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| My holidays in France, or, how you would have thought they would have behaved abroad at least. |
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| Talk,
Madame X,
13 January 1999 | |
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Oh joy! Oh happiness! Summer holidays always rhymes with delight for me as I go back to my roots, escape from the living hell of London. Enough of that pretented politeness, these endless "sorry"s and "oh no I am AWfully sorry"s or "I am ssssssso ssssssssorry"s. I had been getting so excited for two weeks before going back just by the thought of it-freedom of speech again! Yes, going back home rhymes with swearing, arguing for no reason about anything, burping loudly and farting in public. Mind you, one should have guessed I have started that policy ages ago. One I am proud of is estimating the echoing impact one's fart has along the seats in the tube by looking at the reactions on people's faces. Just try it. Blow a big one and look around. But be careful, the trick is all in the checking around. You have to make it quite subtle so that nobody can guess that that cute little French person over there could ever possibly be so loud and smelly. They have to think you don’t even possess an arse. I love it. Looking at two or three prudish, constipated faces turning bright red with shame and shock, and probably thinking: "oh lordy lord! They are going to think it's me!"
Anyway. Driving to France. Lush. Driving to France through England: OH.....MY.....GOD....Is there any driving license in the UK? Do people actually take their tests here? I honestly think they get it from buying 25 of 2 kgs Cocopops packs. Have they got any idea of how to drive on the motorway? That:
-it is not a racing competition and one does not cut one's fellow friends up
-one is not in France yet and does not overtake on the left quite yet
-there are 3 lines and, as a vast majority of people who don't know how to drive, one should stay, like all their fellow friends, on the LEFT lane of the motorway in order to let the fast, experienced French drivers go home safely and produce the wine and cheese one loves so much.
Taking the tube in Paris would be fun if it was not infested by dumb English tourists everywhere. One example: the place: tube, queuing for tickets. One fat snob English tart not speaking a word of French and a poor French girl behind the window with a very good level of English. The old cow arguing with the French one because she would not understand English properly and got the wrong ticket, then getting very loud indeed and storming off still bubbling some offended nonsense around that nobody gave a fuss about anyway. Well I would suggest if you don't speak French, stay in your bloody country, mate. Go to Cornwall instead.
That cow should be careful. She should know what we French people do to annoying English people who try to get in our way - We cut their heads off.
And there I was at last, after that Parisian confusion, in my lovely quiet provincial town, back in a lovely quiet provincial restaurant 'au bon crouton', enjoying a lovely quiet provincial meal......NO!!!!! Rosbifs at 5 o'clock!!! How did they dare spoiling my 'salade auvergnate'? Annoying me with their pseudo intellectual conversations about Cezanne's paintings on the walls. Aaarrgh!! IS there a God out here? Am I rosbif-cursed or something? Can’t I have a three week break please?
I call these Rosbifs ‘Pseudo intellectual’ because everybody knows that the English are thick, and treats them as such. At the passport checkout in Calais on the way back, the French bloke not only gave us the big red label you have to put (as it says in big letters and in both languages on each side of it) 'AT THE FRONT MIRROR' but actually said it too!! He looked at us and slowly carefully and clearly uttered , even pointing at the label for us: 'attachez -le au retroviseur avant'. Sorry I could not help it but I sympathized with him dealing with rosbifs everyday and answered: 'That's ok, you don't have to teat us like dummy thickos, we're French, mate!'
Et toc! non mais ....
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