These, as I’m sure you are aware, are not the words uttered by Lord Admiral Nelson as he slipped away into the nether world, bullet lodged firmly in his shattered spine. Rather, they are the words of another of Britain’s most celebrated national treasures. Ladies and gentleman, star of the 80s rave band, The Happy Mondays, I give you: Bez (real name Marc Berry).“Manchester…Paris…fookin’ come on!”
As is becoming apparent in the City of Lights of late, fun and frolicking in decent highbrow company is possible with just the right amount of contacts. In my case, contact comes in the form of Ellen: my newfound English acquaintance who I met after she responded to my ad for a band.
Ellen is the perfect embodiment of a rock-chick grown up. The girl who grew up listening to My Chemical Romance, taught herself a few chords on the guitar, and proceeded to lock herself in her room for the next seven years, wondering why noone wanted to be her friend.
Thankfully it is this period of enormous isolation and hatred of the world, that ultimately drives the angst-stricken caterpillar through its period of metamorphosis; writhing through its chrysalis and emerging as the beautiful butterfly we see today. Now, eyes that used to look at the floor meet you straight ahead; startling orbs of blue contrasted to perfectly straight golden hair that is obviously caressed rather than convoluted. And that’s not to forget pale skin so smooth that if you could wrap it up and sell it at market, it would out-perform scarlet, silk and cashmere. In truth, and as Bez would put it: “you wouldn’t kick her out of bed.”
Ellen’s obsession with music led her to organising a trip to La Machine du Moulin Rouge for an evening of Manchester-based DJs, which also included the drummer from The Smiths. The billing title of the event was Madchester (a cunning play on the word “mad” inferring craziness, and “Manchester”, inferring loutishness.)
La Machine du Mouline Rouge is a decent-sized music venue, with a capacity that would easily hold myself, Ellen, English friend Tom and New Yorker, Taylor. There are two bars, one of which sits at the side of a large, all-encompassing stage. This is surrounded by a two tier viewing area, and a little further back, the now-customary-for-all-night-clubs cancer box (smoking room, to you and me).
Arriving at the venue, sauntering past the seemingly endless queue of cabaret enthusiasts, we entered the doors which lie literally next door to the Moulin Rouge itself. We had been inside for five minutes, when who should walk past us but Bez himself, looking greyer and slightly more serene than during his Celebrity Big Brother days. In fact, I’d say the man who regularly jump on stage making a massive tit of himself while he yelled and waved maracas, was actually looking a little nervous.
He needn’t have worried – his fan club had just shown up. Three beer-bellied, tracksuit wearing chavs, who looked straight like they’d rolled of off a Bootle council estate and into Paris’ fashionable nightlife. Clearly pilled beyond belief, these three Mancunian-Scouse stereotypes proceeded to dance like their shoelaces were trapped in an escalator for the remainder of the evening. Conversation would not have been wise.
Three hours, several cocktails later, conversation suddenly seemed like a good idea. Wandering up to the ginger, shaved-head Scouser, I dug deep into my sub-conscious and dragged out my long-forgotten Northern accent.
“You alright mate?” I asked, as nonchantly as possible. “Where you from…like?”
Confused stare.
“I said, where you from?”
This man’s eyes looked as if they were about to explode. The vast cocktail of ketamine and speed had obviously rendered his ability to speak English impossible. Strangely enough, however, he was able to speak perfect French...
Just then, a cog turned in my own head. HE’S FRENCH! Mais c’est impossible! How could this chav be French? It made no sense. This was like suddenly discovering that, after all these years, Margaret Thatcher was actually a native of Equatorial Guinea. Before I knew it, my evening had suddenly descended from harmless jamming along to Joy Division, to trippin’ all the way to Macclesfield and back.
“Where am I?” I asked Tom.
“At the bar,” he answered back. “It’s your round!”
At that moment, Ellen appeared, looking as radiant as any girl I’d ever seen, after consuming 7 pints of cocktails.
“John, I need to ask you something,” she said. “Would it be ok if I kissed you?”
Now, as far as I can remember, I have only ever been asked that question once by a girl. It was at primary school by Jenny Kleinz, and even then I didn’t have much choice: she just jumped on me and stuck her violent tongue down my throat before I even knew what was happening. I had felt so abused.
This was a different kettle of fish, however. Rather than staring down the nostrils of a a masculine 11 year-old, I was facing a 5ft 11, 25 year-old beauty. There seemed only one thing I could do…
