Flipping through my iPhone photos and looking for new header images prompted me to make a post.  Of sorts.

Here is the latest run down of what is happening in .Paris lately:-

It happened that I managed to quite literally make it rain.

Being on my own in the safety of the bar, you never quite expect shit to go real quickly.  However, this false sense of security was shattered when the beer tap decided to leave the confines of the wall.

This wasn’t a particularly unexpected event as it had shown itself to be planning its great escape for some time, but of course it had to happen to me.  And with it approximately 8 pints followed in their bid for freedom.

Nothing more hilarious than watching my confused face with a short beer shower before I ran manically down to disconnect the fût from causing more chaos.  I cried inside and smelled of a drinking problem for a while after.

The things you see on the métro can be hilarious, intimidating or just full on crazy.

However after a few drinks any old crap can be come a meme if you sing « they see me rollin’, they hatin' » on ligne 14.

As you can tell this was that exact situation.  Because why the hell not?

Our legally registered Danish person (#TokenDanish) has gone back off to Danishland to be Danish and do Danish things.  What they may be, we will never know as the Danes live in the Hermit Kingdom eating butter and things in between waging wars against Tesco.

They’re a nobel people as this photo illustrates.

Eating Brunch is a Paris tradition like speaking French or the Wednesday afternoon beheadings that founded this country.

Thankfully we have a number of establishments to cater to your brunch requirements, as long as you brunch around 13h.

Having seen Victoria and the rest of the Dirty Dick Dunkers for a brunch meet at Rachel’s I without any sense of shame took two meals under the pretext that the first one was particularly small.  As you can see from this photo, it’s small if you compare it to, say, an Elephant Steak.

I’m not going to lie when I say afterwards even smoking was difficult as if my body confused itself in to thinking the smoke goes in to your stomache and not your tar/pollution riddled lungs.  Silly Brain!

With my Italian friend making his way back to his home Sicile to be Italian (there is a trend here) and get better café, we remember the time we did frighteningly French things, like sit in le jardin du Luxembourg speaking French while I violently burned under the ray of the evil sun god.  On the brightside I got this kick ass Instagram photo.

Totes worth the skin cancer.