What happened next

After hours

You've gotta remember here, that the evening was really organised for our clients and given that there were a few places left over, my boss and i thought it would be nice to invite a few of our trainers along too.

Now, most our clients are what we call in France cadres and cadres supérieurs - managers and senior managers - people that have a certain 'weight' in their companies.

At the end of the evening - at about 9 o'clock - one of the guys at my table suggested we go for a few beers ...

Our trainers, without any hesitation said "O.K, let's do it".

Gulp, i thought, it's going to get messy ....

Sooooooooooooooooo
We kinda started out here, somewhere at the bottom end of the Champs Elysées for a suposedly quick drink.

Everything was going swimmingly, until one guy, in his late forties, decided he was going to make a night of it.

So he told us to wait for him here whilst he took his car home - gulp, gulp that is never a good sign when someone tells you that.

About half an hour later he came back, full of beans and the joy of life.

He decided that it was a bit too calm and that we should go elsewhere - the night is young and all that.

Specifically, he wanted to find an english pub - at that point i kinda knew what he had in mind.


As the evening wore on, blokey got progressively more drunk ...

But not drunk as in punch drunk ... more kinda like, chatty drunk ... 'hey girlssshh' kinda drunk :^°

Which is fine if it's with young chicks that are single like this bunch here - i think that already we can guess that he met with mixed responses.

Absolutely incredible, no girl could withstand of his charm and pulling power, he seemed to think.

A girl magnet.

From a distance it seemed to be exactly that, in fact ... but, because i felt a sense of responsibility i'd go over and see if wanted a drink or whatever, and the object(s) of his inebriated affections would say "Is he with you ?" ... hmm ... say no more.

It's funny in a way, but it gets a bit hairy if he doesn't choose his target discerningly, y'know ... if she/they is/are, a bit, kind of like accompagnée ... if you get my drift.

So as the night wore on i had to move into chaperone mode ... every bar we went into i'd be saying 'right, it looks a bit dead in here to me, boys, let's have a swifty and find somewhere else' ... anything to stop him settling for more than five minutes ...

Things really went down hill from there ... the equivalent of 'oi, your laaaavvverly dahleeen' - but in french obviously - to anything that had a pulse and high heels.

We found, what i thought would be a good safe bet - a pub with a pool table - keep him occupied i thought.

No sooner had we arrived, ordered and put some money down to play; Misterman had disappeared, vanished *plouf* into thin air ... he wasn't in the loo, he didn't seem to have his tongue in someones ear hole, there were no shrieks or cries of 'clear orrrf yer bugger gerroffahhhta it' ... everything was calm ... tooooo calm.

We started playing - me and the other three sensible ones - when i could see a bouncer watching us ... or at least looking persistantly in our direction.

The kind of bouncer that nightmares have nightmares about ...

uh-oooh.

Misterman, had managed to find the stairs to the cellar and was being voilently sick, all over himself all over the stairs, the walls ... he was redecorating the place ... none too discretely.

The bouncer had seen us come in with him.

We were grillés as they say in french.

That was about it - the bouncer went over, dragged yer man up the stairs, dumped/sat him on the pool table and said to us - "c'est a vous ça ?" - whereupon we took the hint that our night of fun and games had better finish a bit sharpish.