Is it just me or is anyone else mystified by the tabloids’ and red-tops’ singular obsession with the Paris Hilton?
When Slaughterhouse 5 were in France in 1995 playing a few summer festivals, we stayed in a fancy hotel in Paris. It wasn’t the Hilton though – too expensive, nor was it especially fancy either, come to think of it. I remember that it was situated directly au devant de Le Sorbonne and that the concierge employed by the hotel seemed to have an extravagant allergy to light bulbs. The only ones in the whole building were above the reception desk on the ground floor and one or two others placed – somewhat strategically – at the top of every flight of stairs. There were no lifts, just ask Keithy. He spent most of one night tiptoeing around in a rather unedifying fashion drunkenly searching for one.
There was no sleep to be had anyway as we were all kept awake until the very early hours by the excited comings and goings of various etudiants des arts belonging to the famous school opposite, who seemed to be gloriously intent on practicing new and innovatively boisterous Gallic dance routines in the street below.
Earlier in the week we’d stayed in a beautiful old auberge in the delightful village of St Gerard De Puy where one night we had to flee in fear of our lives after we’d been threatened with a public beheading by the local Romany population if we didn’t hand over all of our belongings. I did manage, however, to appropriate a case of fine wines from an open storeroom and bundled it, to everyone’s gleeful delight, on to the tour bus just before we gesticulated our final, hasty, two-fingered goodbyes.
And talking of belongings, the tour bus was broken into whilst we were engaging ourselves in the delightful though somewhat childish practice of burping up at the tourists who were arranged around the uppermost viewing platform of the Eiffel Tower. Luckily no guitars or any other equipment was stolen. Unfortunately for him though, the aforementioned Keithy was left for the duration of the tour with only the clothes he was standing in, as the miscreants had made off with his suitcase and travel bag. We bought him a new French toothbrush the following day and he was somewhat mollified.
Overall, our appearances at the festivals were a success and we found France itself to be a strikingly handsome country, but why oh why are the French people so annoying and arrogant? (Steady! – Diplomacy Ed.)
All of which brings me neatly back to the sweet American girl, raised on promises. She’s American royalty, isn’t she? A true, good ole US-of-A, highly valued cultural icon. Others may suggest that she is somewhat vulgar and spectacularly opportunistic, a banal though eager and shameless self-publicist with a very obvious talent for lascivious exhibitionism. What do you think? Answers on a postcard, please.
Me, I say don’t criticise a woman until you’ve walked a mile in her shoes. Then, if you do criticise her, you’re a mile away and you have her shoes.
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