Big Game in Paris
I’m flat on my back in a cheap hotel in Paris. Don’t ask! What a couple of weeks this has been! I’ve fallen so far behind with writing this, it’s going to be a struggle even to remember what I’ve been up to.Now, let me explain about Emma and Norm first. I haven’t told you about what happened with Jimbo, have I? You remember Jimbo - that male stripper that Emma was seeing a lot of (if you know what I mean). Oh no, but before I get onto that, I’d better explain about Kevin. But wait a minute, before I get onto that you’re probably wondering what I’m doing in Paris.
Well, what happened was this. First of all Janet rang up. You know, the press office from RCA or MCA or Decca or somewhere? Or is it EMI? Oh, I don’t know, one of those record companies. And anyway, it turns out she had these tickets for some concert in Paris - one of them big-shot bands from America: Kiss or ZZ Top or someone like that, I can’t really remember which and I never went to the concert anyway because this bloke called Marcel, or Jean or Jacques or something took us out for dinner. Oh, did I mention that Kevin came with me? To Paris, I mean. You remember Kevin, I expect - the butcher’s boy from Plaistow? So anyway this Marcel or Jean or Francois or whatever he’s called takes me and Kevin out to this swanky restaurant where they serve all kinds of slimy things on crushed ice and the idea was that we’d just get a bite to eat and then go on to the concert to see Kiss or Van Halen or whoever, but then a stuffed elephant fell on us and so all our plans went right out of the window.
Now you’re probably thinking, how did they manage to get a stuffed elephant into a restaurant in the first place? I should have explained that we’d left the restaurant by that time. We were in the foyer of some big hotel. There were two stuffed camels, one elephant and a couple of giraffes. I can’t recall why we went to the hotel in the first place. I think it was to go to the cocktail bar or something. At any rate it was Marcel’s idea and he was paying so I didn’t argue. There were all these men in overalls in the foyer putting the stuffed animals into aesthetically pleasing positions when one of the men, who was up on a ladder, overbalanced and sent the elephant flying on top of us.
Well, I jumped out of the way just in time as my reactions have been sharpened like a razor by years of pop music journalism. Kevin, as you would expect (or at least you would expect if you knew about his peculiar talents, which, now I come to think about it, I haven’t got around to explaining yet), was nowhere to be seen. But poor Pierre was practically squashed.
Then all hell broke loose. The manager of the hotel arrived and started jabbering in French. Well, I mean, normally I’d jabber back at him with more of the same as I can converse like a native in the lingo when I’m in the mood. But for some reason, I didn’t seem to be in the mood just at that moment. Well, if you’ve ever seen someone squashed by a stuffed elephant in the foyer of a French hotel, you’ll know just how I felt. It puts you off your stride somehow. And then the next thing I knew the place was crawling with nurses and doctors and people carrying a stretcher upon which was the prostrate, mumbling body of the semi-squashed Marcel. He wasn’t half making a fuss and, due to the shock no doubt, he had reverted to his native French most of which I could have understood if I hadn’t been in shock myself but which, given the circumstances, might just as well have been a foreign language for all it meant to me. But in spite of all the fuss he was making, I don’t think he was hurt much really. Leastways I didn’t see any blood or giblets sloshing about the place so it can’t have been all that bad, can it!
The upshot of all this was that me and Kevin were left at a bit of a loose end. Neither of us had any idea where the bloody concert was and we couldn’t ask anyone since Kevin doesn’t speak a word of French and we didn’t know who was doing the concert anyway so it was no good asking. But, as luck would have it, I had somehow managed to acquire a huge wad of French francs which I’m pretty sure I hadn’t had a half hour earlier. Goodness knows where it came from; I can’t remember for the life of me. My theory is that Marcel must have handed it to me as they carried him out on the stretcher so that we could carry on enjoying the hospitality of the record company in his absence but Kevin reckons it was the hotel manager who gave me the money, having come to the peculiar conclusion that I was a business associate of Pierre’s and that I would sue the ass off the hotel unless I was well and truly placated. I don’t know, I suppose that’s possible. All I can say is that if this is the way that French hotel managers placate people, bring on the stuffed elephants!
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