Thursday 10th July 2025, 09.10:
I’m currently being driven to Manchester Airport with my old friend Jack Woodyet, ready to jet off to Paris. We’ve just stopped at the services so Carl could get a McDonalds breakfast (he’s kindly driving us to the airport), so I’ve decided to play some Fishin’ Frenzy whilst I wait, and Jack has decided to watch over me and laugh as I lose my money. He also just asked if I’m looking forward to our trip. Honestly? No. It’s far too fucking warm.
On top of the unbearable heat, I was at Centre Court at Wimbledon on Monday, so I feel like the bar for my week has been set quite high. In fairness though, we’ve got tickets for the Fondation Louis Vuitton tomorrow morning to see the David Hockney exhibition, which I am absolutely ecstatic for. Hopefully they have air conditioning, although they are French, so I won’t hold my breath.
So here we are, another holiday blog. Strap in. H x
Thursday 10th July 2025, 12.50:
I’m on the plane, sitting next to Jack, reading Art as Therapy by Alain de Botton & John Armstrong. As I look out of the window at the English Channel below, pondering the lessons de Botton proffers in his book, I can’t help but be thankful for my life.
It isn’t perfect, far from it actually, and it has been a somewhat difficult journey to get to where I am today (perhaps an understatement), but when you really think about it, life is a wonderful, beautiful thing, which should be treasured and protected at all costs.
We spend too much time focused on the negatives in life, with a cynicism that is consistently encouraged by our peers and reinforced by the media, who profit by taking advantage of our worries and fears. We must spend more time focused on how lucky we are to even be here.
That’ll do for now. H x
Thursday 10th July 2025, 17.40:
I’m sitting outside L’Endroit, with a glass of Chardonnay and 20 Marlboro Gold. €13 a pack, which explains why the French are always rioting.
Paris is very lovely, and much prettier than England. There’s also plenty of talent about. The apartment we’re staying in is absolutely stunning too, decorated almost identically to how I’d furnish my own (if I could ever afford one), and it’s in quite a nice area. We are currently walking to the Arc de Triomphe, but we only managed 15 minutes before we stopped for a glass of wine.
Did I mention there’s plenty of talent about? H x
Thursday 10th July 2025, 18.35:
We made it to the Arc de Triomphe, which we duly stared at for 90 seconds, before settling in at a beautiful little Bistro just down the street. We’ve ordered two steaks (mine rare, Jacks medium, because I am better) and two glasses of Chardonnay. The waiter, in broken English, responded “White wine? With the meat? Are you sure?”
Welcome to Paris. H x
Thursday 10th July 2025, 21.45:
As I write, I’m sitting in the apartment with a glass of Sauvignon Blanc, listening to the quiet hum of Parisian life from below with the balcony door wide open. Surely it doesn’t get much better than this?
After we finished dinner, and perhaps due to the wine, we decided to cycle home on some of the Lime bikes. It’s no overstatement when I tell you that it was essentially the Tour de France, but a bit gayer. We cycled on the wrong side of the road (accidentally), we ran several red lights (accidentally), we went the wrong way down a one way street (accidentally), we nearly got hit by a bus (twice, accidentally), and yet somehow, we made it back in one piece.
It ended up costing us more to cycle back than it would have to get an Uber, which perhaps demonstrates our lack of cycling experience, but by god it was fun. The wind rushing through your hair, shouting obscenities to each other as we tried desperately to not get mowed down by Parisian traffic – it really was something spectacular. I only wish you could have seen it for yourselves.
Jack has gone out to meet a “friend” now (I think that’s code for bum fun), so I’m probably going to read some of my book and have another glass or two of wine, whilst trying to ignore the fact that I’ve been here for six hours and already spent £115. Yes, I know, and to preempt your question, I’ve got no idea how I’ve spent that much either. Perhaps ordering a bottle of wine and some chocolate ice cream on Uber Eats because I couldn’t be arsed to walk to the shop wasn’t my best idea.
