As most people know, the people United Kingdom went to the polls yesterday, both to vote on the parties that controlled their councils, and to choose a voting system to be used in future elections where MPs are selected to represent their constituencies in the House of Commons.

Being someone who has yearned for a true democratic voting system for a while now, AV is a change that I would  welcome with open arms. Even though it’s just a small step in the direction of true Proportional Representation  voting system, it’s still the right way to go.

However, it seems that the “No to AV”/ “I Can’t Believe It’s Not Tory” campaign’s constant streams of fear-mongering, and blatant lying [something that was admitted by David Blunkett], seem to have resounded into the hearts and mind of the electorate, and it looks as though AV won’t be implemented for a while. Many people, too, have chosen just to vote no in order to deal a scathing blow to Deputy Prime Minister Nick Clegg, who, I feel, has become a scapegoat, and is being blamed for items of legislation that are simply out of his control. In fact, many Labour supporters have come out to say that Nick Clegg’s association with the YES campaign meant that they’d be a loser from the start. What an incredibly funny comment from the same people who promised that they’d install some form of proportional representation all those years ago. That, as we can see, never happened, and Britain didn’t even have a referendum on voting systems- another Blair lie that was fed to the masses in this country, just to be a votewinner.

However, the status of the parties and how I feel about the public treatment of Nick Clegg is another matter for another blog post- so here’s the bit I planned to come onto in the first place.

THE ‘EVERYONE’ BIT

As I said above, the “No to AV” campaign has spread dozens of lies and smears, using the same Tory tactics that allowed David Cameron to become Prime Minister in the first place. These lies seem to have got to several people, and I fear that these lies, as well as some other misconceptions, have  damaged the YES campaign altogether. Although there are tonnes of videos on youtube, by the electoral commission, by several pressure groups, and one even involving “Reform Cat” [for those who are really into their memes], I thought I’d do my bit, both as a Lib Dem member and a supporter of fairer votes [even though it's a tad late] to clarify some of these thoughts about AV.

AV is the most complicated system that’s ever been heard of in the world. Ever.

False. Quoting from my twitter, “AV is just the right amount of complicated- where normal people can understand it, but Tories can’t.” There isn’t really any mind-bending statistics or procedures that anyone needs to get their head around, even though the “No to AV” campaign wants you to think so.

You, on polling day, would go to your polling station and pick up your ballot paper as normal. Instead of writing an “X” in the box of the one candidate that you want to represent you, you use numbers to mark the candidates in order of preference. So you mark a “1″ for the candidate you want as first preference, a “2″ for your second preference, and so on until you get to your fifth preference.

Obviously, you can stop when YOU want to, and you don’t need to mark all five choices. If you want, you can even just mark your first choice, and leave the polling station.

After this, your job is done.

When the votes are counted, counters will see if any candidate has at least 50% of the first preference vote in order to win. If no candidate has 50%, then counting continues, and the second preference votes are counted. If a candidate still hasn’t got 50% of the vote, counting continues on the third preference votes, and so on and so forth until someone gets over 50%.

This means that the majority get fairly represented, and we don’t get typical FPTP drawbacks, including tyranny of the minority.

AV will be extremely expensive to implement

False. Ballots will still be counted by hand, and will use the same method as First Past The Post. There is no expensive equipment needed, or specialist people who can somehow read numbers instead of Xs.

AV wouldn’t be helpful to me because I haven’t got more than one choice

False. If you haven’t got more than one choice, or you don’t want to mark more than one choice, you don’t have to. You can feel free to mark a number “1″ next to your chosen candidate, fold your paper, and place it in the ballot box, if you wish.

AV would result in a coalition government every time.

False. Despite that dim-witted quote from Tory MP and chick-lit author Louise Bagshawe on “Have I Got News For You” the other week, this simply isn’t true. Although there may be a slightly higher chance of coalition governments, it certainly won’t happen every time, and the chance isn’t raised by much.

No-one cares about the voting system, anyway, duh.

False. While I’m a bit of a politics geek, and have adored looking into this sort of thing from the age of 10, it’s not just me. Louise Bagshawe, who, again, must be some sort of spiritual guide for village idiots everywhere, seemed to show a notion of no-one caring on her TV appearance. 50% of Scottish people turned out for the referendum- I hardly think that shows apathy…

The AV system will allow the BNP, and several other right-wing, weirdo-parties to come into power.

