French Porkies

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!