The Paris Diaries, Chapter 5: Le Pub

Oui, oui. Paris is beautiful. But, the one thing they lack?

Pubs.

Proper fucking pubs with sticky counters and the local drunks.

Of course, if you want a refined drink over the course of four hours watching the sun rays kiss goodnight over Montmartre as it sets over the city whilst holding your significant other in a highly stereotypical circumstance, you’ll fucking love Paris.

But…I’m British. I like things predictable and easy. I want to walk into a Pub and not panic as to whether they expect me to eat. I don’t want to have to turn down yet another plate of crisps in the bid to keep me drinking. You know what keeps me drinking? My own British self-loathing that goes deep into my bones. My bitter cynicism that keeps me awake at night. My sorrow that I keep buried well below the surface of my psyche because my country survived two world wars under the premise of Keep Calm and Carry On.

No, we haven’t survived a revolution and we haven’t overthrown an aristocracy (despite what the British Red Tops like to spew about Meghan Markle) and maybe that’s why we drink in the way we do because the Royal Family still exist and the only chance we ever have at revolution is with a beauracratic vote which we form an orderly queue for. We tried the revolution through Brexit but then the children at Number 10 took over and made us look daft which sent us reeling back to where it all began in the sodding first place – Wetherspoons.

I’m also Welsh. I want to get legless in four hours or less. I want to sink three pints one after the other, fuelled by the collective loathing of those around me, and some good old fashioned banter that’s too close to the truth but that’s what makes it tragically funny. After I’m done sinking those pints and my sorrows have been blurred by an unholy amount of booze, I may stumble to the garden to smoke a cigarette that I will hate myself for in the morning because I apparently gave up last week and it’s just another thing I’m fucking shit at. I want to not have a damn clue what day it is, let alone watch another one end over the Land of my Fathers and the Mothers that raised them.

I want to get so drunk that liberty, equality, and fraternity are the qualities I find in the women’s toilets as I tell yet anoter beautiful girl that he’s a bellend and you’re too good for him.

Yes. A good old fashioned pub is what I yearn for in Paris…

and a decent cup of tea.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s