I am ruder than the French: it’s official.
What they do to rude people in France….possibly.
British people always bang on about the French being rude. Especially the English contingent.
As far as I can tell this is due to the following reasons:
- These people haven’t been to Germany yet
- British folk are rightly jealous of the fact that the French have Paris as their capital city, so have to find flaws elsewhere.
- British folk think they French should have tried a wee bit harder in the war, but they can’t say that out loud, so they condemn them as being rude and unwashed instead.
- British folk hear French being spoken, don’t understand it, and assume they are being talked about.
- That whole British Beef thing is still upsetting some folk. If the French had been more polite they would have shoved that BSE contaminated meat down their throats with nary a complaint and to hell with the health consequences!
- And that whole winning-the-World Cup-thing-on-home-ground-more- recently-than-100-years-ago thing? Well, that really stings. How rude of them to be better than us* and then rub it our face at every opportunity. We’d NEVER do that!
To be honest, I thought the French people I came into contact with couldn’t have been nicer. I went the whole weekend with nothing but a feeling that me and the Frenchies I came across were reinforcing that historic Auld Alliance that exists between Scotland and France with great aplomb.
Until five minutes before departure from their country, that is….
A verbatim account follows in which you are allowed to make up your own mind.
Ladies and Gentlemen of the jury…
Scene: Misssy, feverishly late from a three minute mile dash, manages to check in as the last passenger from Paris C.D.G to Aberdeen. She has 15 minutes to make it through passport control and security. She is bathed in sweat and very aware that her Apex ticket will be meaningless dust should she miss this flight. As she joins the queue in Passport Control, she realises there are about sixty people before her. They all seem to be British. She turns to two girls (who she assumes are British)
Misssy: Scuse me, have you got the time?
The girls just stare at her. Misssy thinks they haven’t understood her and that they must be French. Misssy doesn’t speak French. So she points to her wrist indicating the international sign language for, “Have you got the time?”
Misssy: Time?
1st French girl: Yes, I understood you.
After staring at Misssy for a further couple of seconds, the girl reluctantly shows her watch to Misssy.
Misssy: Oh 3 o’clock. Oh dear (sigh) …thanks.
Misssy’s plane leaves in under 10 minutes.
The French girls stare daggers at Misssy and make noises to one another that suggest they are unhappy. And that Misssy has caused this unhappiness.
Misssy: I’m sorry. Is there a problem?
1st French girl: Yes, there is. You could have at least said “please” and “thank you”.
Misssy: Oh! I did. I said thanks.
1st FG: Well, I didn’t hear you.
Misssy: No, I really did. I appreciate you telling me the time. I did say thanks. I thank you again.
Both girls snort like they don’t believe what they are being told.
Misssy (embarrassed and trying to make a joke): A blow for international relations then?
The French girls are further put out by this remark. Everybody in the queue stares.
The French girls decide to try another queue and leave.
One can only hope that these girls are headed for London where their sensitivity towards the finer points of etiquette will get a good old straining. May they take the wrong tube and end up in deepest Hackney by mistake. There’s some real rude boys around there…
* I exclude the Scots in this. We’re just happy to be still invited to try out for the World Cup.
Tales of the Cite
Sarkozy makes an “honest woman”
of Carla Bruni on Saturday 2nd Feb
(I don’t know if they waited until I could make it across)
“Ohh!Ohh! and then I saw the Eiffel Tower and screamed out loud, and then I saw the Seine and shrieked like a little girl, and then I turned to the left and there was the Champs Elysees! And Notre Dame! I cried with joy when I saw the Louvre! And then…” and so on.
You can go to Paris and do that yourself. And I defy you not to react like I did, for it is the most wonderful, jam packed, beautiful city. All you need to know is that I LOVED, LOVED, LOVED Paris. I had a grin permanently plastered on my face all weekend and will go back at the earliest opportunity.
Instead, I want to tell you some of the things I promised in my last post.
J’ suck at le Francais
I was a real languagey person at school, but I did German and Spanish instead of French, just to be difficult. As a result my French is based on stuff gleaned from French movies, the songs of Serge Gainsbourg and the obvious “get-you-by” stuff. I hate not being able to have a stab at getting through the day in the native language. It fills me with horror that I am tarred with the same brush as British people who steadfastly refuse to grant their hosts the courtesy of giving their language a go.So I did try. I managed to order a couple of things, got my Metro 3 day pass with no problems (I promptly got on the wrong train, but let’s gloss over that) and was able to meet and greet in the most perfunctory but sing-song of ways. I wished
I could have been better at it.I can only apologise to France as a whole, right here, for the way I desecrated their mother tongue. But be assured of this Frenchies, I resolve to learn more and return with an accent that would make Charles De Gaulle himself proud.
I love my friends
Not the sort of romantic love you associate with the City of Light, but I do; I love them. The whole Paris trip was an attempt to meet up to celebrate 21 years of friendship.
Despite the fact that the three of us haven’t been together for ten years as a complete party of three, and we all live in different countries, we never had one awkward silence, one cross word or one second when we weren’t having a big old whopper of a time.
Every hour or so one of us would exclaim, ” I can’t believe we managed to get this together”. And in Paris too. It just doesn’t get any better than that. We have resolved to do it on a regular basis.
