Like a Gold Ring in a Sow's Nose

Experience life through the eyes of two star ladies - tat, clothes, tatty clothes...and Goblin beefburgers in a tin washed down with a pint of warm flat Panda Cola.

"Let's French it up, baby"

I would just like to say
that I blame this on Patrice, the waiter with the winning smile and the un-pitted olives who was lucky, nay privileged, to hear some of my French. Had he not proved ultimately to be a miserable shit then we may have been happy to continue paying 14 Euros for a couple of glasses of vin Pouilly. However, we were to find refuge two doors down at the Cafe Kleber which not only had cheaper vin Chablis but also had the charming waiters of Manuel and the other one, let's call him Winky. It also had car cabaret and plates and plates of crisps. Much more fitting for us two star ladies. Oh, and Patrice, I'm glad I had your one euro tip away on my toes as well.

CHUFF...just exactly where you should put your replica gun if you want to try and get it back to the UK?
Look no further, we have the answer here at BC. According to Churchill you stash in your chuff. I can't think that would be a comfortable way to travel on the Eurostar but I reckon I could get away with claiming my belt was setting off the metal detector. Further investigations might prove embarrassing even by one who has had two (count 'em) two metabollox examinations and her blood pressure taken whilst in the scud.

Cottage Cheese Threshold - we at BC have never met a man who liked it and so it must have it's own condition called Low Cottage Cheese Threshold. It is the gold standard of thresholds, others include the Crust Threshold and the Meat Threshold (both heavily weighted on the side of different sexes). I won't tell you what my man calls it, this is a quality web site!

Fucked Up Shit, Hombre - why this began is slightly hazy to me so we must have been drunk or at the least tipsy. I think I remember that I wanted to say "fucked up shit, homme" but hombre came out instead. It's not surprising, I said si to one waiter instead of oui so I guess I'm just happier speaking any language as long as it's not French. 

The Pompidou Centre - (good bits closed for refurb, of course they are) - WHERE IS ALL THE GOOD STUFF THEN? I'm sorry but a giant pink shoe with a few pink lights on the floor in a pink room does indeed lead one to say "I'm sorry, I'm not gay" (no offence to those who are by the way) and as Churchill said "it makes you wish you'd stuck at it". At least we did see Vija Celmin's work (above) and the fabulous piece of educational artwork about biscuits in the US called "99 Cent" (below) and produced in 1999 (see what he did there?). A work of genius according to the BC art critics.

Ladbrokes has nothing on BC betting - OK then, a bet has been placed that Churchill's nephew will be outed by the time he is 21. I am not in disagreement about this but I'm willing to take the action so here's a fiver on him NOT coming out before his 21st birthday. And when he does we'll take him to see that pink shoe thing.

Doing it Dunnock Style - well, you wouldn't would you? But just picture this scene...
Two very attractive, let's say beautiful, best mates sitting in front of one of the most impressive buildings in the world, the motherfucking Louvre. It's a glorious day, blue clear skies, sunshine gently lighting up the stone of the art galleries and we are having a spot of lunch enjoying the atmosphere that is Paris. A few pigeons (Colins) and house sparrows (or maison sparrows) are eating a few crumbs and the conversation turns to Dunnocks. And how they do it. And suddenly the picture changes to one of two best mates having a right old laugh about Dunnock sex and how one of them caught a couple of 'em at it in her garden and was disgusted.

I like to think that I have been able to teach Churchill a few skills over the years...such as cable choices for the TV and video, dodgy plumbing skills, navigation, and how to run races after a night on the tear but I am dismayed that she has not learned that sunglasses should be carried at all times during daylight hours. This way you can sit in front of the Louvre and discuss Dunnock sex without squinting. There is no excuse for carrying a pair to France then leaving them in the hotel room as you embark on a walk in the sun. It also means that you can be more easily recognised on CCTV, which for light fingered Magneto is never a good thing.

At last the mystery of the Premiere Etage is solved by watching the video above. Even better there is a shot of the Singer Board in which you can search for the One You'd Pick If You Had To as well as the Never in a Million Years, not to mention the One if You Holiday on the Isle of Lesbos. Although unfortunately for the regulars they only get to dine in our company once a year, I can taste that onion soup now...and it's one of the few places in Paris that serve red wine warm. So hang up your coat, order the fixe prix, get your feet under the table and shut that door!

The Bag That Your Dirty English Money Cannot Buy
Put a right crimp on my last day in Paris this. A bag seen on a Sunday when the shops were shut became the MUST HAVE bag for Magneto (and shall forever be the perfect bag now as I am never gonna get my paws on it let alone in it). A trip to the shops on the Monday found it to be missing from the shelves but not from the window in a shop called WE (which investigation has revealed is a European concern operating under the slogan "WE is me" but not actually me it would appear). Even Churchill's best efforts at asking if we could buy the one in the window were greeted with a flat NON which leads us to the question - why advertise something that you can't sell?  Why indeed.

My lovely Paris boots have made my lower legs and feet look like I've been flogged and then made to walk over razor blades - just before I get the opportunity in Italy to wear my black dress and shoes still unworn from July.
And to add insult to injury we could have used our Metro pass to ride on the funiculaire, the top of which involved a tricky manoeuvre to take off Churchill's socks and put them on Magneto's written off feet whilst standing up. This also involved the loss of a false nail (see Man Down, below) and the removal of toilet paper from a right boot. We know how to be tres chic in Paris n'est ce pas? Next year it's trainers. And that nun in the Sacre Coeur who shushed me twice will never know how close she came to a boot up her ass - never shush a woman in painful footwear missus, especially when you're kneeling down. She got away with it because I was in a good mood having Christened Churchill only minutes before and having had a right old giggle all the way across Montmatre. Plus the Jesus painting in there always calms me down and makes me feel safe.

I'd just like to say to the Metro Monkey - Go fuck your mother.


If you wish to eat a very nice meal of steak with delicious green beans whilst being watched indirectly by a throng of hobos then the conservatory at the Cafe Rive Droite is just for you. Make sure you go on a night there is some football on though. And I reckon I was being eyed up in there - even I could tell so the poor guy wasn't very discreet about it. Must have been darker in there than I thought.

Man Down - or "I blame Geraldine for This"
The world of false nails, a revelation indeed. If Geraldine, the pretend bride, hadn't had a hissy fit about having a proper hen night these babies would have been long gone by Paris. Same length as the Eurotunnel and held fast with what smelt suspiciously like Loctite Superglue they were both impressive, difficult, easy to accidentally knock off but hard to deliberately remove in equal measure. And I do hope that whoever got Churchill's flying nail on the Eurostar treasures it forever! Shout "Man down" when one has come off and have a good giggle, I'm sure they'll be seen again, probably in the chic bars of Barmouth.

Le Fumoir advertisement. Go and have brunch there and yell "motherfucker" when you pass your hand over the tealight. Just expect to eat bread off the table and use the same knife to eat your brunch with as butter your bread. And beware of poseurs. And small playing cards. AND DON'T, DON'T HAVE THE VEGETARIAN OPTION.

Mademoiselle does not want a litre of beer...
Old David at the Cafe Benjamin won't have any of that thank you very much. Nice ass. If only I could have enjoyed my Margarita without thinking of that damn Status Quo tune. Damn them!

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