False. AV does not automatically allow the BNP party to get into power and use their malicious ways to change the country. Don’t forget that a candidate needs a MAJORITY to get elected. The BNP currently have no MPs, and  has been losing council seats, judging by the figures from yesterday’s vote. So it seems as though the BNP would lack the necessary support that it would need under the AV system.

AV is a fairer system that reflects the majority’s interests

True. As I said above, a candidate needs over 50% of the vote to win.

So there we have it. I hope I’ve dispelled a few myths and taught a lesson. At the time of writing, it seems as though the YES campaign hasn’t done the trick, and once again the Tories have managed to lie their way to victory, rendering this 1000+ word blog post useless. So once again Britain can kiss goodbye to rose-tinted dreams of steps towards Proportional Representation. If anyone knows how I’d be able to autopost this again when Britain has another referendum on AV in the year 3067, drop me a line.

A towerblock in Dundee

After lugging our… err… luggage up the stairs, where the station voice-over system decided to play an annoying, constant loop of “Passengers are reminded to use the handrails on the stairs, and to not run in the station”, in a stern, female voice, we took our first breath of the Dundee air. My girlfriend suddenly leapt into the air and swivelled round faster than a table football player. She has a massive fear of boats [even though her favourite film is, confusingly, the Poseidon Adventure], and she had just seen the nautical equivalent of hell: docked right across the road from the station was a giant, archaic ship, sails removed, but still standing proud. Upon closer inspection, it was named ‘Discovery’; rather ironically for something that didn’t need much discovering. On the way to the hotel, I began to notice something- Dundee seemed to be a city where they hadn’t managed to work the sunroof, and where everything seemed to be in black and white. As I looked into every nook and cranny that I could; spotting more and more buildings that seemed to be maliciously spat out by a concrete mixer as fully formed, gargantuan, grey bricks, I was determined that I, myself, was the most colourful thing that existed in Dundee.

The hotel itself seemed to be a large dollop of grey, with the Hilton logo attempting to be blue, but only becoming a

The Firth of Tay- I've added a bit of colour

dark sepia tone. The strange thing is that the Firth of Tay, one of those giant bodies of water, the skies that were above it, and the hills that were in the distance, also seemed to give off a distinct grey hue. It was at this point that I began to get worried about my eyes, and decided to wander into the centre of the city. The city itself reminded me of Stockton-On-Tees, with cobbled sections of street, where pedestrian zones cohabitated perfectly with vehicle zones.  In contrast to what I had seen in Edinburgh, Dundee seemed to have nothing remaining of its history, but seemed to be attempting to be a modern utopia. Sadly, they hadn’t got very far.

According to a hotel worker, the restaurant quarter was located along a road named “Nethergate”, and upon arrival there, I found that the choices were a bit sparse to be able to call it a “quarter”. While there was a big selection of greasy-pizza joints, actual restaurants were thin on the ground, with choices being limited to Turkish, Indian, or Chinese food, with a burger bar thrown in for good measure.

Seeing as “Ketchup” [the burger bar], seemed to be the haunt for the trendy, I decided to go to the Turkish restaurant. My girlfriend loves that kind of cuisine, and it’s always a cuisine that I’ve always wanted to delve into. This restaurant, however, seemed to be weird- not only were there not many people inside, but for a Turkish restaurant, the owner/waitress seemed to be quite Chinese. While I have no problem with ethnic diversity in the workplace, it seemed to set a rather foreboding atmosphere for the rest of the night. After ordering two diet cokes [which tasted so rank upon arrival that I likened them to tasting more like ‘diet cock’ than ‘diet coke’], we looked through the menu, which consisted of a massive thirty-something dishes for the more carnivorous human, and an absolutely whopping SIX for the vegetarian customer. Yay for being the minority. After ordering a starter and a main course, my girlfriend decided that it would be wise for us to get some pitta bread, something that I agreed with. The waitress, however, seemed to have a problem with this, somehow deciding that she’d give us pitta bread with both our starter and our main, and saying “Oh… okay…” In a tone that made her sound as if she was saying “Well, brace yourselves, foolish mortals!”

