Wednesday, 16 July 2014

My Paris

Let's banish all thoughts of fleshy torches and sweaty, sunburnt men getting blow jobs in Magaluf (if you don't know what I'm talking about, see my last post) and cast our minds back to Paris.

The memory of that weekend is shimmering before me, but my eyes are so tired from staring at the screen as I typed my furious rant earlier that I'm not sure I can blog for long.

With no time to loose, let's close our eyes quickly and open them to see-

-me, sitting on a plastic chair in Victoria coach station, feeling a little bit drunk.

I pulled a box of couscous out of my bag triumphantly, only to discover I had lost the plastic fork somehow between leaving Marks and Spencer's and checking in.

Hell is being so hungry that you feel sick, staring at a box of couscous and deciding whether to eat it with a pen or a piece of paper.

No- hell is other people, on a coach, for nine hours.

I only took a small bag with me so I was one of the first people on- that's my top tip for coach travel, because if you have to queue up and put your bag in the luggage compartment, you lower your chances of bagging a window seat and nobody wants to be an Aisle Kyle, or a No-View Hugh.

Ok that's enough of the coach journey, it was bad enough the first time round- I don't want to live it again.

As we got to the coach station it all became familiar, the pale grey industrial buildings and that early morning Paris light. I was first off the coach and marching to the metro before most people had grabbed their bags, but it didn't help me- there was a huge queue for tickets, held up by a man in a cowboy hat struggling to understand how the machine worked.

Two Romany travellers lured away half the queue with the promise of another ticket office, but I ignored them, smug in my non-touristy knowledge that it would be some kind of scam. Just as I was beginning to worry that maybe I should have, erm, told everyone else in the queue not to follow the fake metro workers, I realised the machine only took coins and I didn't have any.

The coach station isn't far from Julia's, so I decided to walk instead, hoping there would be some kind of pedestrian crossing underneath the périphérique - there isn't.

Luckily I didn't get that far to find out, because as I rounded the corner I came to a long tunnel where the two Romany Travellers were loitering. They looked a bit sheepish as I walked past. Bloody hell what have they actually done with those twenty people they led down here ten minutes ago? I wondered. When I reached the end of the tunnel, I saw that there was in fact, another ticket office and it was open.

I bought a Ticket Jeune (3,80 euros for all day travel, amazing compared to London), asked for a pen and wished the ticket seller a good day. I realised that although my transformation into fully-fledged Parisien never happened (and was never going to) like I hoped, at least I have become a person who is Dead Good at visiting Paris.

(By the way, Julia told me that the Romany Travellers do actually have metro tickets to sell that the government gives them- I always thought it was a scam.)

On the metro I couldn't stop looking at the door handle- I felt like I'd been looking at it forever and had never stopped looking at it. I'll probably say this word a lot as I write about Paris- but it was so surreal.

I was there sitting on the metro, visiting Paris after a year away and at the same time I was sitting on the metro a couple years ago, struggling to imagine life beyond Paris and at the same time I was sitting here now, imagining it.

Maybe that dirty door handle was a bridge across space and time, or maybe it was the valium I'd taken three hours before (my friend gave me one so I could sleep through the night, but I couldn't take it until we got off the ferry in case I fell asleep and the coach left without me). Whatever the case, it was like I'd never left and like I wasn't there at the same time.

Coming up from the metro...

If I was a character in a film I'd hate myself, but I was almost overcome with the city as I reached the top of the metro stairs and saw it before me as a picture I was stepping into. It was raining softly and the streets were empty, just like the streets I used to walk through on my way home sometimes just after the sun had come up. I walked in the warm silence (and only had to look at my map once) feeling so happy and calm.

Julia's flatmate opened the door in his underpants and told me to make myself at home before going back to bed. I love Julia's apartment- I think I talked about it just before I left, but it's built around a courtyard, the hallway made of windows that let light into every room.

I had a shower and then ran out again to go and meet my old au pair family. I'd contacted them at the last minute and the mum had halted their going on holiday the night before so the kids could see me for a quick breakfast. (They were only driving to their country house, but still I thought it was nice.)

I'm so so tired, but it's been nice thinking about Paris again. I'm going to sit in the dark crying my eyes out to the Amelie soundtrack and then go to bed:



Silky Sordid Slags

DISCLAIMER: I've just been thinking about how I get a lot of comments from teenage au pairs and I don't want any young girls to read this and think I am advocating performing sexual acts in public with strangers for free drinks- I personally think that is a VERY BAD IDEA. My point is that if what this girl did is so 'disgusting' and 'dirty' why are the men not being judged in the same way?

