Paris Travel Blog› entry 1 of 1 › view all entries
30th April 2009
Current Mood: Romantic
Category: Travel and Places
This time I was heading back to France and what with me having to fly out from East Midlands Airport, some 2 hours north of London, I was once again faced with the prospect of being late for my early morning flight. That said, I had the Oslo experience to learn from and wisely decided to jump on The Canary and head up to the airport the day before to spend the day walking around Nottingham like a homeless person, only better dressed. Nottingham is also the home of the people’s hero Robin Hood, who stole from the rich and gave to the poor. Nowadays we call then MP’s and they’ve upped the ante to stealing from the rich and the poor and giving back to fuck all afterwards. Nothing really much to report on Nottingham except that I saw Polish restaurant that was closed. I can see the Nottingham Times local newspaper headline now: POLISH PEOPLE TAKE DAY OFF WORK!
Early next morning I was heading back towards London, only this time I was several thousand feet in the air and had no intention of landing until I got to Paris – unless of course any terrorists on board the flight had other ideas. Thankfully not and once escaping the plane I was onto a bus and then tube before hooking up with Sanja and Ivana somewhere in the city of Paris.
To say Paris has a few museums is like saying ‘I’m a little bit pregnant’ – a right bloody understatement is it. What the fuck a city needs with over 100 museums is beyond me, not even the most enthusiastic Japanese tourist on a diet of Red Bull and cocaine will be able to get through that lot in one holiday. And it’s not like they’re amazing museums either – I mean who the fuck wants to go see a museum on the history of the French Postal Service? Or a museum on perfume scents – if I wanted that kind of crap I’d visit the fragrance department in my local Boots store where I can at least buy the shit if I like it. And of course on anyone’s list of ‘Must Do’s’ in Paris is a visit to ‘Musee du Stylo et de L’ecretire’ where you can look at some writing utensils. There’s even a museum dedicated to the Paris sewer system where you can go underground and wander around like a French tramp looking for something to eat. So yeah, Paris had lots of museums but most of them are crap – a bit like that sewer one come to mention it.
One thing I’d heard of Paris is that the place stinks due to the stupid amounts of dog shite planted on the pavements. Like a Yankee soldier walking his way through a Vietcong minefield you gotta watch where you place your foot before you step on something that can have nasty consequences. In fact I’ll take the bloody mine field any day – at least you swap the humiliation from having your mates all laugh at you after you’ve stepped in dog shit to covering them in all your intestines and shit as you explode over them. Anyroad back to the topic, the Paris pavements were being dumped with 16 tonnes of the dog discards everyday – that’s the same weight as two African bush elephants. Every single day too! And although up to 11 million Euros was being spent each year to clean the shite up still over 600 people a year were being admitted to hospital for slipping over the crap. So this is what I was letting myself in for – and me without holiday insurance too, but when I arrived in the city there was hardly a crap to stand on. Either the Paris authorities decided to cull every dog in the city, which they never cos I saw loads of the mongrels, or the city has had a massive cleanup. And who says 11 million Euros was a waste of money? And to conclude general public opinion, Paris doesn’t smell like the gents toilets down the Queens Head pub in Wealdstone and nor does it have so much dog crap on the streets that would even make the residents of an Indian shanty town throw up in disgust – the city is actually very clean.
At the Cimetiere du Pere Lachaise we visited the grave of The Doors front man Jim Morrison, who in my opinion was the greatest ever Elvis impersonator to have ever lived. Sure you have all these Las Vegas nutters who in an attempt to become The King go as far as to have plastic surgery, but old Jim Morrison raised the bar by becoming a famous sex icon himself. And just like Elvis himself, Jim threw it all away by going on a drugs and burger binge that eventually led to an early grave – take note future Elvis impersonators. At the tomb of Victor Noir, whoever the fuck he is, a fence protecting a bronze statue of the fella was dismantled after women protested at not being able to reach the guys knackers to give a rub. Legend has it that after rubbing his crotch the woman in question shall enjoy a better sex life or become pregnant. Naturally a bloke like me is going to take advantage of such daft women, so early one morning before the cemetery had opened I sneaked in, removed the statue, and once I had applied 2 bottles of fake tan I casually stood naked where the statue was moments earlier. This Victor bloke had died in 1870 so it’s not like the women tourists know what he looked like. So anyway I can’t say for sure if any women’s sex life has improved, but one thing I am sure on is with all the knacker rubbing that day my sex life fucking rocked!
Then of course there’s the Eiffel Tower which was erected in 1889 and only 20 years later was almost knocked down – until some day somebody thought it would make a good platform for their transmitting antenna. So the tower remains. And once my Ebay order for a 288 mile length of cable arrives I’ll be connecting my TV aerial up onto the tower and finally will have decent reception in my bedroom.
We also visited some catacombs that had stacked up literally thousands upon thousands of skeletons in an unused mine. There was a sign at the entrance warning us that if we got caught stealing any bones we were going to be taken to court and prosecuted. So it was that we could either not steal them or conceal a skeleton up my anus if we did decide to steal one. His name is Winston and he’s sat in my room with a magazine in his skeleton hands. He hasn’t got a head though. I mean come one, I thought I did well to smuggle an adult skeleton up my ass without having to fit the skull up there and all.
This was a paragraph involving a sex story, but out of respect for the other person involved I shall not post it. That said, I must be the only person to visit The Louvre and not see one single painting - though I do recommend a visit to their disabled toilets of you get the opportnity.
This pretty much sums up my experience on Paris. For me it’s more of a city to roam around and look at things rather than to get up to things. This is probably why it’s romantic, cos as there’s fuck all to do in terms of activity it leaves no option but for partner and partner to engage in conversation with each other – and that sort of thing leads to marriage proposals.