2003-09-29 - 1:44 p.m.

Round, round, get around, I get around. The weekend was spent in Paris, primarily to see the Tinderst*cks in concert, but also to get acquainted with a big nearby capital that I know hardly anything about. I had a great Paris moment on the first night, walking down the boulevard in my freshly ironed shirt (the �Sticks are one of the few bands it�s good to make a sartorial effort for), just having left a roadside caf�, the taste of red wine still on my lips, smoking a cigarette and feeling all Euro. I don�t need to ramble on about how good the set was, in a perfect old theatre, and sometimes you need stuff like that, especially when it�s about the tenth time you�ve seen the band. Minor religions have been founded on less. The rest of the weekend was spent dipping a cursory toe into the Gallic waters of the city and to be honest, kind of wishing I hadn�t. Staying in Montmartre is all very well, and you can indulge all your hott Amelie fantasies, as long as you can avoid the used syringes, and going out in the Latin quarter is all very well if you�ve remortgaged your flat in time to buy a round of drinks (pricier than Tokyo, which really takes a big commitment). You can deal with all that. The kicker, of course, is that Parisians, without exception, are the rudest, most hateful people it�s ever been my complete displeasure to mingle among. For people with so obviously little to be arrogant about, they are just incredibly snotty, and when they aren�t ignoring you for hours on end (the waiters) they are physically invasive (everyone on the metro). The waiters are bizarre because they have to train for three years to work in restaurants, though I think every class must be a lesson in advanced repellence with a minor in applied dickhead-ery. And yes, I was ordering in French, though I may as well have been launching gobs of pox-ridden phlegm at them for all the difference it made to their manners. It�s not even charmingly dismissive like New York waiting staff, it�s just thuggish and laughable. I can only imagine it�s chronic embarrassment about the state of their city that makes them so bitter � imagine a place where there are only about three taxis after midnight and you can begin to see what an utterly baseless superiority it really is. Much as I have loved everywhere else in France, I ain�t loving Paris in the Springtime, or any other season. Why is this place so idolised? Maybe I just don�t get it. Someone put me straight, please.