After a short trip with the Eurostar (the cab ride from Salford to Manchester and train ride from Manchester to London had actually both taken longer than crossing the chunnel) Molly found herself in Paris, the city of lovers. That was one of its nicknames at least. Molly found little to love. There were no pubs, only pretentious prissy ‘cafés’ that looked at you funny when you ordered a pint of lager at noon. No proper chippy in sight, even though they’d been more than happy to claim the term ‘French fry’, fucking the Belgians over in the process. And the landmarks she’d been visiting had been mid.

Granted, once she got at the Eiffel tower, she didn’t even bother going up because there was an enormous queue, and it seemed like a right hassle. Instead, she just took a picture with her old flip phone and shrugged.

Molly: "It’s odd, innit? People travel all over the world to watch this thing. It looks like the scaffolds they place around buildings when they try to restore them. I remember the Big Ben when it had scaffolds all around it, it kind of looked like the Eiffel Tower  back then, except you could still see the clock so it was still more functional.

This whole place is weird, but I guess that’s just me Britishness doing the talk, innit? We used to fight wars with the French, after all. Difference is, Nelson, you know, that bloke atop Trafalgar Square, gave old Napoleon a right buggery up the arse, and same goes for the Duke of Wellington at Waterloo. Back then, the wigs were still way too rich and fat but at least they did something of use for their country.

I suppose that’s one thing to like about the Frnech, though, they’ve always hated the aristo’s, innit? Whole French Revolution and that. You just gotta wonder why they also didn’t get rid of eating frogs and snails when they were turning the country about, but I guess they couldn’t help themselves. And now I’m in Paris of all places, and I can’t even go to the Moulin Rouge because it’s way too expensive, and I can’t even go to the Notre Dame because it’s still being rebuilt.

So, guess I’ll have to settle for the Stade de France, site of the next Anarchy. Pretty nifty place, I suppose. France beat Brazil there in ’98 to become World Champs of football. Lost in the Euro’s final to Portugal, though. But loss is not on me schedule today, lads. I already took an L when I asked for a pint, and they brought me a ‘carafe’ of pastis. Who the fuck drinks aniseed liquor, eh? You’d have to be a right twat to think that makes sense."

Molly keeps on walking, until she eventually reaches the Champs-Élysées that ends at the Arc de Triomphe.

Molly: "Champs-Élysées… Thought the champs stood for champion or summat, but champs actually means field. Madness. And that Arc de Triomphe is meant to honour the victories of Napoleon, who actually got his arse kicked more times than I can count, we’ve gone over that. Tell you what, mate, nobody does chauvinism like the fuckin’ Frenchies. They say this avenue if the most beautiful in the world, but it doesn’t even have a bloody Gregg’s. And that Arc de Triomphe has nothing on the Marble Arch. And I don’t even like London all that much, either.

I guess it’s good I’m a bit annoyed, innit? Got bloody robbed by EDWARD on the last show when Johnny B got pinned. Now I’m facing the big lad in another multi-man match, but at least it’s the main even this time, so they pay’s better. Even if I lose, I’ll still stand to make more cash than I would’ve had I won the last one. Not that I don’t want to win, obviously. I do this for a living, but I don’t just wanna do a job, get paid, and go home. I wanna rack up some victories, and not just for the better pay. I want to have meant something when all is said and done. I want people to recognize me and say ‘there goes Molly, she was a daft Manc twat, but a bloody good wrestler’.

Speaking of daft twats, this Chelsea lass is still around, is she? She most useless flap of skin since Liz Truss was in Number 10. For the life of me, I can’t figure out what she hopes to achieve her. She’s just in it for the fame, or what? She seems to have a grudge against old Sid, which means she’ll have to queue up with a few other dozen people. Here’s some advice, Chelsea love, get a better football club as a first name, stop having a last name that sounds like a fuckin’ French bit of pastry, and stop needing others as your reason for being.

As for Sid, she’s a right cunt, innit? Unapologetic though. Still the best reason for never drinking again, when you look at her throat wrinkles. But they also make her look like a fun drinking partner. More so than Edward, ‘cause I think he comes the Palaeolithic or summat or other, and I think humans hadn’t even figured out that if you let grain ferment for a while, you can get drunk off of it. Still, Sid looks like she needs one of those procedures where they make a wrinkly sack of bollocks all slippery smooth, except she needs it across her entire body.

So, I don’t know any French, but I do know this song:
Ca ira, ça ira, ça ira, les aristocrates à la lanterne! Ca ira, ça ira, ça ira, les aristocrates on les pendra!

If you don’t know what that means, I won’t spoil it for you. My mission to #PinTheRich is still ongoing, lads. But first, I’ll have to get past three might obstacles. Vive La Revolution. Vive Anarchy!"