A giraffe iz taller zan a panzer, no?

I told you I was moving to Paris! But I tell you another thing; there`s gonna be a lot of typos on the old Valley for a while as I adjust to this damn French keyboard layout. Deal with it.

Living in and out of my suitcases at the moment. Haven`t had a moments rest since last thursday what with orientating myself in the new job, putting food in my mouth and kipping on a different floor or bed each night. Bit of a pain in the bollocks but to be expected, and i,ve been down in Chartres too, as idyllic a French country chateau as you`re gonna get;

Fuck this keyboard is laborious: This country is mad in the fucking head. All anyone does is go on strike. Right when I need them too. The trains; the busmen, the hoors, the balloonists, they just down picks at the drop of a beret about four times a week, and the frogs just shrug and accept it. They know full well how to surrender says you wha?

I'll tell you a few more observations: The beggers on the metro are gas. I spend Most of my time scuttling through that arid warren of whooshing stank. anyway the bums come on and in true french style make a prentation to the passengers giving their name, age, and explain why they are down on their luck. That finished, they take any questions there might be then proceed to move through the carriage collecting money. Fuck all money at that. Speaking of the Metro, there are posters all over the place for STEVEN SEAGAL: IN CONCERT! yes. The same bloke. He' s a famous singer over here for some stupid reason. You wanna see the posters. Disgraceful. Though the meks over here love him. Everyone is a mek here. mek, mek, mek. thatès all you ever hear. it means guy; when two meks get drunk and have a fight is it a mek war? Very Manga indeed.

Right, I;m sick to me stones with this computer, I'm off for now. Have an exam on Monday of all things. The food is great though, even the Quick Burgers, but fuck it I,ll tell yis again.

Oh, and I saw Da Vinci Code. It was fucking shite in French, never read the book but from what I could make out Tom Hanks is queer in it? Fuck thAT!

Sharif don't like it!

You know who are sad bastards altogether?

Blokes who spend a lot of time hanging around with women. I mean, more women than men. Now before I get baled out of it, allow me to qualify-

I DON’T mean lads who have friends who are women.

I DON’T mean lads who enjoy the company of women.

I DON’T mean to say that there’s ANYTHING wrong with women. I love them in fact.

Love them. Got that?

Now. The type of bloke I’m bitching about here was best exemplified by a chap I saw down my favourite local Greasy Spoon the Take Five Café just behind Trinity; near the National Gallery do ya.

I was sat there happily, very happily actually, munching down my chilli and chips when this fuck comes up with three birds and sits down and proceeds to motormouth it throughout my entire gustation.

And, quick and ruthless (and probably unfair) character assessor that I am, it rapidly occurred to me that he was the world’s biggest cock and utterly insecure in every conceivable way.

The noise of him, he wasn’t listening to anything his female friends were saying but just trumping each story every time in a loud, bombastic, ignorant and painfully dishonest string of boastful balderdash.

Fucker punctuates this by commenting negatively on practically every person who walked by outside. He used the following words and phrases far too much, and more often than not, redundantly

– LITERALLY,

– BlATANTLY

– HONESTLY

– I SWEAR

– SO, DOES NOT

Oh, and he seemed to have to prefix most of his shite-talk with ‘I don’t care, I..’

You see. I got the impression he was just another in a long line of arses I have met who are quiet around men, peers of their own age and background, but prefer to hang around women in which case they suddenly become hyper-confident and obnoxious. Here, they think, is an audience that will appreciate and respect practically anything I say! Let the good times roll! No, you sac. It’s just that the girls have more patience and tolerance towards your sorry ass. When you go to the jacks they call you ‘harmless’.

Anyway. That’s them.

What else, crap journalism. Namely The Star newspaper. What a stack of shit that is. Principally some moon-face called Annete O’Meara who wrote a ‘review’ of Mission Impossible 3. Actually, maybe I should put those smart-arse apostrophes around the word ‘wrote’ as well. And in doing so I did. Hmm.

So she writes her thing and it’s woeful of course, getting everything wrong and shoving in all the clichés – “It ticks all the boxes” “Should he choose to accept it” etc, and saying that Jonathan Rhys Meyers’s Irish accent is all over the place. He plays a fucking Irishman, Declan Gormley, in the film you dull bint. Although, that’s probably just the Irish thing of Irish audiences hating to hear Irish accents in a Hollywood movie. It’s why they couldn’t give Alexander a chance as soon as Miley showed up on screen. Aside from all that though. The thing that galled me the most was that she finished it with this staggeringly vapid and unoriginal bleat – “This movie is like Ronseal paint – it does exactly what it says on the tin.”

Jesus Christ.

Bad enough that you hear the man on the street (cunt that he is) whipping that one out every time he experience something that mildly satisfies him, but to pay a journalist to come up with that for a film review? And it didn’t come in a tin anyway did it?

Right. Time to positive it up again after those gripes –

Cool stuff:

- I just bought Stadium Arcadium, I don’t care what anyone says, they are, and always will be, my favourite band.

- Shakira will open the World Cup ceremony in Germany. Get that done.

- Just six euro to rent three DVD’s from the World Cinema part of Chartbusters for three nights. That’s where the most violent and nudity packed movies are! But, eh, y’know subtitled, so I’m actually being high-brow.

- Leaving the curtains open when you go asleep, the sunlight wakes you up sweetly at 6 with plenty of time to go. Refreshing. Add to that my new phone has a great alarm, a lot like Link opening a treasure chest in Zelda. Happiness.

That’s your lot for the minute.

In other news, I’m moving to Paris for good.