EVEN THE ANARCHISTS WEAR LIPSTICK HERE

It’s the summer and a window of opportunity was taken. My friend from Montreal was going to be in Paris for one week only. We spent all day Tuesday in a studio in Glasgow town with Mr McDonald and a lovely bloke called Ian at the helm. We completed a couple of tracks, which we intend to use for our future album recordings. Of course, it was a cracking day outside while we worked our arses off indoors.
I had to leave a little early as I had yet to pack even a pair of socks for my trip. This was my first to Paris and I had little idea of how hot it was going to be. Being a very fair skinned young gent, I naturally packed away enough sun cream to cover the Eiffel tower twice over, but Jesus, the heat. On arrival I waited for my good friend at the Opera metro watching exasperated scooter drivers gesticulating wildly at the intrusive cars. A lot of honking and swearing amidst the heat. I always could understand why much “civil unrest” occurs in such heat, I know I can certainly become a little cranky when the mercury rises.
My friend found me and we headed to Montmartre to check out various well-regarded and hugely expensive patisserie and confiserie establishments. My friend works as a pastry chef in Montreal and was therefore very much at home talking (in French) with the proprietors of these gloriously smelling shops whilst I sort of hung around trying to remember how to say things like “je voudrais des timbres” and other useful phrases I learned at school. In the evening there was, of course, wine and there were fireworks. July 14th, Bastille day. The town goes a bit nuts and in the evening I saw a drunk Parisienne grinning like an idiot whilst trying to indulge others with his small bottle of vodka, he was unsurprisingly ignored by the families flowing by him on their way to check out the light show. Poor wee guy, we heard a bottle smash as we turned a corner.
The next day we ventured into the salubrious Cimetiere du Pere Lachaise. A graveyard for rich, famous folks. If the band were to ever make enough dough then I will probably book a place there for myself. We couldn’t find big Jimbo (Mojo Risin’) but contented ourselves with reading the poetry on big Oscars vault. On leaving the cemetery, an old drunk guy garbled something, which sounded very poetic, to my pretty female companion. Something about fantastic beauty and smooth skin. Girls, come to Glasgow and an old Jakey may ask, “how’s about it doll?” Just say no. The sun beat down onto us until I became in danger of turning into a big walking, ginger lobster.
We walked through a park, saw the Eiffel tower, stood under the Arc de Triomphe and drank on the street. All very well, but believe me when I tell you that we found not one bleedin’ charity/thrift shop. What’s that about? Anyway, we drank more wine and later my companions made me eat most of a huge gateaux, later I felt sick. Jocks abroad!
Earlier on, my friend told me that she had been feeling wary wandering the streets of Paris as she felt her attire to be under scrutiny from well-dressed Parisiennes, besides, a friend in Quebec had once told her that in Paris “even the anarchists wear lipstick.”

Lee