by AD Moreton
I finished University in late summer1986 and somehow, following detailed forethought and careful strategic planning, stumbled into a job within R&D in relation to nuclear waste disposal for what was then the United Kingdom Atomic Energy Authority at Harwell. And that’s where I stayed until March 1995, when I eventually decided to extract myself from the tentacles of a large organisation and undertake consultancy work on a freelance basis.
During my time at Harwell, I thoroughly enjoyed the work and had the good fortune to work with some great people. And during all this, I was able to visit fascinating great places around the globe at various conferences and Client visits and meetings.
As I was coming up to leave Harwell in the Spring of 1995, I attended an NEA/OECD International Meeting in Paris representing the UK in relation to computer modelling of radioactive waste disposal. It was this particular visit, where I first began to experience and become aware of MAISTUC, full on.
I was part of a two man UK delegation going to the meeting. The other guy who was attending worked for a different organisation, although we had worked together before on previous projects, so we knew one another at least to some extent. Because of this, we decided to try and stay in the same hotel. The name of that hotel, to this day, is indelibly etched into the back of my skull. Even my skull, which has the unique ability among the homosapien species, to retain precisely zero percent of anything I ever come across, read, watch or experience. This is a unique attribute which is extremely useful; if you like repeatedly watching the same film again and again, each time being vaguely aware that you’ve seen it but not being able to remember precisely what happens or how it ends, until exactly 0.01 seconds from the finish.
Anyhow, the hotel selected was the Hotel Mont Blanc on Rue de Lauriston in Paris, ideally situated near the Champs Elysees and Arc de Triomphe. This seemed a good central location where there would be some life, some places to get something to eat and drink and the rest.
Now, I can’t remember why, but basically I managed to get booked into the Hotel Mont Blanc via my company, but the guy I was going to the meeting with was unable to do so via his own company; probably because it was full up by the time they came to book. So, he ended up having to book a hotel not far away; as within easy walking distance.
Also, again I can’t remember the details (are you picking up on a pattern yet?) and in any case the details are completely irrelevant. But, for whatever reason, we were booked on different flights and so were getting to our hotels at slightly different times in the late afternoon/early evening.
Arriving at Charles de Gaulle Airport I elected to get the train and metro to near the Arc de Triomphe and then just walk the last little bit (Oh shit!) down Rue de Lauriston to the Hotel Mont Blanc. Simple. Even an idiot like me couldn’t screw this one up. Even without my nearest and dearest to hold my hand, read the maps and basically make sure I didn’t land up in trouble; again.
It was all going to plan, until…
Until I arrived at the Arc de Triomphe and, with it just starting to get dark, it also decided to start pissing down with rain. The sort of rain that guarantees you will definitely lose your sight in both eyes and have a zero percent chance of reading any road sign in any language, especially French. Or road number. Or any hotel sign. Especially if the French International division of MAISTUC has decided, 2 days previously, to very helpfully rename the hotel (who renames hotels? How often does it happen?); and not bother telling you. Yes, helpful the French; especially in Paris.
So, after walking down Rue de Lauriston for approximately 14,238 ¾ km, in the pissing down rain, with no eyes, carefully trying to feel (in braille-like fashion) every hotel and other establishment name plate and identification number I could locate, I eventually got to the point where Rue de Lauriston became the ex. Rue de Lauriston and changed into “Rue de Let’s have un Bonn time pissing off this soaking wet incompetent Le Rosbif” (definitely, NOT paranoid).
Naturally, I assumed that with no eyes, I must have just missed the lovely, warm, comfortable inviting, Hotel Mont Blanc. So, keen to get pissed on a bit more, I turned around and repeated the process in the reverse direction, back towards the Arc de Triomphe. Once I had covered a mere 6927 ¼ km back up the road, I managed to just about make out a Café with a cleaner inside. Now being about 5:30 pm and a full 10 ½ inches from the centre of one of the world’s great capitals, in France of course, the Café was, naturally, closed. So I knocked politely on the window to see if the lady inside would open the door so I could show her my booking form for the Hotel Mont Blanc so she might perhaps point me vaguely in the right direction.
