Can’t Speak French

I made what I believe to be an unfortunate decision when I was in Year 8 of secondary school. I had weighed up the odds: Choose French and deal with scary but slighty sexy Madame Law, or choose German and get the very nice teacher Miss Gibson. Scary overrode sexy when it came to Madame Law. The knee high boots, short skirts and French accent were only so much of a incentive when it was counteracted by the shouting, the detentions and lack of tolerance for slowness to learn French. And so I chose German, a language that is shouty and has brilliantly hilarious words such as pferd and kunst. Both of these were funny all the way through to GCSE. However after making my choice, within 6 months our lovely German teacher had left the school for maternity leave and so had scary Madame Law. Instead us German learners got a pale shade of Miss Gibson who liked shouting at everyone for no real reason and whenever someone did something wrong ie throw a large ball of paper at her stupid shouty head, she would turn around point her finger at whoever she thought was the guilty party and say very dramatically ‘The Finger of Suspicion Points At You!’. She was a dick. Meanwhile Madame law’s replacement was a lovely, cheery teacher that everyone liked and spent the next few years enjoying learning one of the sexiest languages in the world. I however spent that time hating my choice while still sniggering at the word kunst.

For me, not choosing French was doubly stupid as I have a whole load of family in France. Loads of them. There are a vast number of Douieb’s in Paris as well as other areas of Northern France and North Africa. And I haven’t met any of them. Well thats not true. I’ve met one, called Gilbert, who has hands the size of my face. He was a huge gent, with a kindly nature. Well at least I think he had a kindly nature, I couldn’t actually understand anything he said. Translated he might have been calling me a sniveling little cockface, but if he was he said it with a nice big smile and friendly gestures. I’d love to be able to chat to them all and not just so I have somewhere free to stay in France or could get sent nice cheese, but also because they seem fascinating. One of them is a doctor and a Krav Maga expert, one does comedy in France which is ace, and two are Scientologists, so I could tell them what utter fucking idiots they are and disown them using the right masculine or feminine nouns.

One of them just tried to get in contact with me on Facebook. I’m not sure if he’s a direct relative or in anyway related, but he’s a Douieb and seems excitingly eccentric. He looks a bit like a bear and wears a hat so I’m sure he is related. So far he has sent me one long message in French which I didn’t understand, and so he has made some attempts to write to me in English all of which have provided brilliant sentences that make little sense. For example:

IF THERE IS A POSSIBILTY YOU CAN LISTEN TO A HORSE STEP. BUT IF HE WILL NEVER BE BACH NOTHING.

I have no idea what that means. Is it to do with his incredibly high judgement of the rhythm of horse? Perhaps he is criticising this horse because he once knew a horse that did sound like Bach? If only I spoke French we could actually chat and understand what he really means. Here’s another brilliant one:

THREW THRE IS A LOT OF MONEY IN THE (POZO) A HOLE OF WATER. (PUITS IN FRENCH) OF ALL DOUIEBS IN THE WORLD. SOA SK FOR YOURS.

Just no idea. No idea what that means at all. If I knew French I would either be able to work it out or at least know if he is just a mentallist. I will respond later and maybe put in some phrases that don’t make sense to see what happens. Things like ‘A tortoise dances, but if you watch his dancing he will never be Michael Flately.’ See how he deals with that. Of course I could just learn French but then it might stop being fun. Also I am very good at pointing and shouting at things when I go there just to make them all sigh and think I am an English pig.

Back to gigging tonight in lovely (sic) Coventry. I have to be in Coventry tonight and then again on Saturday, but not Coventry in-between. This means two separate trips to Coventry within a few days of each other. Thats at least 100 unnecessary miles of driving when I could be watching the Wire. I love my life.

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