Inflatable Rampage

After having been arrested at customs for trying to smuggle in a minimal command of the French language, Nat is at least gratified to discover that the French preoccupation with aesthetics reaches as far as their alarmingly low-security jail cells.

Following her release, Nat notices many more former detainees roaming the rues. Defamed and impoverished, this man and his interspecies conjoined twins are forced to queue for bread for hours at a time...

Odd that Nat should have been incarcerated for an apparently minor offense, whilst this man feels confident wheeling his victims about town in a small skip. Curiouser and curiouser...

But then French men are renowned for throwing their meat around.

Nat, now bespeckled with bruises of a size suspiciously matching that of the average Frenchman's elbow, is beginning to become familiar with Parisian custom & wonders whether it wasn't her blithe antipodean enthusiasm which caused this to-do in the first place...

After all, keen to reinforce their unwillingness to bend over backwards for anyone, many Parisians seem to be chronically and emphatically stooped.

Or, Nat happened to catch Paris in the lead up to the Hunchback of Notre Dame 2007 elections.

Or was it Presidential? We may never know...

Feeling that his compatriot is not sufficiently upholding the Parisian spirit, this bourgeois vigilante is bound by duty to help him along by giving tactile directions for looking down one's nose. Pupil captured assuming Gallic version of 'Grasshopper' stance.

Downcast by tensions in the Paris-Nat relationship, the latter feels struck by the apt form of this particular souvenir.

In search of the ultimate night out in what is essentially a very pretty fishing village barred to the world of the under-55s, Liz & Nat stride into party mode with some festive beverages whose principal ingredients may or may not have included tea and grey water collected each day from the trawlers. Not even a coquettish sipping technique would save us from this one; this bar was called "The Dream", and apparently we were living it.

Treading well into REM territory, Liz decides to consult this t-shirt clad oracle behind the bar, who sheds his ethereal light on the apparent discotheque dearth. Notice his protective demeanour toward this perspex-encased decorative bottle of beer; forget becoming intoxicated by the mere smell of alcohol, Sete's residents have only to be reminded of its existence & a glimpse or two of flesh-coloured stocking is in the bag.

Exiting The Dream and entering instead into a terminal state of Hallucination, we are transported via this flying formica tabletop into a hellish grotto masquerading as a jazz bar. As the only occupants of said grotto, we are free to do as we please...

"As we please" apparently translates for Nat into something approximating "Let's upend our skinny drinks over one another in an attempt to wake from this neon stupor". Observing that gin alone has not done the trick, Nat spices the mix with some of her still-grey-water-tainted saliva. Alas, not even this local staple proves to be the antidote...

Finally feeling the rumblings of wakefulness, Liz dashes to this Kubrick-inspired mirage toilet in order to banish "The Dream" Cocktail of Impaired Sanity and so the reverie itself. No amount of panel-beating will return our faces from this state until well into the next day...

Among the many things learnt throughout the evening, it has at least become clear to us why the pre-past-life French seem rooted to an invisible light rail track on the footpath; they are just trying to stay the fuck on cloud nine.

After much deliberation we have caved in and decided to err on the side of free speech after all by fixing the comment function. So, a eurocent for your thoughts?

Just as well; Liz had never realised just how much her face needs her lips.

WANTED
ENTHUSIASTIC PRACTITIONERS OF AUTHENTIC FRENCH STYLE. FACE-LICKERS, TONGUE-BITERS AND NOSE-EATERS NEED NOT APPLY.
PLEASE LIMBER UP AND ENQUIRE WITHIN.

The South of France: We love the smell of dog turd in the morning, and the crotte minefield that is this picturesque southeastern town was selfless in its offerings as we skipped over the cobbles to our first petit cafe of the day. This here is gateau country, and no amount of effluent is going to stop us from trudging it over the gleaming tiles of Aix's patisseries and into pastry Nirvana....