The waitress, in fact, seemed keen to display her unconventional style of customer-handling. As I had got almost no sleep the night before, I closed my eyes to refresh them after I finished my started. “Awwww, stah-tah no come, so he faul tooo sah-leep,” the waitress chirped at me randomly. Hilarious. The main course, wouldn’t have been worth waking up for, anyway, it seemed. It vaguely reminded me of a pasta sauce that my dad had made a few years ago, and even he had made it much better than the chef had. At the end of the night, the dinner came to 30 pounds, and to be honest, I wouldn’t have said it was worth 30 pence.

So Dundee, it has to be said, seemed quite disappointing. But after going to sleep on a king size bed [which the Hilton management had hand-crafted by shoving two single beds together and putting a king size bed frame around it], I was excited to leave the monochrome city and head to the once-Royal university town of St Andrews.

Och aye!

into the hearts of many, and it was quite sad that I was slowly starting to believe these myths without actually visiting our Northern neighbours- so I was honoured when I finally got the chance to visit.

Departing from my cosy-warm bedroom at roughly 4.50 in the morning, I felt a tingle of excitement and a tinge of nerves- we [we being my girlfriend and I] would be flying to Scotland, and the fact that I hadn’t flown in quite a few years had rendered me slightly apprehensive, with my girlfriend not being the biggest fan of air travel either. After leaving ten minutes late, worrying that our cab driver had given up waiting and gone home [in reality, he just wasn’t able to get to my house without getting lost], and seeing that the owner of the Subway in Finchley Road would have a bit of a shock when he turned up for work [His shop door was smashed to pieces and the shop itself raided, before being boarded up with giant chunks of wood by the Met Police who left a helpful note to the effect of: “Hey, you’ve been broken into, but we’ve boarded your shop up. Call us!”], we boarded a coach to London Stansted.

Now, I try to not to be annoying- especially on journeys that require sharing several legs with another person. But I couldn’t resist, upon arrival at Stansted, trying to find locations where Matt Lucas and David Walliams filmed parts of their hit show “Come Fly With Me”, whilst doing impressions of ‘Peter and Judith’ and an attempted [and I use that word loosely] impression of ‘Precious Little’ [“Weh gat cah-fee, weh gat scallllldin’ hat wah-tah, but weh gat no coos-too-mas! So, I gaht no ahp-shan, boot to claws da shaap ear-leh! CLAWSED!” seemed to be a phrase that my girlfriend and several other passengers had to put up with for quite a while.]

After wandering around departures, going through security [where the security officer made me take off my hoodie and shoes as well as my jacket, and didn’t even give me a courtesy smile when I remarked: “Blimey, I’m gonna be freezing!”], and waiting at our gate, the time came. All the travellers stood, elbows sharpened, adrenaline levels rising. You could hear the pulses race as people rose from their seats. The appearance of a staff member at the doors of the departure gate was pretty much a metaphor for a race-starter, firing the pistol to start the 20m airport hurdles. Yes, you guessed it. We were flying with easyJet. I said earlier that I haven’t flown in years. But when I did fly frequently it was with this very airline, and the memories were suddenly flowing back to me. Aaah, yes- the “Jesus Christ, were you

DO NOT ADJUST YOUR SETS- You are not experiencing any technical difficulties. They really are wearing that assaulting shade of orange.

Tango’d, or did you just rub up too hard against Dale Winton?” orange-clad flight attendants; the rush to board quickly so you could get fresh air; the distinct smell of cheap-and-cheerful.

But something didn’t feel right. Although my girlfriend and I proved that we weren’t cut out for low-cost flying [we ended up pretty much at the back of the queue, and ended up with seats at the back], easyJet doesn’t seem to be the laughing-stock anymore. Before, you’d be thousands of feet up in the air, looking at other passengers with a look that said “Yup… I’m in the same boat as you”, and flicking through the inflight magazine and catalogue, where it became apparent that you could buy a shortbread biscuit on-board for roughly 300 pounds. Now, although the price of the on-board items is still extortionate, everything seems quite reasonable, and no-one’s laughing at easyJet like they used to. And that’s probably because of a certain Michael O’Leary, and his little ragtag team of aviation chums, also known as Ryanair; whose flights were also taking off from Stansted that morning, and were still painfully abysmal, I judged by the looks on the faces of passengers through the tiny windows on the side of their plane. Poor buggers.

