I speak so well – uh.

Alright motherfuckers.
You can send yourself on a flimsy aluminium wing and a prayer and come crashing down aflame amongst Greek rocks or you can rock gently across the waves and spot a whale.
I know where my chips are thrown. I trust Poseidon far more than Icarus. The friendly cetacean was an augur of a great trip to come, just popped up to blow some baleen blessing on the whole endeavour. I was gladdened.
I can’t tell you how I love to beat my own path through the continent, each choice, as trivial as where and when to take a bite or a pint in places that surely must be mundane but appear exotic and fresh to the Hibernian mind. That wears off but the initial buzz is always a minor delight. No cabins or bunks for me, sleeping bag on floor and wash in public jacks, that’s the way to travel, anything else is faggotry.
I guess I should recount what went down. The telling will be far less interesting than the living, but you all have your own lives, I’m just chronicling so I can look back fondly myself and to be honest, I do way to much to reasonably remember. Note however, I was never drunk once on this trip. Never drunk once you say? Never drunk once. And not more than once either.
Before any furtherance however let me extend congrats and thanks to Radge for rehousing Pump and keeping the hobbit hole warm. Must buy some disinfectant later today…
There are an awful lot of dogs in Paris, maybe four less than too many at one time, but enough to make you think there’s slightly more than way too few than there should be. At least that’s how it seems.
I love Montmartre, and yes, it’s because I’m a sucker for the fabulous destiny of Ms Poulain. You’d have to be dead or an Englishman not to be. I was amused to find someone had painted those little arrows all the way up the steps from the carousel up to the telescope. Les wags! Though it has to be said that the Abesses station has lost a lot of its charm while the renovations are underway. I couldn’t even find the photo booth!
Whilst breezing and keening like Phil Lynnott through Parisian Walkways I was compelled to go to the Pere Lachaise and see where the Lizard King was buried. A simple plot was at last located amongst the many mighty mausoleums. Two sparse flowers atop and an illegible legend. I’m older than him now. I wondered absently if he found what he wanted as he passed through the Threshold of Perception.
The twins Fred and France put us up for the night in the City University, sleep was not on the agenda.
In the City of Light I finally met the inimitable Florian. A guy whose fascination with onanism and sexual deviancy almost rivals my own. We hit it off. Under the tower, which had the good grace to sprinkle into coruscation every hour, a memorable evening of cider and parlour games was had. Can’t recall all the names of the merrymakers, you know the way it is, but none were busy. It was the sort of grand night that would normally have me reaching to the darkest depths of my wallet for whatever I might have stowed within twisted pieces of cellophane. But it didn’t require it. The night stood up for itself.
Eventually we got to Rennes. Big hand for Albin for leaving us custody of his apartment while he was off up to his own devilment. A fine-ass sucker of a gaff too. Great town. No bawk-bawk heads, no stomach art on the street. Every meal was gallettes crepes and cider. The good stuff now you understand. And cheap as chips too. And some things free as frites. Medieval in tone with crooked timber houses and dozens of just…chairs…on the streets, Rennes is a comfy place.
The best was St. Malo though. And I knew it would be. It’s where the frogs themselves go to paddle so there’s little need to pander to the Anglophones. This is what I prefer; a little bit of immersion makes a holiday. I can’t be just be scowing snack boxes and inquiring ‘Do. You. Speak. English? Where are les jacks?’ of perfectly intelligent people. Call me a snob if you dare but I cringe at that shit.
And so luckily I saw hardly any of that. Ah St. Malo. It’s a place I’d like to die.
Clear and deep water that’s cold enough to remind you you’re alive but warm enough to keep you that way. Watch out for the medusae though. Fantastic rocks that lend themselves well for scarpering up and rappelling down. G was her mad self, industriously smashing rockpool limpits with a stone so that shrimp would come out and feed on the displayed innards. Patiently she would wait until grasping one foolhardy arthropod; then it was the lighter for it. A few seconds of squealing in incandescent pain then the ass would be cracked and the meat slurped down. She’s so primal. Rar.
“Come to my barbecue my darling my dear,
picking a chicken with me”
And along the barbican, the whole town is revealed as a promontory jutting out into the Atlantic surrounded by massive, ancient walls whose most legendary protectors and romantic idealists are entombed in the encircling rocks not far out, and reachable at low tide. A deep sense of history and pride is palpable, enclosed and condensed.
I will speak no more of St. Malo; it won’t and couldn’t be the same for you.
The rest of the time was spent in Rennes, and never a boring second was registered in my mind. Not a millisecond. I have never been so constantly unbored. The food was unspeakably good and every sitting was lavish and extravagant yet laughably easy on the pocketbook. I envy the French for their bande dessinee. We, and the Americans too, have nothing on them. I thought I was the man when it came to knowledge in the field but it turned out I was but a bald-armpit novice. And unlike here there is no ridiculous stigma attached. The attitude is spot on. The stuff is true art and appreciated as thus. I could have wept when I saw the endless shelves and rows and columns of hardbacked joy been leafed through and bought by schoolboy, van-driver, businessman, punk, Goth, athlete alike. Surreal.
Did you know that you were not allowed to wear shorts to a French swimming pool. Hmm, indeed! I tried and was whistled at. You are required to wear Speedos. And I was given some, well it was more of an elastic band about 3 angstroms across. You see the male genitals must be visible at all times in a state of relaxation in an effort to keep perverts out of the pools. If anybody becomes visibly excited then they are netted, removed from the piscine and presumably, executed.
I thought this was an hilarious state of affairs, until of course it was deemed a diverting game by another to try and coax some steel into my rod. Only deep meditation on how Bella Emberg’s inner thigh must taste saved me.
Any the way, there’s too much else to go on about, and how irrelevant it will be to you. What does it matter to you about Tinette and Cassette? About pewter fee and honey wine? About how les petit canard font coin coin? It’s pointless, and so would your precious stories be to me.

On with your lives.