Holi-days 10 and 11: Gay Paris. Which sounds silly if you pronounce it "gay pa-ris" rather than "gay pa-ree". Paris is the one city visited on the coach that I have been to before, albeit many years ago and not independently. So it was pretty much like going there for the first time. Possibly, nay, undoubtedly the most famous landmark in Paris is the Eiffel Tower. Here I am at its base:
I took that one myself. Nearly got the whole tower in. Nearly. I think it's painted in "Eiffel Tower Brown". I don't remember ever seeing that one in small metal tubs in model shops, but that could be because I have never painted a scale model of the Eiffel Tower. Thinking about it, that would be a real bitch to assemble - all those tiny little struts and beams. Maybe ideal for the Strange Ones who build things from matches.
Paris also has much art, much of which is in The Louvre, former palace to the French Monarchy. The Louvre is a big place. 800km long, and it would apparently take more time than there ever will be in the universe if you drove round it and spent a half second looking at every work of art. Even if you drove on a motorbike. A fast one, like James Bond would have. Hidden in there somewhere is the Mona Lisa, a painting of a woman with bad hair. When we were there, they weren't letting people take photos of it for some reason, even without a flash. I tried to take one anyway (see, I told you I was a rebel) but a security man rushed over and physically pushed my camera hand away and made us move on. Utterly pointless thing to take a photo of, as there are perfectly good pictures of it all over the web. Here's a huge one. But I mean, really, look at that hair. Hasn't she ever heard of conditioner? Bet she smells too. They probably called her "Smelly Lisa" at school.
On the second night, we drove over to Montmartre for a French Cabaret. Here we are outside the Moulin Rouge:
Before going on this holiday, I hadn't realised that the Moulin Rouge was a real place. I thought it had just been made up for the over-excitable movie. But evidently not, as my camera does certainly not lie. For all I know though, it could have been just a facade, with nothing behind the windmill. For we went instead to The Nouvelle Eve just down the road. Cabaret was fantastic. We were sitting near the stage so I was able to experience the twin delights of excellent steak combined with topless pretty girls dancing just metres away. It's not easy eating steak without looking at it. Plus, there were other acts too - the kind of things you used to see on The Paul Daniels Magic Show on a Saturday night. Unless you don't live in the UK. Dunno what you used to watch.
Later on, I was "chosen" to go on stage and take part in a dancing competition with three late-middle aged American gentlemen. I was clearly the best dancer. I even finished with a combined star jump and 180 degree rotation. Pure class. I was glad I'd had a few glasses of wine beforehand though, a bit of French courage. I reckon I'd have won too, if more of our group had come along to the cabaret and then cheered dead loud for me. It was actually less scary than it could have been as the bright stage lights meant that I could barely see anyone in the audience. It was like being alone, dancing around my living room to ABBA. Probably. On the negative side, I realise now that means the audience would have been able to see me really well (the lucky, lucky, people).
But eventually, all topless girls must come to an end, and it was time to head back out into the barmy Paris night for some last-night drinks. And it was the end of a totally fan-dabby-dozy holiday. Well, it wasn't really the end, as I decided to stay in London the following night rather than going straight back to York. One final set of beers and some tearful goodbyes. But then that really was the end. So Goodbye, Auf Widersehen, Ciao, Au revoir, it's been swell guys, stay in touch.
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