It really is a hard life being an international gentleman of leisure. Speak tomorrow. H x
Friday 11th July 2025, 10.15:
Good morning darling. I’m just in the back of a Lexus on the way to the Fondation Louis Vuitton. I did consider public transport, but then I remembered that I’m better than that.
I’ve had a Pan au Chocolat, a black coffee and four cigarettes for breakfast, so I’m raring to go. I paid €6.50 for a bottle of sparkling water too – it seems the French are also in the midst of a cost of living crisis.
Mush dash, our driver just nearly killed a cyclist. H x
Friday 11th July 2025, 13.15:
It’s almost too hot to type. In fact, I’m not going to type much. I’m just going to say that David Hockney is a genius and one of the greatest artists to ever live. I’ll enclose some of my favourites below;
What, you thought I’d go to an art exhibition that didn’t involve nude men somehow? Grow up.
We cycled back to the city centre afterwards, with slightly less dramatics this time. We’ve now stopped for a spot of lunch at a cafe in the park near the Louvre. We did want to go and explore the museum, but the next available tickets are for 23rd July, which isn’t ideal – a severe lack of foresight and planning from Jack.
Ah, I can see the twinky waiter approaching. Must dash. H x
Friday 11th July 2025, 17.20:
We’re back at the apartment now, after a traumatising afternoon. I regret to inform you, ladies and gentleman, that the worst thing you could possibly imagine has happened – I had to get a bus.
After lunch we took a stroll around the city, wandering past the Louvre and Notre Dame. I wish I could say it was a relaxed walk, but it wasn’t, because it was THIRTY degrees and I was so sweaty I started to worry I would dehydrate and die on the spot. Paris is very beautiful, and has lots of iconic landmarks, but why is everything so fucking far apart?
Anyway, we decided to call it quits after that, since we were both in a bit of a state. However, because of several road closures, Uber’s were double their normal price and taking longer than double their normal time to get anywhere, so we decided on.. on.. I can’t even bring myself to type the word. The B word that carries all of the poor people around, you know what I’m referring to. It was hot, sweaty, smelly, overcrowded, noisy and, all in all, without any exaggeration, the worst experience of my life.
Once we finally got off the bus, we popped to the shop for some essentials (two bottles of wine, 20 Marlboro Gold, and a baguette) before finally heading home. I’m not sure what the plan is tonight, but I’m secretly hoping it’s to stay here and do fuck all.
Bloody global warming. Such a nuisance. H x
Saturday 12th July 2025, 09.10:
I’m in an Uber again, this time on my way to Le Marais, which is the gay district apparently. Absolutely no idea why we’re going there – as we all know, I’m extremely heterosexual.
I can confirm that last night I stayed in the apartment and did fuck all. I drank a bottle of wine, watched Sinner vs Djokovic, played some Chess with Jack, read some of my book and, almost, relaxed. It was quite nice actually. Jack did pop out to go for some dinner, and planned to cycle there, but had to stop five minutes into his journey because it was too hot, demonstrating the sensibleness of my decision to stay in the apartment.
It’s a glorious morning today, the perfect temperature with a nice breeze. Unfortunately, the temperature is going to climb another 10 degrees by mid-afternoon, so that’s another day ruined. I think we’re planning to do a bit of shopping this morning, then maybe visit the Eiffel Tower, but I doubt we’ll get anything else done, because it’s just too hot.
Where is Al Gore when you need him. H x
Saturday 12th July 2025, 11.05:
I’m currently walking to the Palais de l’Élysée by myself, having left Jack waiting for the shops to open in the gay district. It’s a Saturday morning, so obviously most of them don’t open until 11 o’clock, or some even 12 o’clock. Now, I know it’s a common trope that the French are lazy, and you could argue that this fact reinforces that, but I don’t agree with stereotyping, as I think it’s unfair and xenophobic. However, I do think the French are fucking lazy.