To the person who found my blog by searching 'fucking in taffeta tube'- I sincerely hope you found what you were looking for, but I doubt it very much.

Unless (I have just been for a wee and had a thought)- you were searching for 'fucking in a taffeta tube' because you actually had sex with someone in a taffeta tube over the weekend and now you are worried the whole sordid/silky episode might have found its way on to the internet??

In that case I sincerely hope you don't find what you were looking for.

That reminds me- Today at lunch I got a bit worked up discussing a recent incident that has been in the British media...  A video is circulating the internet of a girl on holiday in Magaluf giving blow jobs to 24 men in a bar, in exchange for a cheap bottle of cava during one of those seedy sex games so prevalent on the sick-strewn strips of tacky Brit-invaded beach resorts.

There was an article in The Evening Standard this week discussing 'British identity' and the journalist compared the girl in the video to young British Muslims going to the Middle East for terrorist training. He said the girl was wrong for 'trying to please 24 men' just as the jihadists were for trying to find their own identity in terrorism.

Now- personally, I wouldn't dole out 24 blow jobs because it just ain't my style kiddo, but if I think about it logically- is putting 24 willies in your mouth isn't as bad as wanting to blow people up?

Also, the way The Evening Standard used the phrase 'please men' made it sound like she was stumbling around on her knees with cartoon love hearts flashing in her eyes, convinced one of the men was going to be so impressed with his blow job that he'd ask her to marry him.

I don't think she was trying to 'please' anyone- I reckon she really wanted the free drink and also was just really drunk. Yes, maybe after the event she was devastated because a bar full of people (and then the whole internet) saw her do something stupid and maybe she felt really sad and degraded-

In that case she's a victim and we need to make sure this kind of thing stops happening. Also, if she's a victim, then surely the men in the video should be called out as disgusting bastards and the organisers of the event should be punished?

Alternatively, maybe she actually doesn't care about the fact that she had 24 willies in her mouth and is more bothered about the fact that now, thanks to the internet, her mum might see exactly what she got up to on her drink-fulled holiday to Shagaluf?

Why do people do people find that second possibility so hard to believe? As if there's NO WAY a girl could do ANYTHING SEXUAL and not feel like a dirty evil disgusting skanky slutty slag.

You can't have it both fucking ways- either the girl is a victim and the men taking advantage are the villains in the story, or the girl is not a victim and there are no villains in the story.

She can't be both a victim and a villain, ashamed and the nation's shame, taken advantage of and deserving, punishable.

Punishable by stoning.

I'm so pissed off. Sick of girls talking about slags and sluts and 'disrespect'. Apparently if you have sex with a man you don't respect yourself... and if a man has sex with you he doesn't respect you.

At least in the sixties when women had sex outside of marriage they would get accused of being a promiscuous harlot and everyone was secretly jealous of their daring, fun social lives- now girls are labelled as mad sad drunks trying to shag their way through their terrible heartache until they drop dead alone in their tiny, damp flat full of cats and Sex and the City DVDs.

I'm glad I've taken myself out of the whole shebang, to be honest.

I have now smashed my Casual Sex Motorbike into smithereens and littered the pieces in the Thames. Some say I might have cut my nose off to spite my face and that perhaps I have been wading into the river each night, looking in vain for the broken shards so I can piece it back together again and go for a spin in the moonlight, but they can mind their own business.

Anyway.

At work I have been doing a lot of research into our new client- a very upmarket sex toy for very fashionable ladies. Unfortunately in my research I have come across some very downmarket toys for very unfashionable gentlemen and what I have found has made me rethink the whole of mankind.

I won't show photos because I actually can't bring myself to look at them again but I will give you a vague visual so you can share in my horror.

From the outside it looks like a torch, but when you take off the cap you find, not a beaming flash of light, but a hole of creepy, silicone-cushioned darkness. Yes. What you're picturing is just about right. Now I will give you the name so that the image being formed by your suffering imagination can be completed- it's not a flashlight, it's a Fleshlight.

I'm going to have a cup of tea and then I might blog about Paris.

Friday, 4 July 2014

Back to Paris

I can't say much because I'm typing this at work- I'm hanging around until my coach at 9.30pm. My coach to Paris!! I'm going back for the weekend, I booked it kind of last minute and I'm still not sure how I feel… At the moment I feel like I'm going to get there and just be hysterical all weekend, walking around the streets I used to know, touching walls and crying.

ARGH.

I'm getting the coach back Sunday night, will arrive Monday morning on my 25th birthday.

Not sure how I feel.

A Lundi!