Clearly, with no eyes and soaked to the skin, she either thought I was a potential mass murderer about to try and attack her, or more likely thought “there’s another soaking wet pissed off le rosbif looking for the hotel Mont Blanc that no longer exists – screw him”, or thoughts to that effect. The door remained shut and she carried on scrubbing.
Next up, I tried a Taxi driver, who happened to be just parked up at the side of the road. Clearly, armed with the Paris knowledge, he’d be able to help me. However, when he looked at my piece of paper and denied all knowledge of the beautiful, inviting, warm, cosy Hotel Mont Blanc, complete with 1 large beer and a bottle of the finest vin rouge that Le Francias had to offer, I began to once again inhale the aroma of the ex-green grass that gets expelled from the rear end of a male cow.
With the rain eventually beginning to ease, the final 7km or so of Rue de Lauriston back towards the French big arch, became a little easier. And now, with the partially recovered assistance of one and a bit eyes, the road numbers and sign names became a little more intelligible.
Eventually, tracking the numbers that the Frogs had decided to put in place and were vaguely visible, I came to the spot that should have been “Number 51 Rue de Lauriston, Hotel Mont Blanc”. Except, whilst it was indeed number 51 and indeed a hotel, the name was not the Hotel Mont Blanc but instead the “Hotel of Changed Name, courtesy of MAISTUC” or words to that effect (once again I can’t remember the new name, only what it was MEANT to be and had been until a few days previously).
Suffice it to say, when I entered the foyer and offered my booking form, with “Hotel Mont Blanc” stuck at the top rather than “Hotel of Changed Name, courtesy of MAISTUC”, the pretty young thing at reception didn’t even blink: “Oh Bonsoir Monsieur, votre Chambre est numero cinq. Il est a la droit” thrusting me a key and pointing down to the right. [When questioned, in Franglais, she then went on to explain (thankfully, in English) the very recent hotel name change].
Suffice it to say, the trip just went downhill from this point on.
Trying and failing to get in touch with my colleague, I eventually decided to go out for a walk to get something to eat. I happened to notice on my way out and not far from my hotel a sign for a bar and made a mental note that it might be worth a visit on my way back to the hotel for a quick last drink. You know, keep the expenses claim down rather than drinking in an expensive hotel bar. As always, considerate to the end.
After filling up in an upmarket expensive restaurant just off the Champs Elysees, probably known as “Le McDonald’s de Cheval” or similar, I made my way back towards the hotel and elected to have “one for the pavement” in the bar just down the street from the hotel. No distance to stagger back.
I entered the doorway that led to some stairs down to what was clearly going to be some sort of Cellar Bar. I like Cellar Bars and Restaurants. All those arches and stone work. Full of medieval character and atmospheric lighting. Just the job.
As I got down stairs, a kind Frenchman took my jacket from me and was most welcoming. I didn’t even need to open my gob – he just immediately spoke English (something to do with the bowler hat and umbrella – I wonder).
Classy and cultured thought I; for about the next 0.3 seconds.
As I entered the bar, I couldn’t happen to notice that it opened out into quite a wide space with a good number of elegantly set out tables,
but that there weren’t very many people in the place. Just a few middle aged gents with long legged beauties.
Except at the bar, where there were quite a few. All sat having drinks on those high swivel-type bar stools.
Oh, and as I went to the bar to order a drink, I just happened to notice another thing. That all of the “people” drinking at the bar just happened to be of the chickette, as in non-bloke, variety of the human species; with extremely short skirts and barely there, low cut tops.
Now, I suppose at this point, even for me the centime started to drop. That, let’s say, the bar I had happened to have selected might not have been the number one watering hole for old religious geezers who normally reside in a place not too far displaced from Rome. And wear funny little caps with no peaks on.
And that, possibly, in addition to alcoholic and non-alcoholic beverages, “other services” may have been available for procurement in my new favourite “local”.
So, to a quick calculation – a sort of risk assessment. Should I run like hell and quickly recover my jacket from my new best mate on the door (who, did I mention, happened to be about 6’ 9” tall and twice as wide), or play it cool and sophisticated.
Well, there’s no harm in looking, thought I. And I did want a beer. And everything and everybody seemed relaxed enough.
