Ah. Let's cast our minds back to Mizmiz Man for a moment (who would often use the above phrase to open up a romantic dialogue about NOT MEETING UP, in case you didn't get the connection and why would you, unless you're reading this from a little perch inside my head).
Only this weekend somebody asked me at a BBQ- after I'd finished telling them about how I came to live in Paris for three years*- "Tell me about your sexy Parisien lover then!"
And it was sad, so sad, because as we all know, there were no sexy Parisien lovers for me. Only strange men, who asked me if my daddy was hairy and Smelly Charvver who wore a puffa jacket, although actually- and LET US NEVER FORGET- it was smelly as in 'he smelt lovely'.
The Cheryl Cole of Paris, he was. On account of the fact he had cute dimples and couldn't read or write.
(I'm not saying Chezzer can't read or write- me and Kayt used the comparison to suggest he was cute as a button and not from a privileged background.)
(I'm sure Chez can read and write just fine.)
(But it probably isn't her strongest asset.)
(She's a good looking kid, she doesn't need to worry about literacy.)
It's a shame Mizmiz Man never got the chance to show me his true, horrifyingly bizarre colours in the privacy (or sinister seclusion, depending on which way you look at it) of his bedroom.
Am I being crude?
There's a reason, honestly.
I was watching a TV program before about the British Empire and I got a bit hot and bothered about their description of a 'fat, greedy, powerful sultan', then the presenter who had MASSIVE HANDS was picking up a long sword and saying things about manhood and strength and I thought 'This is bloody obscene! What are the BBC playing at?' and then I realised...
I've got Mass Boy Hysteria.
(If you don't know what it is, read up here quickly- there's a strong possibility you might have it!)
It's hit me later this year, I think the teeny tiny exposure to menfolk I had when I first moved to London kept the M.B Hysteria at bay, but now it's come over me all of a sudden and- It's very distracting miss, I can't concentrate.
I would get the old Casual Sex Motorbike out for a spin, but I can't find it.
Seriously, I've been running around whipping the dustsheets off bike-shaped objects, but each time there's just a pile of crap underneath, shaped like a C.S Motorbike but not actually any bloody use to me.
Last weekend we went for a meal for Lauren's birthday and afterwards we went to a pub in Bethnal Green called The Palm Tree and it was GREAT- really traditional, like something out the first ever episodes of Eastenders, carpets on the floor and old cockneys at the bar.
There was a really old swing band playing and me and Claire fell for the main singer in a big way, even though he must have been in his seventies... He still had it.
HE STIILL HAD IT!
He was so charming and cocky, you could tell he was a #LAD when he was younger. We might have, erm, yelled out TOP LAD quite a few times throughout the night, while we spun around the dance floor with our Guinness. (I feel as if I should mention Anna and Beth in case they're reading as they were both there but they just weren't into the whole yelling TOP LAD thing as much as we were.)
The next day I was at a BBQ, hosted by somebody from my internship (yes, the very same BBQ where I was asked about my Parisien lovers) and somebody told me The Palm Tree is a gangster pub! It's full of ex-cons and old gangsters who used to work for the Kray Twins. (Google them if you don't know and if you're interested in London crime... If you are interested, may I ask why?)
Obviously we're going back there as soon as possible, but I won't be leaping about shouting TOP LAD this time- gotta play it cool.
It's weird because earlier on in the week, Lauren texted me the plan for her birthday meal and she said
it was booked for 7pm, for seven people, plus I could get the number 277 bus to the restaurant. She knows how much I read into the number seven. It was going to be my lucky night, I knew it...
And guess what.
It wasn't my lucky night, it was my lucky day, because at my internship I got called into a meeting and the meeting was about offering me a job!
I GOTTA REAL JOB!
im ded gud @ witring!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
In three months I'll be a 25 year old 'junior' which I'm not sure will have a nice ring to it, but at the moment I am just so happy to have a real job!!
And a writing job.
On my way to work that morning, I was a little bit hungover and I was crying as I walked to the tube, just bawling my eyes out because a song came on that reminded me of Paris.
I still miss Paris, but I've got a job in London now and so that's what I'm doing for the foreseeable future.
As Britain's hottest up and coming politic talent Bez from the Happy Mondays (currently running for MP if you didn't know) would say:
*I must say this sentence about four times per social engagement and NOBODY can stop me. I will only stop saying it after I've moved somewhere more exotic than Paris and- for someone from Fallowfield who has pehaps lived in Stockport for a small, very brief period of time [but that is my secret shame which must never leave this blog]- that will be hard because Paris is DEAD EXOTIC.