After what was an incredibly fast flight [all in all, it took us around 50 minutes, which seemed to be just enough time to panic, but not enough time to get completely pteromechanophobic], we landed in a cloudy, yet still quite warm, Edinburgh.

Our first leg of the journey from the airport was by bus- the Caledonian Buses Airlink 100, which although very clean and swanky, seemed to have gone for a cheap and cheerful voiceover to announce its calling points, resulting in the words “Mariott Hotel” being chewed up and spat out as “Maria… Toh-tell”. Whilst the audio wasn’t great, the visuals were simply spectacular- both my and my girlfriend’s heads kept swivelling and tilting to look out of every window possible to examine the capital city of Scotland, which seemed to have a perfect blend of modern design and vibrancy, whilst also displaying several monuments of a very eventful history; buildings that had been erected centuries ago, nestled right in with something that could have been finished as soon as last week, with a great buzz and energy created by the people who gathered outside. Edinburgh, I decided at that moment, was a place that I would love to be in for long periods of time. Not only was it incredibly similar to London, but it seemed to be so charming. This slight

A colourful take on the Scott Monument, Edinburgh. This picture can be bought at my DeviantArt store [addess is at the bottom of the article

My girlfriend and I would have loved to go on one of those sightseeing tours around Edinburgh, where you sit on the top of a bus, plug headphones into your seat and get told almost every detail about a monument that you could ever want to know, but unfortunately we didn’t have time. However- I did manage to grab a free sandwich from Upper Crust [no, I didn’t steal it- but they didn’t give me a receipt with my change, which, as I found out 10 seconds before ordering, allowed me to get a refund on my sandwich], which brightened up my day to no end. Ravi’s stomach-1, Cultural awareness- 0.

After this, we walked for [what seemed like] an eternity in order to find a train that we had booked, to get to Dundee; a place that Eddie Izzard once likened to jail. Would this put me off Scotland? Would I finally find truth in those harsh stereotypes that I had once heard? Only time would tell…

My DeviantArt store: http://www.deviantart.com/print/18341079/?

Protests in Middlesbrough, UK

Activists hoping to raise awareness of the crisis and massacres in Libya gathered at Teesside University, Middlesbrough today in order to protest outside the Student Union.

Unprecedented protests in the Libya’s capital, Tripoli, have been countered by extreme force used by the country’s army, with gunfire being heard into the early hours of morning, and with several buildings being set ablaze by both opposers and supporters of Colonel Gaddafi’s regime. The use of live amunition and tear gas has been condemned by several human rights organisations, with the death toll already above 233. Protests within the North East, however, have been peaceful- mounted police did attend the protest, but no there has been no report of violence. [EDIT- Reports have come in that there were incidents of bricks being thrown]

The protests in Libya echo the sentiment of those that were held in Egypt, as well as the protests that are ongoing in Bahrain, as part of a wave of action throughout the Middle-East. However, whilst protests in Egypt were covered meticulously by the BBC, and and protests in Bahrain gain publicity by the threat that they pose to next month’s Grand Prix in the region, it is felt that the situation in Libya has been left to fester, despite the mortality rate, and the iron-fist strategy that has been used by the army and Colonel Gaddafi, who has been the de facto leader of the country after his military coup on the first of September 1969.

Some, however, ask the question of whether Britain is at all involved in this situation- not as a help, as many would like, but as a hindrance. Many of these questions carry the haunting reminder of  former Prime Minister Tony Blair’s alleged desert deal with Colonel Gaddafi in 2004, where a gas contract with Shell was [allegedly] signed on the spot, as a prerequisite for Britain giving training and equipment to Libyan troops. Training and equipment, it seems, that may have even been used against peaceful protesters in Green Square yesterday.

Many people who form the audience for these protests at Teesside Unversity do not seem to understand the cause for the protests, with one student stating: “No-one cares”, and that “[the protesters] should go to Downing Street or go and tell the Libyan government”. From those quotes alone, it is plain to see that the situation really hasn’t been given enough air-time by the media in this country. It seems that Downing Street can’t really listen- why would they? There might not be as much oil in Libya as there is in, say, Iraq or Afganistan, and this conflict comes at a time where resources are money are already scarce for the military. Any attempts by the Libyans to peacefully coax Gaddafi out of power have just been met with violent and malicious resistance by the Colonel and his followers. And while protests are slowly beginning to put pressure on Gaddafi, it truly speaks volumes about a leader who once said that “the people lead the country”.

