Bonne année mes enfants! Apologies for the tardiness, I’ve only just got out of bed.
I left the palatial surrounds of Paris and headed back to England over the festive period, and lo and behold I discovered a terrifying land of gnashing teeth and abject misery, cast asunder by divisive rule. Privatised services don’t work, policemen can shoot you when they feel like it and patrician overlords and captains of industry don’t have to apologise any more because they don’t care what you think you little oik. EDF failed to give us electricity on Christmas Eve and some of Christmas Day, First Great Western failed to produce an appropriate train like the one we had booked for four freezing hours on a platform at Reading Station, and not even God held back, emptying his bowels and spraying the coast like a drunk urinating behind a parked lorry. I’ve resolved only to go back when absolutely necessary.
These Tories are dreadful aren’t they? They’re not even pretending to be nice any more. I suppose that’s a blessing in a way; Tony Blair not only pretended he was nice, but he also pretended he wasn’t a Tory. At least we know where we are with these cunts. As for the police, well I’m no authority but they seem to be getting pretty heavy. The last time I had any dealings with the Old Bill I was being shouted at by a Bobby with a snarling dog on match day in Tottenham. I wasn’t going to the match, I lived there for some extraordinarily illogical reason I can’t even begin to fathom now. A whole legion with batons and shields and dogs were making their way down my road, and the chieftain cochon started oinking at me discourteously.
“Get in the garden!” he screamed, like the plod in Withnail and I who tells Withnail to get in the back of the van.
I stood there, confused. My legs didn’t move.
“GET IN THE GARDEN!” he reiterated, angrier.
“B-b…” I stuttered. “But it’s not my garden.”
He thought about this for a second. Suddenly he changed his tone. “If you wouldn’t mind stepping into this garden for a moment then we can all come through and then you can be on your way, sir. Thanking you kindly.” Or something along those lines.
Anyway, I duly obstructed their path no longer. Thankfully I’m not black, otherwise he would have shot me.
Since I’ve been back in Paris, people have been tres gentille; they’ve even lightened up in the arsey boulanger for some reason (perhaps they’ve accepted the fact we’re not going back to our homeland). I buzzed the postman in this morning who ran up two flights of stairs with a package, and sweating as he was (he’s a big lad) and panting like a chihuahua, he shook my hand firmly and said “bonne année mon ami!” If there wasn’t a package between us we might have hugged. I live in a world where there are absolutes. Paris is dreamy. London is anathema to me now. Truly, it’s much easier this way.