Paris

This week I enjoyed Paris.

Me and my girlfriend have been going out for 18 months. Our previous holidays have involved a night over in Brighton and a day trip to Swanage. A cynic would describe these seaside sojourns as embarrassingly outdated; I prefer to call them romantic homages to a fading British tradition. I love the seaside. My love of the seaside dates back to childhood when my brother and me would go there and visit my nan. Seaside children don’t know how lucky they are to have a beach as a playground. They forget how fortunate they are to have it; I guess in the same way taxpayers are with the NHS. My brother and me were never like that. We knew we had two weeks to make the most of sand and sea and we intended to dig every inch of it and swim every mile of it.

Swanage

I don’t think I’m exaggerating when I say my swimming broke records. Not for distance. But for proclivity. I would be in and out of that water – come rain or shine- a hundred times a day. You see, I love the idea of the ocean but my body simply isn't built for it. I would always come out shaking like a leaf, teeth chattering and clattering, crying for the towel like a petulant tennis player. As soon as I was dry though, I would forget my physical anguish and jump straight back in. I like to think David Walliams saw me as a child and the memory of my tenacity inspired him to undergo his Comic Relief challenge.

However I do appreciate that swimming in the rain isn’t to everyone’s tastes. Even if the phrase is close to the beloved Gene Kelly musical. So when my girlfriend asked me to go to Paris with her, I romantically didn’t say no.  There were two reasons why it was going to be a lovely weekend: one – it was my girlfriend’s birthday. Two – her friend was going to be performing there in Singin’ In The Rain. Her friend Clare is phenomenally talented and been in West End productions of Hairspray, Shrek and Charlie and The Chocolate Factory, but this was going to be her biggest role to date -we couldn't miss it. Joining us on the trip would be friend’s Zoe and Bev with their significant others, Gareth and Tariq. Gareth was getting a later train so the five of us met early and had champagne in Kings Cross’ Champagne Bar. As enjoyable as it was, I did feel a little bit decadent sipping bubbles in the afternoon. After last week’s blog on inequality, here I was the archetypal champagne socialist. I ignored my class guilt though when I surmised even Marx must have had a bottle of plonk to celebrate his Manifesto getting published.

"We're in it together."

Arriving in Paris, we headed to a lovely seafood restaurant that Zoe had booked. Now our party was a difficult one to cater for: Harriet is gluten-free and Bev has a nut allergy. As good as Zoe’s French was, nut allergy simply does not translate. Despite Bev saying no nuts, the waiter proceeded to list every nut one by one: “What about peanuts?” What about almonds?” “What about walnuts?” To which Bev would reply each time, “No nuts.” It felt a bit like a surreal Vic and Bob sketch where the catchphrase was “No nuts.”

"No nuts."

The next morning we went to see the sights. The first one on our list was the Eiffel Tower. If you haven’t heard of it, it’s a building that couples are photographed in front of to prove they’re in love. If you haven’t got a picture in front of it, then you legally can’t get married. It’s true. I was once at a wedding where they did the, “Do you know any lawful reason why these two people can’t be married?” And a lady stood up and said, “They’ve never been to the Eiffel Tower.” The whole congregation gasped like a plot twist and the priest threw out the marriage.

Next we went to the Louvre. I had absolutely no ambition in seeing the Mona Lisa. The Mona Lisa didn’t really become famous until a museum employee stole it in 1913. If anything we should be going to see a painting of the thief because he’s done more to make that painting a phenomenon than da Vinci. Art should be observed and pondered; it shouldn’t involve a queue. The Louvre doesn’t even do a fastrack so you can get quickly to the front. No wonder Lisa’s got a wry look on her face: probably thinks we’re daft fighting over her like that.

Press conference for the Mona Lisa.

In the evening we went to the Théâtre du Châtelet to see Clare play Kathy Seldon, the lead female in Singin’ In The Rain. Due to the popularity of the performance (musical theatre is less ubiquitous in Paris so is hugely popular when it arrives), we had to sit separately: the boys were sat up with the Gods and the girls were sat down with the mortals. Initially I was worried I wasn’t going to see anything but by craning my neck into the downward duck I found my view wasn’t so bad. Ashamedly, I’m not familiar with the film. I like old black and whites so I’m not sure how I’ve missed it. The story chronicles the rise of ‘talkies’ in place of silent cinema. Two actors have to adjust to this transition: Don Lockwood, a grafter who got himself to Hollywood via his bootstraps; and Linda Lamont, a talent vacuum with the voice of one. Over the course of the story, Clare’s character Kathy becomes Don’s love interest and muse, inspiring him to put art over commerce. Her performance as Kathy was brilliant. She dances, sings and acts brilliantly. To be good at one thing requires hard work; to be good at three requires complete dedication. It’s really pleasing to see that being rewarded with sell-out crowds. Afterwards, we went up to her dressing room. Unfortunately, everyone was lovely and civil; I was hoping for backstage jealousies and acute neurosis like in Birdman but it wasn’t to be.

Clare in action.

We then hit the town and went into a bar for drinks. By this point we’d all been up since nine and had walked the width and breadth of the city. I was a spent force. I needed a pick me up. Rich, Clare’s boyfriend, instigated a round of shots. I’m a big fan of tequila so I ordered a flaming one - because I’m a big fan of spectacle too. Ended up having three of them. I slept pretty soundly that night.

The next morning, we went to the Notre Dame Cathedral, which my lovely girlfriend told me is famous for having two clocks that were once set to different times. The reason for this was to apparently confuse the devil if he returned to Earth. I have since looked this up and found no evidence of this. Is this true anyone? I do like the idea of the Devil being hell-bent on destruction then on seeing two different times, thinking: “Well, there’s no point now. If I’m going to destroy the earth, I want to know what time I’ve done it. (Shaking fist) Bloody clocks always stand in the way of world domination.”

The Devil hates it when the clocks change.

Lastly, we went to a gluten-free restaurant that Zoe had organised. For Harriet this was manna from the Gods. So many times she has her choices limited but here she had free rein to eat her fill. I never thought wheat substitutes could make me so happy, but seeing her sweet face beam was a lovely sight.

I had a great time in Paris. It’s not as good as the seaside, but it's a close second.