Paris Paris what can I say ! romantic city of the noughties with the gallic charm and the vino. Oh the Vin de table, so many tables so many bottles of the finest plonk in the world spilling over my jutting chin and moistening my cigarette so that I , yes I of the bon homie, have to light yet another Benson and swig a mothful of the Beaujolais or Burgundy or Bordeaux or the buggeration what is that one called I dont give a fuck just give me a quaff of that quaffing wine and we'll be on our way to another cafe or bar or club or restaurant or dodgy flat with people sitting cross legged playing the guitar. Jenny has taken to sipping Ricard and reciting poetry and smoking Gauloise. Here is one of her poems:
Angry
Yes I am bloody angry
What are you staring at
You four eyed feminist male
With the Fucking cheek to call me shallow
You vacuous prat
Lather mouth
Fat git
I spit on your mothers carcass
You dodgy spunkball
Grated cheese on your eyelids
Foreskin rollback menthol dab
Sliced sole
Chopped toes
You utter bastard
I will call your father and denounce you
She read that to the assembled wine drinkers in a small cafe on the left bank
And they roared their approval and coughed and clapped
Patted on the back. Jenny was high with emotion
We have been living the lives of literary heroes me doing the wine and fags, she writing agressive strange poetry of the highest order and reciting to dumbfounded audiences of pseudo bohemians and we work the crowd - getting the odd bit of cash - more for jenny - I have stacks in the bank
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