mardi 18 janvier 2011

The babes of Paris

So, Paris is crammed full of mega-hot babes right. And I'd not been in Paris for long before I developed a game that I can play with myself (well, not in public--) Well, actually yes, in public, (that was just an unintentional pun that I didn't want to delete) cos its most prime location is the Metro, hence its name: Cruising the Metro.

The rules of the game are thus:

You're like in the metro or whatever. The RER is also good cos the stops aren't as frequent but I fear there aren't as many honeyz headin' in the direction of the banlieue. So anyway, I've not done this for a while, because until recently I've been in a happy, loving relationship. Now, don't worry, this blog is not about to deteriorate into some ranting bullshit about how I just got dumped. Cos, I like totally didn't anyway?
ANYWAY, one of my most priceless memories was in early October, and it was early in the morning, well, commuting time. I'm fairly sure I was hungover and it was a Thursday. A couple of stops into my journey,
a chick who looked like a dude got on. "Cool," I thought to myself, "now to make exaggerated and repeated eye contact as I am wont to do, for I am, after all, a Raving Insatiable Dyke". So I did this a few times, and to my delight, she seemed to be yielding to my seduction, looking back at me with that unmistakable longing in her eyes that is so very much more than simply a "gay gaze". By this point I had become so excited that I had to stop listening to my iPod, for the distraction was quite too much to handle. She was 18, or 20, and had hair in the style of Robert Smith c.1984, i.e. before it went too crazy and he got too fat. Suffice to say, sexy as fuck. Now, a bit further on, the person sitting next to me alighted. Chick moved towards the empty seat. I could hardly contain myself. Literally. I didn't. But. Alas. To my abject despair, SOME FUCKING MORON BOY SAT THERE FIRST. And Reader, I can honestly say that never in all my long, lonely years of raving insatiable dykedom, have I ever so passionately wished for somebody else's untimely passing. Chick shifted back to her original position, clinging to one of the poles in front of me. I took a few more forlorn glances at her, before she left me a few more stops later and disappeared into the throng! At length I heaved a sigh, stuck my 'Pod back on, and continued on my trajet de tragedie towards work of doom.

So I mean like it happened again today. This time it was actually at the RER station. Saw this proper buff babe. She kinda looked like a more attractive version of myself, if I'm honest. A more French version of myself. Her hair was more controlled, more sleek and her face was so angular, so androgynous. God, I mean, I really dig that shit. So natch I followed her up the platform, stealing conspicuous glances every few moments. Didn't look at me once until she turned to face me full on, she was a comfortable distance away so it wasn't too alarming, more like quite exciting. I followed her onto the train like some fucking psychopathic stalker from hell. And nothing else worthy of note took place. And it was at that moment that I thought this thing, that I think every now and again: What if dykes were more like fags? I mean, if I were a fag, and if she'd been a fellow fag, there's like, a 50% chance we'd have been banging the shit out of each other in the bathroom of the nearest bar at the next station, right? But alas, no of course that didn't happen cos she was a fucking nobhead arrogant dyke who didn't want to know! So now I'm here talking shit about my feelings instead of what I'd be writing if I were this fag character I created:
"Totally gay gazed this fag on the RER today. We looked at each other then we got off the train at the next stop in the middle of the banlieue, and went to this proper old man bar. I gave him some poppers (I always carry poppers cos I like, get laid so often) and then I banged the shit out of him in the bathroom. It was fucking awesome. Hope something similar happens tomorrow". That's litch what it'd be like, I think.

mardi 11 janvier 2011

Gay as in Shit Creperie Musicale

It was back in November that I visited this place when my friend Emily came to visit me. It's right near where I live and I walk past it several times every day. It didn't take me long to notice the handmade gay rainbow flag stuck to the door and I became intrigued, trying to look inside and suss out the clientele. It certainly did not seem like the sort of place you'd go alone, unless you were perhaps dating or fucking one of the staff. Not that I'd go there alone anyway cos I'm far too cheap. Suffice to say, we were pretty excited about going, I mean a gay Creperie that's also a bar and often has live music, what could possibly be bad? Erm, let me count the ways:

When we got there I asked the waitress/owner/twat that we wanted to eat something, wasn't sure if we'd get shown to a table or what. She said yeah and waved her arm in the general direction of the seats as if to say "Well what are you waiting for, you cretins, sit down!" Whatever. To drink we asked for a bottle of cider. Now, everyone knows that you can get a 75cl of cider in any big French supermarket for just over a euro, in the same way that you can also buy a carton of table wine for this price, and even in the smallest epicerie in the poshest bit of Paris you'd never pay more than 4 euros, if they sold it at all. So to charge nearly 10 euros for this seemed to be fouting on our gueule somewhat. But I mean we knew that's what it'd be and is our own fault for ordering it but it adds to the shitness of the place in any case. I also asked for a glass of water that never came. I ate a salad, it was fine as far as I remember. Emily asked for steak. Natch, we asked in French, since we were in France and it's not exactly hard to ask for stuff that's written in front of you. It was then that the waitress did that twatty thing that is responding to us in English. Now, don't get me wrong, if your English is really good then I guess it's acceptable cos sometimes it really is just easier. But oh my goodness, no word of a lie this was the SHITTEST ENGLISH I HAVE EVER HEARD. I am a primary school teacher. I teach French kids how to speak English. This was the shittest English I have ever heard. She was barely even intelligible, and spoke as though she hadn't put down the hash pipe (or the bottle of cheap cider) for more than five minutes in the last twenty years. We carried on speaking in French and eventually got the point across that we wanted a medium rare steak with a side of potatoes. Or so we thought. What arrived was a very well-done steak served with spinach. Now normally I'd take great pleasure in bitching that it was wrong, but for some reason that I can't quite place, I just didn't feel like it was worth it.