The patented and inevitable Misssy travel nightmare story
What follows is a catalog of errors involving my trip home which I will outline in verse:Oh Misssy M, why didn’t you,
Remember into which terminal you flew?
And why didn’t you get on the airport bus,
Instead of having one last girlie fuss?
And why didn’t you find out in advance,
That your check in desk was on the other side of France,
To the one that you were on, when the bus driver let you go,
Requiring you to run the length of Charles De Gaulle like Flo-Jo?
Next installment: I try to leave Paris and my etiquette is questioned
Roadside Cafe Rage
Anyone who has ever driven on the A90 to Aberdeen will have passed this building.
This is the Stracathro Services near Brechin. Frequented by truckers and the country’s future heart attack patients.
I don’t know how well you can see the sign but just in case you can’t read it I will display it for you here:
Ye May Gang Faur and Fare Waur
What the blue blazes does that sign mean?
For years as a kid, I would drive past with my parents and we would all go on about how never in our entire lives have we heard anything approximating this phrase. At first we put it down to being Weegies. Perhaps after a couple of years in the land of the Aberdonian Doric speaking environs we would be able to understand it. But no, it is not Doric. It is just utter pish.
We think it means this:
You May Go Far and Fare Worse.
What kind of ad is that for an eating establishment?
Let’s break it down, shall we? In fact let’s imagine we are trying to get a concrete answer from the utter moron who thought it up all those years ago.
Are we actually saying, “There’s worse food out there but you’d have to travel far to find it?” No?
So, are you saying, “Our food is so bad that worse cannot be found in the immediate vicinity?” No?
So, let me get this right, you’re then saying, “Our food is fucking terrible but there’s not another restaurant for 40 miles, so you might as well put up or shut up.” No?
So, to recap, you’re saying, “You may go far, but there’s a hell of a lot worse out there than our crap, so what the hell are you complaining about” No?
Well what are you saying then? Is it a greeting? Is it a warning? Is it a Northern Scottish version of “Bon Appetit!”?
Oh, I’m getting really annoyed just contemplating it. Nothing quite enrages Meeester and me as the sight of this building. The Flying Martinis drive up and down Glasgow a lot, to remind ourselves why we stay in Aberdeen amongst other things. Each time we pass this eyesore, we go into rant mode. Or at least we used to.
Actually, we don’t rant as much anymore, as Meeester gets so worked up about it, that he can’t vent without swearing and now we have two impressionable kids in the back, he can’t get away with it. The rants have now subsided to Meeester grimacing, a vein popping out on his temple, and the delivery of the two fingered salute in the direction of the establishment. Just to make sure we register our displeasure.
In fact, it’s a ritual. Once we went past and I didn’t see him give the Services sign the Vs.
“How remiss,” I thought.
I double checked with him, “Did you..?”
“Yes, I did it back there, quickly” he assured me.
It’s like I am checking with him that he put the kids’ seatbelts on or he switched the gas fire off before we left. If we forget to do it one time, would we have to do a U-Turn and submit our rude gesture before making our way on our planned journey? I think possibly we would.
What is it about that sign that enrages us so? I think it’s a number of things:
- It is bloody typical of that Scottish negative turn of phrase. Another example of this is:
Person A: “How are you?”
Person B: “Nae bad”
Or, worse:
Person A: “How’s it going?”
Person B: “Cannae complain”
Like it’s disappointing that they can’t complain! How gutting! What a nightmare, I can’t complain!
- It’s not a phrase! Has anyone ever been offered a sandwich at someone’s house and been cajoled into accepting it by the phrase,
“Well, ye may gang far and fare waur”.
“Oh, okay then, load me up, odd lady!”
- It is twee. I bet the tourists love it. They think we speak like that! We don’t. I feel angry and misrepresented. No wonder Gaelic is dying.
- Everyone who wonders about the sign goes in at least once to the “restaurant” (the loosest use of a word ever) to find out the answer to the riddle. They leave with amoebic dysentery. My in-laws were caught out with this not two years ago.
So can I ask you all should you ever pass the Stracathro Services, to join us in raising those two fingers aloft? And if you don’t plan on coming up this way soon, but would like to join in anyway, then scroll back to the photo at the top of the post and similarly give the place the respect it deserves.
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Stop Press: Head on over to Top Blog Magazine to read my post Paper, Pregnancy and the Princess as well as other primo stuff. It’s a little different from the usual Misssives fare. And if that doesn’t entice you over then perhaps if I say “Ye may Gang Faur fae the Misssives and Fare Waur”? Arrgghghgh!
Double Dutch from A Real Double Dutchess
Whenever I go to any country, I try to find the product that has the best unknowing swear word/funny word as its name. It’s very childish, very Graham Norton, but I can’t help it and I don’t apologise for it.
In Finland it was the “Mega Pussi” giant bag of crisps. You could also get a “Mini Pussi” if you were less than starving/greedy. That’s going to take some beating.
I reckon that Holland is going to pay out in spades. It is the country that has the words “U kunt!” for “ I can!” It’s a flipping gold mine; it just must be!
So, my bloggie chums, I am going to make it a feature of every Dutch Blog that I include one unknowing naughty sign or product at the end.
To get us started I give you this:
Forget the apostrophe. It’s a bag of teddy poo!
