Week 10

Week 10
30.03.08

You’d think I’d be upset, or a little sad this week,
Memories of Northampton perhaps causing me to weep.
But with a mate visiting me on Friday my mood was always sky high,
Rather than flooded with tears my eyes remained fairly dry.
Work was very slow, time was in no rush,
But this meant I spent all day browsing the internet for stuff.
I don’t mind the quiet days I spend them talking to Yoann,
Who’s as close as it gets to being my French wingman.
He often breaks out in a laugh at something stupid that I’ve said,
I try and brush it off but my face turns scarlet red.
Whether it’s my pronunciation or just a grammar mistake,
My confidence is substituted by embarassment and hate.
But I always have the last laugh because if he goes too far,
I’ll speak nonsense in English and I’ll say it far too fast.
I’ll invent neologisms that he could never understand,
Or just to prove a point I’ll use cockney rhyming slang.
Normally we just have a laugh and piss-taking is rare,
But the odd humbling from time to time helps my French out to be fair.
Allchurch arrived on Friday, we went to a nightclub on a boat,
Batofar’s well known despite being quite remote.
Docked up along the Seine, somewhere in arrondissement 13,
This little boat bobs up and down and is part of the music scene.
We got chatting to some ladies from the United States,
One of them was rather fit but the others weren’t that great!
They told of us America so I cracked an exchange rate joke,
If they’d have hailed from Texas perhaps they’d have slit my throat.
But as it turns out they decided to leave before the minimal began,
Just as well considering they were massive freak folk fans!
Batofar was pretty sweet and a new venue for me,
Although Allchurch is so cool he’d been there previously.
The stereotype of England must be far worse than I thought,
Since once we’d got in the taxi the driver dished out sick bags that he’d brought.
He realised we were English and assumed we would be sick,
The fact that we were both sober meant nothing to this dick!
The following night we were more relaxed and the evening had a different feel,
We returned home after a weird night out and quite an odd ordeal.
But a night with drunkards and gays - will never go to plan,
Especially when Graham Allchurch, is your diminuitive wingman.
A meal in Bastille went slowly, I was told a girl’s life story,
She went from start to finish unconcerned that her life might bore me.
From there we went to a dungeon, a hellhole of a place,
Full of strange dodgy people matched only by their bad music taste.
The night was full of promise, we left for some dirty dubstep,
But arrived in the middle of nowhere at a club I would rather forget.
So we walked down Boulevard Magenta, a street John McClane would rather avoid,
Since it’s packed with tramps and gangsters and a handful of deluded rude boyz.
But we got back safe and sound and tucked in to a bowl of porridge,
And reflected on a wonderful weekend that was quirky if at times horrid!