So, a beer it was.
The bar lady (or hostess) somehow also somehow managed to deduce that I wasn’t French. And that I might be English; now, how did she manage that? And, it turned out that her English was pretty good. As indeed was one of my new best mates in black and red satin and fishnets, sat next to me at the bar.
As is usual over much of the continent, the beer was just given to me and a tab automatically opened. The conversation with the hostess and my new best mate was going fine. And the beer tasted good, even if it was a simple (small) can of Heineken. The Frogs are classy though, so they did put it in a glass.
Once my new best mates had deduced that I was English and here on business for a couple of days, and my beer was about half consumed, the hostess kindly asked me if I wanted any Champagne (as in a bottle) and “what about the nice lady?” Putting two and two together and coming up with 3,257, more centimes started to cascade down the vertical mind shaft.
Being the happily married man that I was (and am), I explained that I only wanted the single quick beer, no champagne and that my new best mate might have been a bit tiring given that I had to be up early and go to work tomorrow.
“How about a cocktail for the lady?” enquired my delightful hostess. Well, look, I admit I am tight - but I don’t like to be seen as tight. And, I still had half my beer left. And there’s no harm in a drink and a chat. And, the hostess also informed me that I now had to stay, because the show (what show?) was about to start.
Well suffice it to say, that my new friend got her cocktail and we continued our chat, assisted by the kind hostess. And the show started; and the show was also a very nice lady - with a beauty spot and not a lot else. And I managed to say “non, merci” politely enough and often enough so that my new best mate didn’t drag me off to a dark cupboard so I could check out if she also had any beauty spots.
And with that I finished my beer and asked how much I owed. Now, remember, this was 1995, before all the Euro rubbish. So when the hostess said “six-cent-francs” I simply thought that my highly tuned French hearing was clearly playing up again and asked for the bill. Which indeed confirmed the fine magnificent figure of 600 francs; which, for the uninitiated equated to £60 or so. For a small ½ pint can of crappy Heineken and a rum and coke or some other French shit; in 1995.
At this point I might of said something along the lines of “you rotten thieving French bastards kept that nice and quiet”; or words to that effect. My lovely hospitable hostess explained that my new local was not just a “bar” but a “club” and therefore I was being treated to “club” prices; in the centre of Paris.
Good job I had kept the Champagne on ice and fully corked (£270 a bottle) and that my new best mate bird in Satin didn’t manage to get her hands on my cork. No, I don’t know the price, but I suspect it would have slightly exceeded my expenses limit – how do the MPs manage to afford it? And I bet the rent boys will be even more expensive.
I have a vague recollection that it was at about this point that my best doorman mate turned up with three of his bigger brothers.
And so, risk assessing quickly, I gave my new best hostess friend 60 smackers and left with both my legs still operational; and my jacket.
The next day’s meeting went much better. And I even tracked down my colleague. We even did a bit of work.
Then, the following evening we ate out near the Eiffel Tower and only had to pay the trivial and completely inconsequential price of £9 a pop for each half glass of piss-poor watered down lager; until 04:45 in the morning. There was something to do with a bit of an argument with a barman in a hotel bar about French inefficiency and the common agricultural policy, but all that’s a bit hazy; and again no bones were broken.
The second day’s meeting was a bit on the slow side until the caffeine kicked in at about half eleven. But, we managed to get through; just.
And we actually even managed to get to the airport early. But we couldn’t change our flights to an earlier one unless we handed over an additional fee only marginally less than the Queen’s annual allowance from the Great British tax payer.
So we had a few more drinks, just to head the hangover off at the pass.
We eventually flew home. And after waiting the standard 3 ¾ months in baggage reclaim, after everybody and everything else had been claimed and long gone, I eventually reached the conclusion that BA, in full consultation with the trans-European MAISTUC system, had probably lost my suitcase. Which they had.
And, as I found out 4 days later when it was carefully hand delivered to our Oxfordshire address, in 6 ½ pieces, they had also thoroughly re-arranged it, and all it’s ex-contents.
Oh, finally, just to not incriminate the innocent and not so innocent. Yes, I did have a taxi home from the airport.
6 - Men and Supermarkets (Don’t Mix)