Okay, readers of my blog, and knowers of my ramblings will know that I’m not the biggest fan of reality TV. Big Brother, I’m A Celebrity Get Me Out Of Here, and The X Factor  have slowly but surely become thorns in my side. When they were legitimate psychological and psychosocial experiments, they were fine! Brilliant elements of entertainment that would adorn our TV screens at least once a week.

But now, they’ve just become another fad. Thankfully, it’s not just me who thinks that. Many of my friends and family think such shows and other get-rich-quick schemes are just a waste of time, money and space, thinking that shows that actually entertain would be a better way to brighten up our TV screens.

Recently, however, I’ve had a bit of an epiphany. There are two reality shows that I’ve seen recently that I’d be proud to watch on a regular basis! I KNOW! SHOCK HORROR!

Both of them are American, and I have to say now- I have a high doubt that either of them would be picked up in the UK, seeing as we’re known for our “stiff upper lips”, and all of that jammy stuff that sounds like the cat’s pyjamas! They are brilliant shows, though- exploring not just the humorous “let’s-watch-this-idiot-wash-their-dirty-laundry-in-public” element, but also the “holy-cripes-is-this-actually-happening” element.

The first is called Solitary. The contestants of this show, as the name suggests, are locked away in solitary confinement, before losing their identity, and becoming known simply as the number that is written in their pod. Which, when you think about it, is bad enough in itself. But the host and rulemaker of the show, a robot called Val [who I regard to be the evil twin of POD from "Snog Marry Avoid?"], puts the contestants through gruelling mental, physical, and emotional challenges, with little reward. Although you think Big Brother tasks may be a bit harsh, they’re nothing compared to what’s doled out in this show- The contestants here push themselves to their utter limits, sometimes in tasks of self-harm, and self-punishment, boggling the mind with how far they’re willing to push themselves to win the ultimate prize of Solitary Champion.

The real sad thing about this show, however, is that with the slow decline and eventual cancellation of “Fox Reality” [the network it airs on], it is unclear whether the show will steam ahead for a 5th series.

The second show is called “Baggage”, hosted by world-renowned nutcase-tamer and TV-confessional-holder, Jerry Springer. The premise is pretty simple here- how many times have you fallen for someone, or just been on a date with someone, and then found out that they have one, huge, unmissable flaw about them that ends up being a giant turn-off?

Well, there’s no chance on this show. A contestant goes onto the show hoping to find the man or woman of their dreams. They’re faced by three attractive members of the opposite sex, each who have three pieces of ‘baggage’ [or three flaws/turn-offs] that they reveal round-by-round. Each round, the contestant eliminates a member based on their baggage until they’re left with one person. You may think that that’s the end- but ooooooooh no. After Jerry Springer has rattled off a few [I have to say- pretty damn funny] one-liners, the contestant themself reveals a huge piece of baggage. Their chosen member of the opposite sex then has to choose whether they would still date the contestant based on what they have heard.  This, although simple, can throw up some pretty spectacular results.

In the first episode, a woman who was chosen despite the fact that she shaved her whole face, rejected a man who, in a drunken stupor, ended up having sex with a man in college. And the audience, being typically American, and probably being heavily edited by sound effects, contributes to the drama well; adding to the humour: in one episode, after a woman said she wanted to adopt 5 kids,  the gasps from the audience looked as though they could have just started to suck Jerry Springer’s hair away from his head; something which I’m sure would be taken as a national tragedy.

As I previously said- these shows definitely won’t get picked up in the UK. But while they’re still on in the US, and while we’re still being bored by the saaaaaame reality shows year on year here in the UK, I highly recommend them.