First stop is Paul who, while forced to wheel himself 'tween oven and counter on a trolley after a croissant blowout left him with nought but shoulders up, surely makes the best Kouglofs this side of the shop threshold.

Our ascent continues to biscuit Babylon, where the helpful minions have illustrated the concept of "stacking on" in no uncertain terms.

Nat resigns herself to this lardy fact, kindly checking with her arse for which treat it would prefer to live with for the rest of her lifetime. It settles with caramel nougat...

It is not until several legs into our confiserie crawl that Nat realises that, due to an increasingly maw-like hole in her Orange Sack of Instant Gratificaton, she has been scattering coinage behind her like some cashed-up Hansel-Gretel hybrid. Not only will other bands of gluttons now be able to dodge poo with nary a glance at their feet, but Nat is now fiscally reliant on Liz to maintain her escalating sugar high. The batter thickens....

....as do our waists. Unfortunately the same cannot be said for the enamel on Liz's teeth, which, it would seem, have already blackened and succumbed to oral leprosy.

A near-rabid Liz is herded into a local facility accustomed to pastry-induced trauma, and after receiving counselling and some sort of topical version of Primal Therapy, she forlornly resigns herself to a life of chugging baby food and watching Nat eat caramels.

And croissants.

I need some milk and a blender.

No, this is not a ribbon of cumulo-nimbus blooming out from behind the ridges of a tundra, but it is the pebbly pebbly shores of Nice..... Despite the blinding allure of hyper-bronzed grandmas/leathergoods & the clouded azure waters, there was no getting around the fact that sunbathing in Nice would at some to all points involve receiving decidedly untherapeutic full-body massage from what was, so Nat explained, "immature sand"

The locals seemed none too perturbed, especially the young, malleable ones, who even appropriated other bathers to come and sit on them in demonstration of the effectiveness of regional evolution.

Throwing caution to the windsurfers, these cocky out-of-towners were understandably bemused to find themselves compelled beyond their will to perform the ceremonial "pummeling of the arches" pas de deux.

Of course, the gravest and consequently least widely discussed glitch of bathing pebble-side is an extreme and largely (LARGELY) unattractive version of the ol' sand-in-the-togs. Mother nature, you kidder!

However, a growing number of the growing number of enterprising locals are choosing to use this impairment to their advantage by foregoing technology altogether & permanent-marking their way into the small business hall of fame (still under construction).

We've been attempting to blend but they keep staring at us.

Why walk when you can projectile?

It's hard enough to know what to give to those you love, let alone those you hate. The Inflatable Rampage Gift Boutique lets your contorted facial reactions do the purchasing as you peruse this unfortunately not-actually-out-of-this-world selection of items glimpsed around, but for some reason not in, the Mediterranean. Physical manifestations of poor taste? We'll take five!

We tried to ride this runty chrome leopard all the way back to the 70s but we only reached early 1985 before it got a lumbar cramp and is now frozen in this position forever.

We get that it's a wheel of mini cacti; exactly which foodstuff's preparation time will be cut in half thanks to the stroke suffered by this creative genius?

If the glorious rulers of feudal Japan weren't up for claiming this Moorish transvestite bridal samurai lampstand as a by-product of their regime, it just goes to show that any empire not down with social potpourri is doomed.

For the woman who has everything.....

All ladies should carry mace. Especially in this deceptively innocent form of Choc-Top - check those crushed nuts!

Fucking..... wrong.

The first artist to paint Dorian Gray eventually found employment picking the nits off second-hand bonnets before succumbing to full-body conjunctivitis.

This is what a society producing an excess of plastic and LEDs has to offer your mother-in-law next time you travel abroad. Who said the road to capitalism is straight and narrow?

Awoken from their gestational slumber, these 2 € shop takes on Alien did actually eject from their gullets successively smaller and slimier versions of their pigtailed noggins, complete with latex fangs and synthetic halitosis. The guy was a bit pissed when we politely declined, although we did buy several of his Silence of the Lambs Birthday Suits, only partly out of guilt.