The British are Coming

The British have descended on Paris like a fat, drunken apocalypse. Right now, out of my window overlooking a seemingly peaceful Parisian terrace, I can hear the fight song of Arsenal FC being sung. Sorry, the verb to sing implies maybe a modicum of artistic merit. These are drunken (keep in mind it's 2:45pm as I'm writing this), out of tune, overweight British soccer fans yelling something that sounds like "get out of the way, get out of the way" ad nauseum. As of now, they've invaded most of the bars around Place de Clichy, or any place that serves 2-pint beer glasses in preparation for the Champions League final being held in Paris at the Stade de France against FC Barcelona.

Last night, I went over by the Bastille to have a glass of wine at Cafe de Bastille before having dinner at Le Petit Bofinger. I was hoping for a relaxing hour or so with Meredith to do some people watching when we soon realized they'd came. We'd seen them earlier on the metro in their jerseys, blocking the moving walkway at the Chatelet Metro Station, trying to unwrap sandwiches and pop open beers. These same English soccer fans had been drinking for several hours at Kilty's Irish Pub on the Place de Bastille. These guys were loaded. We're talking spilling out into the streets, blocking traffic, staring down buses (and almost getting run over by one of them) and hoisting mugs high while belting out the Arsenal fight song, which is still managing to pierce through the tranquility of the garden by the apartment as I'm writing this.

Anyways, after tonight, they'll probably head out, or maybe some meek FC Barcelona fans will get out on the town as well, we'll see. I'm just not really looking forward to an Arsenal win tonight, even though I'd love to see them pull through against Barcelona - Thierry Henry is my favorite player.