Unfortunately not, I say. While the book still has the occassional titter about it, it has nothing compared to the “Oh-ho-ho, laugh-till-the-brioche-explodes-from-your-belly” roars of hilarity from the previous novels. Whilst there were certain sexual elements in the other books, the first quarter of the book seems to be as sexxed up as a Labour Party dossier with a foreword by Jordan. And trust me, when an 18 year old boy with “raging hormones” says that a book has too much sex in it, it really DOES have too much sex. All of this intercourse stems from Paul’s travels through France with his girlfriend, Gloria Monday, otherwise known as “M”, as she scours the French coasts for signs of endangered species of fish, in her role as ecologist and scientist. This, rather mundane plot element is made up for by the fact that Paul has to cater for his friend’s wedding, as she attempts to marry into an aristocratic family who look down their noses more than the Jolly Green Giant at a playgroup.

But all is not as it seems. The tale goes from sex, sun, and ceremonies to murder and mystery in the blink of an eye. As M heads on an excursion of her own to Marseille to meet some other ecologists, an undercover female police officer in a  low cut, backless dress [yes, that's right! More sex!] lets Paul know that M isn’t a scientist at all. There is only one big fish she cares for- the President of France. And she wants to see his head on a silver platter.

From then on in, Paul heads off on a wild goose chase, trying to balance being a “trateur” [caterer] for his friend, and a “traitre” [traitor] to his assassin of a girlfriend, whilst also cramming in “ambassador for the British nation” into the mix.

But will M get caught? Will Elodie [Paul's engaged friend] get married in time to reap a financial tradition held by the pompous family? Will England assist France like the allies that they have come to be!?

Nope, he's not enjoying it, either.

…In all honesty, you may not ever find out. The book seems pretty dry and dull compared to the previous novels, and you’d be forgiven for losing interest, given the fact that the first half is probably as interesting as Stephen Hawking’s talking computer conveying the taste of a Ryvita biscuit.

I’d give the book 5/10, due to the small smatterings of laughter and the callbacks to the previous tales.  Though I wouldn’t really recommend it. My take on it in two words? Sacre bleurgh.

Blair encourages Brown's charge- but is this a blessing or a bombshell for the Prime Minister?

As we all know, election day is almost upon us. Listening to the grapevine, you’d be forgiven for thinking that Gordon Brown is almost certainly going to be receiving the political beating-of-all-beatings. Backed by “Chancellor Boring”, and his very own “Merry Band of Backstabbers”, our current Prime Minister needs all the help he can get in order to claw back every ounce of public support that has mysteriously vanished during his tenure as top-dog. But who thought that Labour would have resorted to the predecessor, the enemy, the partner-in-crime?

I’m sure that, while jetting off round the world; combining duties of middle-east envoy with after-dinner speeches and lectures, even Blair had no idea that he would be called on to steady the slow, sinking ship that’s become the Labour party. Although some could say that he’s responsible for this slow downturn, it could also be said that he should not have to play the back-up role; appearing to be the ‘Bill Clinton’ behind Gordon Brown’s ‘Hilary’ on his charge for approval.

For Brown, this must be a kick in the teeth. Although he worked with Blair (albeit sanctimoneously) throughout his three terms, we know that the two most powerful men in government (at the time) were at the heads of roaring factions within the party, with several MPs backing their favourites in this political horserace. For Brown to see the man who held this top job from him, swoop in and save the day once again, must hurt more than all the stabbing in the back that he’s received over the past few months. What’s even worse, though, is the fact that the return of “SuperBlair” will be used as war-fodder in the commons by David Cameron, whose Conservatives are suddenly beginning to finish the pinch.

We all know that this election may be hard-fought, vicious, and mucky- but we may just see that Tony Blair emerges as a top dog…

The roads of Paris reminded me of a cross between the villages of Spain, and London. The driving conditions, however, reminded me of India. I don’t know what French drivers have for breakfast, but it either makes them super-courageous, or super-blind. Upon returning to the more civilised roads of Britain, I thought that it was a miracle that, in the weekend I had spent in France, I had managed to escape with both my life, and without any tyre marks on my anatomy. Ducking, diving, and swerving; you feel like you’re in somewhat of an action movie as you navigate your way. I think that if a Frenchman were to describe what he sees during his car journey, he’d say something like: “Aaaah! Zere are cars on ze left, cars on ze right, and a couple of passengers on ze bonnet.”
I worry for the pedestrians of France- there are no stop-lines for drivers on the roads, and the lights are about as visible as a chav at a Star Trek convention. Here, in Britain, we have the “THINK! Road Safety” campaign. I’m surprised that in France, they don’t have the “Seriously… don’t even bother…” campaign.
But for an even better view of how lax the French are at safety, you should take a cab. Firstly, there’s a minimum charge of six euros. Considering the fact that I’ve frequented a place where cabbies would drive you half way up a mountain for fifteen euros, six euros for a couple of miles seems pretty out of order. But due to the fact that you could potentially suffer from three cardiac arrests, and a bout of hyperventilation on the way, I guess it’s worth it. One cab driver, who we had on the second day, was so busy using his iPod, that he forgot that he was driving the cab.

