacked by hundreds of Horrible Men and I fought them all off with my karate moves- that is what I think you meant to say, Amy.

I've just realised, I didn't explain the title of these posts. 'Scuffles' is because there were lots of scuffles, obviously, and 'snazz' is because Amy said 'Pure Snazz' so much that we all started to say it. I can't believe all the snazzy scuffles happened a week ago, I've still got Saturday night to tell you about... Stay tuned for Part 3. If you can be arsed.


  1. rumour has it you saw more parisian cock than you'd bargained for hier soir? pray tell.

  2. Love both are great story tellers.

    So sorry to hear about the scarf. I know how awful it is to lose a favourite piece of's up there with being hungover and realizing there's no coffee in the house and it's Sunday so every fucking store in France is closed.

    Cant wait for the next instalment!

  3. You HAVE to include the very classy toilet experience. Kayt

  4. Kayt, I will of course mention the Horror that happened in the toilets last Saturday night! Thanks for commenting.

    Also to anonymous, rumour has it? I will put a stop to the rumours and write about what actually happened last night, only after I have finished writing about last weekend, I am running a bit behind...

  5. Crystal, thanks for commenting! I was really, really gutted I lost my scarf, I seem to be losing everything at the moment! How annoying is the Sunday shop thing?? Even in Paris it is difficult to find anywhere open, although there are places if you don't mind running around the whole city, I couldn't cope in a real French place where everything is actually shut on a Sunday!

  6. Ha ha, I love the feminism even if somewhat misguided. You seem to meet more than your fair share of rapey men though! Look after yourself!

  7. There is a lot of rapey men in Paris, might start wearing an electrified chastity belt.

  8. I am a friend and I am not waiting until you get your act together to catch up with your blog writing. Send me a facebook with ALL the gossip. NOW.
    Love Amy

  9. Ok, I've sent you a sneaky Facebook message Amy...