Jesus!! of Montreuil

Another great thing about living in France #1438 is they don’t have a Nicholas Witchell equivalent because the French executed their royal family. I tweeted that, because it’s true. There are many great reasons for living in Paris, but they all seem to cancel each other out when it’s as cold as it is right now. Freezing your arse off is absolutely no good at all, and it will no doubt affect you if you live anywhere in northern Europe or in the northern extremities of North America or [lists all the cold northern places in the world during winter]… Personally it’s at times like this where I wonder why we didn’t choose Andalusia, and once we’ve brought baby Clem up for a few years and he/she can speak French to a level that’s cute, perhaps we’ll disappear to the south where I can become a dancer in a gypsy folk troupe. The only snag with that is I’ll probably be required to take up smoking again. All the rest I can handle.

It was cold the other night when we went to see a Park in Progress performance at a large warehouse in Montreuil. I’d never been to Montreuil, which proves I’m not nearly as cool as I think I am. Russell and Lindsey hope to move there one day. In Montreuil they have a communist mayor, the rents are cheaper and there’s said to be a feeling of community, especially if you live in one of its many squats. Just on the outskirts of Paris, this fine municipal enclave is said to be the last truly bohemian stronghold in an ever increasingly gentrified Paris. Gentrification is a funny thing, because while I understand why there are people getting disproportionately angry about a couple of bearded Jedwards opening up a cereal bar in Shoreditch, I also remember living in Homerton and thinking what a dangerous shithole it was, and how it needed a bit of gentrifying before it would be safe to live there (which inevitably did happen once Hackney got the Olympics). It’s a lovely place to live now there’s been a bit of investment. I get a bit tired of people who live in Stoke Newington whining about gentrification who wouldn’t have dreamed of living there 15 years ago. I hate to see a place lose its character, and the regeneration plans those utter soulless cunts have for Soho signed off by Westminster council are just heartbreaking. Boris and the Tories have destroyed London in less than two mayoral terms. Anyway, I digress.

It was certainly cold on Saturday night, so it was perhaps even more of a shock to be confronted be a pair of bare legs and a naked vagina under a harsh spotlight. A female performer stood in such a way as to obscure the rest of her body making it impossible to make out anything other than her jambes and genitalia. It was certainly a stark (and starkers) start to a performance and immediately more than a couple of hundred spectators were made to feel like doggers. Next she revealed a main d’or like their much-vaunted Napoleon over here, and then another, and then eventually she swivelled her whole body around while some guy blew on a clarinet (heavily swamped with delay, chorus, reverb…) to reveal a face doused in gold paint. It was Moodoid’s weirdest gig yet. (I whispered this joke to Russell, and it turns out he’d made the same joke to Lindsey two minutes before. Perhaps you had to be there). After the initial shock, the night’s performances were quite a spectacle to behold, including baton twirling and Neanderthal men in their pants doing tricks with a dog. It was a fine display and free too, which is why I try to recount some of it here. Obviously even trying to relay what these people were doing is utterly pointless if you weren’t there, so why weren’t you there? Aye? Aye? Let’s go back to slagging off Nicholas Witchell on Twitter shall we? What an odious bastard Nicholas Witchell is. Do you think he arse licks aristocrats and spits on the poor? Even Prince Charles hates him. I tweeted that too.

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