Serge Gainsbourg wrecks my gran’s birthday
Last night I was listening to the radio and the presenter posed the question, “Have you ever been in a situation where a completely inappropriate song has come on and completely caused mayhem”. As I was driving, I couldn’t text in, so instead I thought, “One for the Misssives, non?”
It’s my Gran, Jessie’s, eightieth birthday and the family has gathered for a dinner in a big hotel. We’ve booked a private room as we’re a bit of a noisy bunch, and have brought our own CD player and music to provide ambiance. A few CDs are chucked in there and one must have been some kind of “Love Songs” type compilation. We’ve, no doubt, chosen a few CDs that will be a gentle mix that Gran will enjoy; a bit of Johnny Mathis, some Minnie Ripperton and a splash of Take That for the young uns. You know the type of CDs; Marks and Spencer sell them for Mother’s Day. Mum-wise; you can’t go wrong.
Dinner is finished and it is time for the speeches, the presentation of gifts, and the making of Gran cry with emotion, which no eightieth birthday would be complete without. My Uncle gets up to say a few words…. just as Jane Birkin starts to tell Serge Gainsbourg she loves him in the background. Yes, yes she loves him. Oh yes, she does.
Help! Help! There’s a rogue track on the “Woman in Love” CD as-advertised-on-TV, and to be fair, you can’t get them with the Trades Description Act. Jane Birkin is definitely in love, oui, oui, she’s in love alright, and not in an airy fairy “Hey! Hey! My boyfriend’s back” kind of way. If legend is to be believed Serge was in the sound booth right there beside her, manufacturing some ambiance of his own, the dirty French beast.
Uncle sits down after a short round of applause. He’s lucky, he gets away with having the more innocuous part of the song as his backing track- perhaps Serge is still in the main studio smoking a Gauloises at this point and has yet to come up with the genius idea of running into Jane’s vocals booth and tampering with her underwear. “Vocals booth” is not a euphemism, by the way. You filthy beasts. French or otherwise.
Very quickly gifts are being offered up to my gran and she is starting to reply to the best wishes when Jane Birkin gets a little bit carried away about how much she loves Serge. Serge is now adjusting the vocals in a way that no modern music software can equal.
A five way glance, that says on the faces of each of us that we are about to lose it, ricochets between me, my brother, then onto my sister and then finally rests on the two brothers-in-law who are already in stitches at the far end of the table.
“Well, I am so lucky to have such a lovely family,” trills Gran
“Ooooh, uuggghhh, oui, oui je t’aime, oui je t’aime..uuggghh (pant pant)”
“And look at all these lovely gifts,” she beams.
“Oui! Oui! Je t’aime! Ugh, Ugh ! Oui!”
“This has been a wonderful day”
“(Intense heavy breathing, intense heavy breathing)Ugh! (Intense heavy breathing)”
“Thank you all so much”
By this time everyone in the room has cottoned onto the fact that Jane is in danger of upstaging the guest of honour. Except Gran.
Should we change the CD? Do you think someone should pull the plug?
Non! Moi non plus!
(For your entertainment, now listen to Serge and Jane sing “Je t’aime, moi non plus” and imagine a eighty year old woman trying to thank her family in the last minute of the song over the top).
Meanwhile over on Spontaneous Production,
I’m revewing, M Night Shamalayan’s The Happening.
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