“Bonjour Monsieur. Oui… Je suis de l’Ecosse. Ma mère est morte. Mon père est mort, mais mon frère est en vacances. Je ne suis pas mort. J’ai un chien qui mange des légumes.”
The examiner, who was about as French as a blazer wearing Bufton Tufton from Weybridge smiled, as if to suggest that the dog on Britain’s Got Talent last year could have done better and asked me to stop. I did not see him waving a white flag – but I suspect, had he had one, he would have hit me with it to get me to stop.
Twenty-seven years later, a successful fugitive from language justice, I found myself at the age of forty at La Coupole, a very amusing restaurant in Paris. I was with a very attractive woman. I had decided that I wanted to celebrate a birthday in Paris and have lunch. We went by Eurostar. After sinking a bottle of Roederer Crystal, a gift from my friend, I ordered a second. It was at this point that I decided that I could still speak French.
“Je voudrais…”
“It’s OK Monsieur” said the waiter with a smile “I speak perfect English.”
I had to laugh and told him in Franglais that I had travelled to Paris that day with the specific purpose of murdering the French language and having a good lunch. Although I did not meet him, humourist Miles Kington (Inventor of Franglais) attended the very same penal establishment in Scotland where I was educated. This may explain why those from that excellent school from thirty-five odd years ago lack the ability to speak foreign languages properly. We had an excellent day – two more bottles of excellent wine were consumed at which point we decided to go on a rather drunken tour of Paris. I had to go up the Eiffel Tower, naturally – quite a feat when one is over refreshed. The journey back on Eurostar involved more wine and shaking hands with some very amusing French people who were astonished by my improving Franglais..
All this is by way of explanation… Today I found myself at PC World. Don’t ask. I saw a DVD from Berlitz for FRENCH. I had no plan when I rose this morning to teach myself French. It is now installed on my laptop. I have a black beret, a striped T-shirt… les Gauloises, naturellement.. and a glass of Burgundy. I shall be speaking French before the night is out… and then I shall invade France again…
Demain, nous naviguons vers la France … à plus tard
Sir,
Being able to gargle in a pseudo-Gael ersatz dialect, while dribbling warm Roederer Crystal at a mere £599 per bottle, does not excuse your rather substantial faux pas in Paris.
While you entertained that loathsome flame haired Ms Blears, and her twattish myopic views on Scottish politics, some of us had the distinct displeasure of her colleague ‘Mandy’ thrust upon us in your absence.
The fact that I can never return to that wonderful Gaelic oasis in the midst of food hell they call Par-is, does not sit well with me sir.
What was you thinking of man?
A rabid dog in a frumpish dress, running hands over the buttocks of every Jean-Paul, Thomaso, and Henri was never going to win over the other dinner guests. Good God… if Mandy hadn’t suddenly had an attack of the vapors, Christ alive we could have had yet another international Brit/Frog scandal.
As you are aware, her majesty is currently running short of invites abroad as it is.
May I suggest that in future you subdue your courtship to those not still engaged in oral fortitude of the penile kind?
Especially when you are about to encapsulate the sensitive information about Mr Bush and his penchant for PVC, not to mention his proclivity for ginger mingers as well!
As for those damn cigars that Wild Billy Clinton sent too you, they taste of bloody fish man! Where for the love of all things holy did he have these rolled from?
Dinner at my club on Friday, please be punctual, and one would advise that you visit our ‘other’ club in Soho prior to our luncheon. At least that way I will not recognise a scrubber until at least the sorbet course.
If I must be professionally phucked, at least wait until I have had the decency to remove ones britches first!
cheerio,
JB
Sir James
I had rather hoped that you would not refer to my sojourn (such a good word) with a flame haired beauty… but I shall let that pass.
As you will know… we… of the Entente Cordiale (pity the French don’t have a word for this as Dubya would say) do not pay absurd ENGLISH prices for Crytal… in fact, the second bouteille, as I now like to call it, was given to me ‘On Le Maison’… because they liked me. (True)
It was good that Bonnie Prince Charlie got a late invite from the tap dancing miniature president of France… and even better to see our leader call the main beach head OBAMA beach…. We always step up to the plate in important international events.
I look forward to dinner at your Club… as I am now rather larger than the last time we met… due, entirely, to #Smokedo… you will, I am sure, understand… if I kick the ‘bloody doors off’
Forward looking, as always
Now that I have started talking French…. of a sort… I smoke Gauloises at every opportunity…. so I am not able to suggest where Clintons’s cigars were rolled… or, indeed, if at all… ( I learned that last bit of drafting on a lawyers continuing education course)
I thought Prince Charlie Treehugger was looking quite statesmanlike – it was the way he held his hands (Years of Monarchical experience?)
… Where he got all those medals from… I have no idea….? maybe he was wearing them so he could give them away to people who earned them later… rather than let Gordon look after them until the presentation?
I cannot, as you will understand, make any comment on forthcoming revelations about PVC and US Presidents…