 THE SEYMOUR MONKEY CHRONICLES: Sacre Coer white and magnificent above, sketch artist infestation below. Up the hill tourists touch Saint Peter for luck, while down on Cliche Street they try their luck getting touched up by Pierre. I look out on Boulevard de Clichy, the main drag in the district of the black cat, the area from which my hotel takes its name, Chat Noir. Outside tom cats prowl past spruikers pushing porn and pussy. Inside funky decor, fluffy pillows and Eiffel views. I lick my fur into a style to pass Parisian muster and then pad down the stairs into the night.
The city pulses with life. Strip club hawkers descend plugging their wares. The best, the prettiest, the cleanest, the dirtiest – take your pick. I leave their spiels hanging in the chilly air like their frozen breath. They retreat to their doorways awaiting new prey. I pause outside the most famous of them all, The Moulin Rouge.  The red windmill draws me in - Burlesque and expensive champagne, feather boas and cheesy smiles. I take my seat front row in camel toe central, shaded by high kicks and tickled by twirled feathers. Outside Montmarte nightlife simmers – Girls, glam and gadgetry. I pass on the meal and just take in the show. As I am by myself I score the best seat in the house, an empty seat on someone else’s table right up the front. I drink in the atmosphere with my complimentary bubbly. Stern faced husband’s sit with their wives trying not to betray any indications that they might be enjoying the flesh on show. Perhaps dreading the after show post mortem. “Yes my dear the choreography was truly amazing. Especially that bit where they shook their tits about.” I buck the trend and smile and laugh and have a good time. One of my chortles produces a few serious looks from the Easter Island Statue brigade on a nearby table. “Come on. How can you not laugh, she’s dancing in an oversized fish tank with a boa constrictor?” I restrain myself as the show reaches crescendo and miniature horses appear on stage, one of whom immediately takes a dump, prompting a choreographed janitorial team in full costume to appear from stage right. I sneak a look at some of the stiffs on adjoining tables noticing smirks for the first time. Ah, toilet humour the gag that transcends language and culture. The show ends, we applaud. We spill onto the street like an opera crowd. I reflect on the show. Part Vegas, part tabloid page three. A “Calmer” Sutra than that offered by its less coy neighbours, if Disney made porn then is this what it would look like? I can’t wait for Toulouse-Laterec and the Seven Can-Can Dancers.
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