You know that old chestnut – never believe what you
read in the newspapers.
Well, I always thought that referred to politicians.
In creative writing courses they advise students, stuck for a story to write,
to read the latest political scandal and use that as subject matter.
Truth is
often stranger than fiction.
Except last week, when I saw fiction parading as
truth - an article written by a famous French restaurateur, based in Britain. Let’s call him Pierre, (in case he reads this
and cancels my table booking, next weekend and forever more.)
Sanctimoniously avowing that he has never been drunk
since his twenties he professed surprise at “ze Eenglish’s boozy culture”. Why
can’t they follow his estimable example and stop after a glass or two?
Excusez
- moi?
I was surprised, nay outraged, to read such twaddle.
The whole piece lacked a certain je ne
sais quoi, as in la vérité, the truth.
I know you see, because I was there, with him, years
ago, in that minibus in Paris going back to the hotel. We were all well
refreshed, having imbibed copious amounts of fine champagne and the odd bottle
of claret. None of us were sober, but, how shall I put this, Pierre himself
must have imbibed rather a lot - he was enivréd out of his skull. He had already disgraced
himself with the block of ice incident and the opera singer, but that’s another
story...
As the minibus trundled
on past the Eiffel Tower he swayed on his feet, gesticulated (they do that a
lot, the French) furiously and pointed:-
“Look at zat, ze Eiffel Tower
standing like a great French preek!
You Eenglish, you know nothing about lurve!
You’ave none of ze French passion!”
Now I didn’t take
offence, being Welsh and a bit odd like that.
But someone did. The cut-
glass accent of a very well connected lady cut through the vinous fumes and
gallantly defended the nation’s honour. Or, more specifically the sexual
prowess of its manhood.
“Oh, Pee—air! Juust
because an Englishman doesn’t make a song and dance about it, it doesn’t mean
he is any the less paaassionate than a Frenchman!”
The more I
read his article, the more I checked the sky for any pink cochons flying around.
In Vino Veritas? Not in this case.
Sacré
bleu!
