White Horse (Soho)

Amelie Poulain (Amelie)

Après midi. Saturday à Londres. Parisian waitress Amelie Poulain shuffles Frenchly through le streets of un capital angry.

Flushed with success dans la France, our 'eroine has portez her life's work across le channel. Pour elle donner une mission trés speciale. L'urge to aider mankind had engulfed her once more, taking her to the powder-keg rues d'Angleterre.

Londres, a city cast down by malade imaginaire. Et Soho – l'epicentre de pain and suffering. Mais, despairez vous pas. Amilie Poulain holds the cure. For she is French, belle, et has le milk d'human kindness flowing through her petite veins.

She spies an anonymous, public house on the coin de la rue. C'est le Chevaux Blanc. Porquoi pas start 'ere, she reasons.

Entring slowly, she approaches le bar, fear and anticipation pounding her coeur against a tight blouse. Baleful souls perch on bar stools - le detritus d'Angleterre. Looking down, nous herione moves forward to the square bar, trés doucement.

A simian avec un Spurs shirt – l'homme de bar - grunts her way. Elles parles trés, trés quietly, sans looking up at le sange Anglais.

"Monsieur, you are 'aving such a lovely pub," she lies squeakily. "A small 'alf of lageur, si vous plait; and monsieur, maybe I like to buy you a drink too."

Coyly, her eyes flutter upwards, meeting those of l'ape-homme before darting back towards to the floor. The magic is done; his visage lights-up like a candle. The first drink anyone has ever bought him 'ere – et une saucy tartlet francaise to boot.

"Don't mind if I do luv," he says pouring une double scotch.

L'entente cordiale est arrivé. Barriers of xenophobia are broken like so many glasses; "maybe le French are not so bad," le sange raisons to 'imself, "les oiseaux at least."

Maintenant, Amelie takes her mission to l'autre side of the bar. She spies a stool next to deux hommes de la rue. Amelie is not put off by ze stench of leur vetements or ze fact that they have clearly had beaucoup de sherry cette matin.

"Je suis Amelie," she says quietly. "pêut étre, I buy you hommes a pair of strong Alpine lagers, non?"

Deux lives, defined by misery, uplifted pour une moment by kindness delivered by une angel francaise. A strangely attractive stranger. C'est magnifique.

Chaud et 'appy, her new friends accept, raising nicotine-stained glasses to their French heroine. "Cheers luv,….I take it …..you woik up that Revue Bar…..what with being doirty and French and all?"

Amelie ne understands pas l'accent Irish, but smiles gently. Shyly, she slips from the stool and ambles through to bar number trois. For il ya a beaucoup d'aires boire une verre dans the White Horse.

Finalement, she spies a couple of lonely gentlemen, propping up le bar. She approaches nonchalant-like.

"Excusez moi. I cannot 'elp but notice you 'ave only ze alves of Alpine monsieurs. May I, as an ambassadeur pour humanity, buy you ze top-up as it were, haw, hee, haw?"

Ze gentlemen, dazzled by her joie de vivres, explir that they are only having ze swift 'alf before the matinee performance of Glengarry Glen Ross at le theatre round le corner.

CRASH!

What is zis? Surely not ze violence? Not after Amelie has delivered l'ambiance of peace to le pub d'angry ros bifs? Non! Juste une accident. Dans l'autre side of ze bar, a drunk homme has knocked une verre on the ground. Oaf de clumsy. Pas problem, says le sange-barman, in Anglais.

Le sange leans down et pulls one of two grande buckets from under ze bar. Both are full of ze broken glasses. Zis is clearly a boo-ser where 'appen a lot of 'accidents'.

For Amelie, zis is a sign. She recalls l'ami, l'artist Parisian avec le brittle bones. Ze man of glass. Her 'eart races once more. Leaning over ze bar, she whispers to le sange.

"Monsieur, you are a glass homme too, non?"

"Dunno what you mean by that love. But don't suppose you fancy a glass of le Piat D'or after closing time?"

Le Piat D'Or? Oh, la la….. Non!.... C'est une insult terrible.

L'expression d'Amelie changes. Elle turns on her heels, 'eading straight for le door et l'Eurostar back to civilisation. A stream of sange-barman insults ring in 'er delicate ears as she departs le pub.

".....and don't come back ya French 'arlot……"

Amelie's rating for the White Horse – deux et un demi out of dix.

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• Natural Selection,..

  “,….. Why didn’t they live to be 100?Huh? Well, they woz running round all day, hunting mammoths, eating berries,..rumping their little hearts out. No boozing or smoking. They must have been fit as fiddles. Yer Neanderthalls……….I’ll tell you why, it’s … Continue reading →