01:00; My dear hells, the difference ten days makes.Why yes, I’m gloating after nine in the evening. Why yes, I saved a town full of people today.Why yes, those are both once-offs, I assure you.
07:00; Residing in ‘La Pantalon Rouge’ is little different on the Continent than it is on the Isle; many of the girls are multilingual, and they are all at least bilingual. Being bi is a requirement here, I hear.
08:00; I breakfast as the greatest gentlemen in Christendom and as the rich Japanese do – surrounded by ancient and expensive Western art. The loo in the Lourve alone is a watercloset worthy of Waterloo.
09:00; Landing an airship in the Louvre is an international crime. Landing a windmill bordello adjacent to the Louvre, crushing that crime of a pyramid, is to win France’s Man of the Year. Gold medal landing.
10:00; Stole some old bones that poked out from under the plexiglass pyramid. Wonder who I could summon with these? Later, French midgets arrived and asked me to follow the Yellow Sick Toad.
11:00; Despite his yellow-jaundiced appearance, its origin in his occassional alcoholic indulgence, and the fact that he is a frog, Yellow Sick Toad does seem like a mean nickname for Nicolas Sarkozy.
11:30; Apparently Yellow Sick Toad is his popular nickname of unpopularity. Sarkozy himself likes to think they call him the Wonderful Lizard. Like Clemenceau was ‘The Tiger’. Because he was Grrreat.
12:00; Oooh, a parade at noon Mr. President? Defeating the socialist candidate, getting tough on pirates, old Sarko and I could get on like a house on fire – flames, screams, anarchic death . . .
13:00; An animatronic giant with my visage shall march down the Champs Élysées, laser beams in the eyes and missiles in the fingers, voice of Depardieu booming my victory. Or at least thats what he says.
14:00; My fellow Whitby folk have docked in Le Harve, with nothing to declare but their hatred of the French. What matter if the bricks and mortar are underwater? We saved that which is most important –
14:30; – the 20 people who held 90% of the town’s economic capital, and the 13,595 now-homeless minimum wage labour paid to drain every last puddle, resurrect every last pedestal. On the slave-cheap.
15:00; I’m afraid the town flood was ultimately necessary to drive away the military. They would have killed the zombies, us, and our own personal undead ancestors. They never liked Day of the Dead. Boo.
16:00; Yes, Ireland would have been closer to Whitby than Paris. So? Tartarus is closer to Hades than the Elysian Fields. The land of potato homunculi (the leprechaun) and medicinal methanol is not for me.
17:00; Yes, I am comparing Paris to heaven. The food, the books, the art, the architecture, the history, the burnt effigies of Dan Brown. I mean, it is still insuperably, insufferably full of French people but still…
18:00; They never turned up Nation’s boat in the wake of the other ships, Navy or Whitby alike. Well, of course he is dead. That I’m sure of. It is just that Nation lacks the good grace for ‘death’ to stop him.
18:30; I’m not worried. Villainy never sleeps, Heroism is ever vigilant. However my war-crime committing, whole town-saving flitting, self gets by with an easy eight hours of sleep a night. I’m just a bad man.
19:00; In fact, perhaps a celebratory tipple is in order . . .
20:00; Wine! Gin! Petrol! Drinking the midgets under the table was hard, then I realised they were French kids. Wine adds 10 years. In sleep they resemble angels. I buy a glass of ice and steal their kidneys.
21:00; Back home by nine. This would be nebbish of me, if my roaming home was not a drink-filled bordello filled with fillies and fellows. Thankfully, I can sleep through noonday cannon. And often did so.
22:00; Told the French troops their money was no good here. Not because they are admirable paragons of the international art of war and the trying profession of peace, but because all they had was euros.
22:30; Set up a bureau de change, with specific intent to short change. Every little hurts. Hey, if the girls have bear having notes pressed into their bare g-strings, they might as well bear friendly familiar faces.
23:00; Open led me to bed. I told her I had not drank enough to be drunk yet. She said yes, the point of an early bed is so that I could keep my point well into the morning. She knows what she wants. Yay!
00:00; . . . is that a feather . . .
01:00; . . . is that a whole chicken . . .
02:00; . . . is that a Whitby Pterodactyl skeleton . . .
03:00; Yes I’m gloating before nine in the morning again. From now on I’m of the opinion I’ll try everything twice, to make sure I got it right the first time. Early to bed, early to rise again, and again, and again.
03;30; Bang goes my eight hours. Bang indeed.