I have decided that Paris is very beautiful but it’s very inconvenient. Public transport is shit, taxis are extortionate, and everything is too far away to walk. Even cycling will cost you €10 a pop. I’ve decided I like it, but I won’t be rushing back. I can’t believe I’m even saying this, but it makes the London Underground look mightily impressive.
Of course, Palais de l’Élysée is the home of President Macron, who we all know and love in Britain. I might pop in and offer him my thoughts on his wonderfully inconvenient city.
Speak soon. H x
Saturday 12th July 2025, 16.05:
I popped in to see Mr Macron, but unfortunately, he wasn’t home. I left a message with Brigitte.
For those of you not into politics, Brigitte is the wife of President Macron, which makes that an absolutely fucking hilarious joke.
It’s been a leisurely day. I continued my wander after stopping at Casa de Macron, stopping for a spot of lunch at a street vendor just down from the Palais de l’Élysée. I had a Hot Dog Granité, which sounds exotic but was actually just two hot dogs in a baguette with some cheese on it. Say what you will about the French, but they know how to glitter a turd.
Jack then caught up with me, and we strolled to the Eiffel Tower, although not before stopping again at a lovely little cafe for a spot of lunch for Jack. There seems to, quite literally, be a cafe on every street corner in Paris, which is something I admire deeply.
If I had to sum up the Eiffel Tower in two words, I think I’d say this – big tower. It’s a mightily impressive feat of architecture, and it’s very tall, and very pretty. It was nice to see so many people sitting in the surrounding grounds, picnicking and enjoying themselves. I’d probably recommend it.
After that, we jumped in an Uber to the Basilique du Sacré-Cœur de Montmartre. I used the car journey as an opportunity to catch up with the cricket, watching the replay of a bloody good run out by Ben Stokes. On arrival at the Sacré-Cœur, I was honestly a little bit gobsmacked. I won’t be able to (can’t be arsed to) do the view of the city from the top of the hill justice, so I’ll just enclose a picture below.
We’re back at the apartment now after a quick stroll home. I’ve just got out of the shower, which was probably the nicest part of my day. I think I might read my book for a bit now. Chow. H x
Saturday 12th July 2025, 23.00:
By my count of the windows, there are 35 apartments in the building opposite ours, although this may be slightly out considering the amount of wine I’ve consumed this evening. A handful have the lights on, but most are hidden in the darkness by now. Still, behind those windows are thirty five stories. Some of those stories are written by a lone author, some by multiple authors, but they all have their own tale to tell. I count eleven buildings on that side of the street, meaning there are probably eleven more on this side, and that’s just one street, in a city so big it would take you three hours to walk from one side to the other.
I think that’s the allure of a city like Paris summed up in a paragraph. Big enough to lose yourself in, but ample opportunity to write your own story. As you watch the lights get switched off one by one from across the street, maybe it’s worth spending some time considering whether the story you’re currently writing is the one you really want to tell.
Or perhaps two bottles of wine is too much, and I need to go to bed. H x
Sunday 13th July 2025, 11.25:
We’re sitting outside a cafe just up the road from our apartment, having checked out this morning. I’ve had an Espresso and a croissant, and I’m currently alternating between reading The Sunday Times and doing a spot of people watching. There’s definitely worse ways to spend a Sunday morning.
We were going to visit the Palace of Versailles this morning, but yesterday afternoon we discovered you need tickets and, surprise surprise, they’ve sold out. I think my main takeaway from this trip will be to avoid leaving the itinerary to Jack for anything ever again. Instead, we’re going to sit at this cafe for three hours, play chess, talk shit, admire the local talent and be sad that we have work tomorrow. Not a bad Plan B I suppose.
I’ve enjoyed Paris. It’s been far too warm, which has limited my options somewhat, but it’s still been an absolute joy to explore such a beautiful city. The architecture is stunning, and the culture and way of life is something I think we Brits could learn a thing or two from.
Another successful trip. Speak soon. H x
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