She's back in Paris

And just in time to watch the muppet show. Loyal followers of this blog will remember the, well frankly racist post about the beggar women at Gare de L'est and their bad clothes. I hope those more astute readers noticed the irony of the tone and the comment about French culture the post was trying to express. Well, now, let me tell you a little fact about the beggar women in Gare de L'est. As you may have guessed from the description of their clothing, layer upon layer as if the Michelin man had suddenly come into fashion, or as is more likely a throw back from living in a frigging cold climate, these women are what is known as Roma gypsies. Not to be confused with Irish gypsies. Different culture. Different rules.

As we all know, French people, otherwise known as Parisians (does the rest of France exist? It's just like London and the rest of the UK) are rude, snobbish and I can only go by what I see, predominantly racist. How else do you explain having all the poor areas pushed to the outskirts of the cities and the mere 'coincidence' that the further along the metro system you go towards the outer edges of the city the more people of ethnic origin there are in your carriage. But there is a problem for French people in Paris. The Roma gypsies don't play by these rules. You will find them living in tents in the street in the very centre of Paris, where the average Parisian cannot pretend they don't exist. Quelle nightmare. It's ruining the very pretty city and we know how much she doesn't like creases, or stains or unkempt hair. She's tried very hard all these years not to frown in order to avoid inevitable wrinkles. Of course, like all posh, snobby, self obsessed women of the 21st century she has succumbed and had a face lift and she looks, quite frankly, ridiculous. You can't fool us, we know your REAL age.

So what does a person do when they discover a crease? They iron it out. Of course. So much like Hitler in the 1930's, Sarkozy, him of 'small man, tall plastic wife' syndrome is trying to iron out the crease in the Parisian skirt. Which is fair enough, we know French men have high expectations of their women. Don't eat. For god's sake do not eat. Much like his predecessor of the small man complex, Sarkosy's iron comes in the shape of deportation. Or a boot, a bottom and a short sharp kick over the French border line. As far as we know, this is where his iron stops.

And I mean, really, how can we argue with his reasoning. Paris is pretty. She wears Chanel. She cannot be expected to mingle with people who wear ten layers of clothes all at once. Right? Anyway, it's fine, he doesn't need to worry as he has the support of everyone's favourite Politician. The voice of reason and fairness and equal opportunity. That's right, Berlusconi agrees with Sarkozy. And we know how he champions equality. That's right, bitch, get your head back down and we'll find something pretty for you to wear. Now, even Sarkozy knows he's clutching at straws with this kind of support. So what does he do? He reveals that Angela Merkel phoned him to express her solidarity. Oh the irony. The German chancellor and the Italian misogynistic Prime Minister. Spitting image couldn't even write this stuff.

Having lived in Paris now for a year, I can safely say, despite the actual horror of this story, I am not in the least bit shocked. The average Parisian is like the spoilt brat in the playground who doesn't want to share the swing. It's MY swing. How this culture of 'me' has continued so unpolluted by any sense of social awareness is down to the fact that not one person, from the top of society to the middle (the bottom third doesn't exist so cannot be included) shows any inclination to change. It's stubborn beyond all reasonable limits. One part of me admires the fight they show when they disagree, no one protests better or more frequently than the French. But there is nothing at all to be admired in their 'society'. There is no society in Paris. There is only money. And Chanel. And twinkling lights. And Champagne.

Can you imagine the horror when Princess Diana went and died in their city. It was so American. So crass. Bad things don't happen in Paris. Paris is always perfect. And dignified. Except she refuses to grow old gracefully and accept her inevitable changes. Instead, she took the face lift and the botox and the boob lift her American cousins so widely favour. If you can't see it, it isn't there...