My pals call me Guillaume, but I’d prefer you address me formally. Je m’appelle...Bill. I’m in a spot of bother. Real hot water. The water’s so hot I’m cooking like a motherflippin’ pot roast. I’ll tell you what happened, just hold on tightly because this is a bumpy ride.
This is my apartment in Paris. The most romantic city in the world. Getting here was tougher than getting into a nun’s bedroom, but I persevered because I just had to up sticks and move out of that two-bit town I used to call home. Full of people getting sozzled and being sick on neighbourhood cats, chubby pramfaces fattening their kiddies up, presumably in order to eat them one day, people who think Family Guy is a great comedy. So I landed here.
It’s a glorious lifestyle with me and my French buddies – Florence, Lorraine, Gabrielle. Oh, don’t let the names fool you. Those boys are as soft as a Normandy camembert. We enjoy the typical saucy hi-jinx a quartet of eligible bachelors tends to indulge in. We like the legal high of excessive tulip sniffing. We enjoy reading poetry to our favourite Mademoiselles, usually our mothers. We have fun playing poker; although due to our ignorance of the rules our game is somewhat a cross between Bridge and Three Card Monty.
But our main passion is art, which is the crux of my dilemma. Many’s the afternoon we spend at the Musee Du Louvre, eyeing up exhibitions by our favourite avant-garde artist Monsieur Sacrebleu, a neurotic painter who once claimed to have heard his parrot recite Gestalt’s principles of perception. We love his distorted human-figure paintings so much that last week we adorned ourselves in our Catwoman Halloween outfits and snuck into the gallery at 4am and stole three of his paintings.
Unfortunately I drew the short baguette and it is my apartment in which they are being stored, our plan now is shrouded in uncertainty. One of them is facing me now, a framed portrait of a pasty, troll-like creature in deep disarray....Oh, my mistake, that’s a picture of my aunt Harriet. Ahh Harriet, you were once the most beautiful lady in Liverpool, now you barely scrape the top 3.
I digress. I pontificate. Put simply, the rozzers are onto me. Truth be told, on that infamous night a couple of Winos on a park bench caught us hurtling the paintings towards my apartment. We let them be as we assumed they were drunk out of their minds on their bottle of Bordeaux, but perhaps they were simply admiring its bouquet.
Oh goodness, perhaps they’ve already been to the police department! The police force are very open-minded in this region. After they snootily laugh in your face and spit on your shoes they’ll more than likely take note of your report.
Dear oh dear, I can’t take it. They could be here at any time. They’ll find those paintings and that will be it! I’m facing years behind bars! I must confess, only in order to facilitate the situation. I hope the boys will forgive me, though considering their delicate features, prison may be too hellish for them to ever pardon me!
Thank you for listening, old boy. I must now turn myself in, once I offer a spot of herbal tea to those fine uniformed chaps knocking on my door.
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