On day two, after managing to still be alive, we decided to visit a small boulangerie [bakery, for those who didn't get past year 8 French] down the street from the hotel. My friends both got a pizza slice [which apparently tasted appalling], and a couple of sweet things, namely a chocolate chip bread stick, and a croissant aux amandes, which tasted great. The only problem is that the French shopkeepers are incredibly dull. I don’t know whether they’ve had botox injected into their cheeks, but in my opinion, you’d need a couple of winches in order to force a smile onto those Parisian faces. You do them a good service by giving them an income, and they repay you by giving you a substandard good, and by throwing your change into your face [I mean it- there was one woman who flung her coins so hard that they almost ended up embedded into my visage]. What happened to service with a smile? Oh yeah, I forgot, we left it on the Eurostar.

We also decided to visit the Louvre. Yes, that’s the one; the one with the Mona Lisa. The security there is CRAZY- with bag scanners on all of the wings of the museum/gallery, it’s like they’re EXPECTING you to smuggle the Mona Lisa out with you in your handbag as you leave. Unfortunately, the actual gallery was closed, but the shopping section [where there are various brand stores and even an Apple shop] was open, and so we wandered round there. Even without the art, the Louvre is a masterpiece in itself, with the Louvre pyramid, and the various pieces of architecture inside it being extremely beautiful [though I was lucky to hold the hand of the true masterpiece].
After a cab ride back, we decided to head to the eleven o’clock showing of the Moulin Rouge. I hadn’t seen the movie, and although I had heard the title before, I had absolutely no idea of what was going to happen. Although we reserved three tickets for the show, we still had to wait in a horrendously long line. It seems that the French are no good at queueing, either- just like they like to drive three abreast, they like to line up three abreast, too. Thinking that the line would move about an inch in the half an hour before the show, my friends vanished to get a pizza from a shop that was down the road. As if by magic, while they were being given free shots and a pizza by the shopkeepers [who were Italian], the line moved up quickly. My friends and I were forced to quickly scoff the pizza, and donate half to various people who were wandering the street. Ironically, that was the best piece of food that we had while we were in France. After braving the freezing cold, we sat in the show.
Those who know me know that I really have no idea what to do when I’m faced with the prospect of having to dance and/or watch other people dance. Usually, I sit still as a statue while my head commentates: “Wow, you can put your left foot behind your right ear… Wow, that’s… err… good…?”
So naturally, I was nervous at how I should react to the dancing in the show [which I must say is pretty good- even though I know absolutely nothing about dance and its intricacies.]
The part of my brain that controls reactions to nudity and ventriloquism, however, got a good workout that night. Obviously, the show is extremely tasteful- it’s not just one French bird tottering onto the stage in ridiculously high stilettos going “Euuh! Feuhk Me!” It really is a well co-ordinated and well planned extravaganza.
The night ended with a ventriloquist taking to the stage and performing a mini stand-up routine with a few chosen members of the audience. Although there were times where he was obviously cheating by covering his mouth and delivering lines, he was a treat to watch, and was hilarious. Apparently, he was also a cunning linguist, conversing in French [obviously], English, Spanish, and German- though, admittedly, he did struggle when he called a Chinese man onto the stage to indulge in some audience participation.
If dance, comedy, and nudity isn’t your sort of thing [even though, deep down inside, I believe that's what every human craves most- a wiggle, a giggle, and a flash], then you could just go for the champagne, or to meet new friends- both of which we did as well as watching the spectacular show.
After heading off for a couple of drinks with our new-found friends, we headed back to the hotel for a good night’s sleep- for tomorrow, we would be a rollin’ and a coastin’.