Atmos: atrocious.
Value for money: shite.
Babe factor: minus a million. I wouldn't bang anyone in there with a ten-foot strap-on, pet!

Verdict: Hopefully soon it'll close down and get turned into something a little more pleasant, like a home for rabid dogs.

dimanche 9 janvier 2011

Thought of the Day

I hate Hayley Williams dykes.

First Post

So I've lived in Paris since late September, and I thought it was high time I started a blog. Admittedly I spent the first few months trying to be an International Party Chick but once I got over that I got to thinking that I needed a creative outlet that extended further than writing witty comments on people's Facebook statuses. So this is my account of what's cool to do in Paris, what I do in Paris, and what you're meant to do in Paris, from a queer perspective, natch.

Fun facts about Paris:-

a. It's the most expensive city IN THE WORLD.

b. It's the city with the highest rate of anti-depressant usage IN THE WORLD.

c. The Eiffel Tower sparkles for 5 minutes every hour, on the hour in the hours of darkness.

Well last night was a fairly typical evening. We started off in Tribal Café which is in a super-sketchy part of the tenth arrondisement.

Now, I'd never been here before but had heard good things about the free couscous. The beer was "cheap" by Paris standards, a "pint" was 3.50euros. It was Grimbergen. Now, I don't consider myself any sort of expert on Belgian beers but to me it tasted more like Grimm's Fairy Tales. That didn't even make sense but I jsut meant it was shit. The free couscous, however did not disappoint. There was chicken and everything.
Atmos: 8/10
Value for money: 9/10
Babe factor: low. Didn't see any babes. Bit of a sausage fest but nothing chronic.
Verdict: would go back soon.
After this we decided to go to Grands Boulevards. Now let me tell you something. This area is like the tackiest fucking place in the world. Imagine the curry mile, only instead of prestige curry houses, they are Wetherspoon'ses. BUT WAIT. Wetherspoon'ses that aren't even cheap. So we went to one place called James Hetfeeld's, but it could have been any bar on that strip cos they're all the fucking same shit different bucket anyway. Full of English people on extended/perpetual gap years (including but not limited to the staff), big screen TVs showing either live footy or highlights of earlier footy games (in the summer months I imagine they delve into the footy archives) and French yuppies. I'd love to delve into a French yuppie but that's not for here. The reason people like these places is thus:
a. They're (relatively) cheap. Well, if you consider 5euros for a pint of Grimm's Fairy Tales cheap then yes I suppose they are!
c. They're always busy and open very late. The colloquial French phrase to say a place is lively is "ça bouge", which means literally "it moves", which is somewhat ironic seeing as it's normally pretty hard to move anywhere in those places.
Atmos: 7/10.
Value for money: 5/10
Babe factor: low.
Verdict: will try to avoid in future and throw a gay hissy fit next time someone suggests it or any of its equivalents.
It was then that we and our wallets decided the next port of call needed to be Club Off Licence. We found an Épicerie nearby and spent what felt like an EON deciding which would be the best ripoff alcohol to buy. After what felt like an age we decided upon a TWENTY EURO 70cl bottle of Smirnoff vodka and 2 litres of Coke to wash it down. Being a group of 5 it worked out quite nicely and we found the doorway of a preschool in which to shelter and have our own impromptu version of what the Spanish lovingly term Botellón.
Verdict: Bottle of Smirnoff: 19,90euro; bottle of Coke: 3,80euro, Police car driving past and not giving a shit: Priceless, pet!
Next and final place we went to was a bar/club called Le Truskel, another place I'd heard good stuff about but never actually been. On entering it felt like what I can only describe as being in Leeds circa 2006, pretending to be straight and going to a dive such as The Cockpit. And that's not to say it wasn't enjoyable, only I wasn't quite in the right zone for it. It was also sleazy as fuck, and when you tell a drunk French man that you're gay they just say they don't mind and carry on trying to ram their tongue down your throat, which is hilarious providing you are not the the person being sleazed! Sadly, on this occasion I was. One thing  I noticed here about the boys was that a fair few of them had BO (there is really no excuse for that on a Saturday night in Paris!) and most were also scruffy as fuck. Now don't get me wrong, I have spent the best part of the last three years going out on the gay scene in Leeds, where the only people who make any effort to dress up are the posing anorexic gayboys and superfemmes. And no-one likes them, that's why they have faghags. So I can completely understand why someone doesn't feel the need to wear a stupid pair of leather shoes and a cheap polyester shirt just to get into a club, but a crap old t shirt that smells like you've been wearing it for the last 4 days lying on the sofa playing xbox and spilling potnoodle is the other extreme. Anyway whatevs, boys are gross LOL.
On another note, I got talking to this English lady who lives in Paris and was having a night out with her nineteen year old daughter before she goes back to university in Bath. They were pleasant enough, but I lost all interest in talking once they had declared that the girl, whose name escapes me, had refused to apply to any universities north of London.
Atmos: 5/10. Too gross.
Value for money: didn't buy a drink but can safely assume they were extortionate, however, the fact it was pretty much a club AND FREE ENTRY(!!!) made it fairly worthwhile. 6/10.
Babe factor: well it felt like half of Paris was crammed in here so you would definitely expect a few babes, and sure enough there were, I think I even spotted a dyke but sadly that remained unconfirmed. My main problem with these places is that there aren't very many French girls who go to them, just a lot of English girls who all look the same.
Verdict: wouldn't go back in hurry.