Lost in France

Four intrepid tourists - headed by our gallant leader Arkwright assemble in the pub at 9.30am on Saturday 3rd October. The mission: Paris to watch the Prix de l'Arc de Triomphe at Longchamp.

What could possibly go wrong?

In a stunning display of restraint, not one of the tour party imbibes a pint; rather they munch on toast and drink tea. It is rumoured that this is GarySpurs' first non-alcoholic drink since 1981.

Next up another remarkable achievement; all four make it to King's Cross without splitting up or going via Exeter. Our gallant leader Arkwright hands the tour party their train tickets, which he has carefully printed off for them and they stride purposefully towards the ticket machine. Which promptly refuses the tickets. Much scratching of grey hair and five minutes later, Arkwright realises he has given them the return tickets. Ah well, only a minor mistake. Correct tickets accepted, our heroic quartet board the Eurostar and find - to their horror - an old couple in their seats. Realising that the poor old dears must have been confused, they help them to their feet and are about to take their places when our gallant leader Arkwright realises that it is they, actually, who are in the wrong. They are indeed on the right seats; they are in the wrong carriage, however...

The old dears are safely returned to their rightful roosts and our group finally manage to secure their correct seating. Feeling contented now, it is time to celebrate and thus pints are ordered. The journey under the Channel is unremarkable and much beer is quaffed. So much, in fact, that by the time the train emerges into the Calais sun, the bar has run out of beer. No matter, they think, we are in France so we'll have some wine. Before long, this also runs out. Subsequently, so does the Champagne. And the Brandy.

Eventually, the train arrives at Paris Gard du Nord and our foursome wobble off the train into the mild Parisian air. Next challenge: get to the hotel. Daunted by the fact that the inhabitants all speak foreign, they make the brave decision to simply get a cab to the hotel and 20 minutes and 50 Euros later they arrive. Check-in goes smoothly and unfortunately the same cannot be said of finding the rooms. Our gallant leader sheepishly returns to reception and asks the receptionist to guide him to his room. She is naturally wary of a half-pissed amorous Englishman asking to be led to his bedroom, but she completes the task with good grace and without molestation.

After unpacking what luggage they had taken (on average, 1 pair of gruts, 2 T-shirts, 2 packs of Nurofen and 1 pack of Alka Setzer) the four converge in the hotel bar for their first pint on French soil. "Quatre bierres, s'il vous plait" Ray the Arse(nal fan) boldly says to the barman. The barman regards the quartet with understandable disdain; what stands before him makes him more certain than ever that the Channel Tunnel should be bricked up and the Channel filled with mines. He grudgingly serves up 4 half litre glasses of Kronenbourg and announces the price "Quarante-huit (48 for comprehensive school readers) Euros"

Sacre bleu!

It is at this point that Lloydy utters that well-known phrase "Go arse-fuck yourself!". Despite their shock, they pay up and decide amongst themselves that it must be the fact that they are in a fairly decent hotel; they will drink up and find a local bar where prices are bound to be much more reasonable. Aren't they...?

Our patriotic party finish their beers and depart, muttering things about Agincourt under their breaths as they stride. After a good two minutes of walking, the quartet have tired and are in need of refreshment so they stride purposefully into a fairly nice looking bar occupied by a few natives who are either drinking a small coffee or nursing a 25cl glass of beer. "Quatre bierres, s'il vous plait" goes up the cry and our illustrious four sit down for a session. Many hours pass. Many beers and Sambukas and Baileys are drunk. Time to settle up. The bar tab amounts to just shy of 800 Euros. Eeek! At this point in time, Ray the Arse's rosy cheeks turn ashen; not being an overpaid plumber like Gary Spurs, or a millionaire pension like our gallant leader Arkwright, he is fearful of whether he will have enough money to survive the 2 day tour, even if he must have saved loads of money on food shopping recently. Even Lloydy is visibly shaken.

They leave and being somewhat the worse for wear, decide to hail a taxi. Except you can't in Paris. There don't appear to be any. Showing true bulldog spirit Gary Spurs decides to flag down a dodgy looking Albanian who - after a bit of negotiation - agrees to take them back to their hotel. A mere 30 Euros. Bargain.

Sunday morning - race day. After a few liveners in the hotel bar, the group set off and miraculously manage to get to Lonchamps and it's only 10 Euros to get in. Bargain. There is seemingly no draught beer. No matter, 4 cans of Kronenbourg are ordered. 72 Euros...even Gary Spurs is looking worried now...

Realising that cashflow is looking tight, very little money is gambled on actual racing. The money needs to be saved for drinking purposes. After leaving the racecourse they eventually find a bar selling 50cl of draught for a mere 7 Euros. The rest of the night descends into a drink-fuelled haze and the four horsemen of the apocolypse make it safely back to the hotel.

Monday morning; time to go home. The foursome gather in the hotel bar for a livener and the barman takes one look at the straggly group and promptly moves them into another bar - away from the windows lest passers-by see them.

Re-fuelled, they gather their bags and ask the hotel receptionist to get them a cab back to the Gard du Nord. "Why do you need a cab?" enquires the receptionist. "Because we got a cab to get here in the first place" proffers our gallant leader Arkwright. "But it's only 300 metres down on the right" replies the receptionist...

The train trundles out of Paris and the weary four decide to drown their sorrows on the train...So much, in fact, that by the time the train enters the Chunnel, the bar has run out of beer. No matter, they think, we'll have some wine. Before long, this also runs out. Subsequently, so does the Champagne. And the Brandy...

Disembarking at King's Cross, the tour party decide to have a few light ales in the Duke of York. Only £12 for four beers. Sheer heaven!

Arkwright Holiday Tours : whatever your budget, we guarantee to leave you potless!


Update: Since returning from Paris, Ray the Arse has been forced to live on a diet of sell-by date smoked haddock and cat food.