C'est Modnifique!: Adventures of an English Grump in Rural France, page 26
That did not detract from the very real problem, however, of how we were going to move Junior's body. The équarrisseur's lorry, which had a large grabber on the back like one of those fairground arcade games, would have to stay out the front and Junior be brought to it. I'd had trouble just moving his head, in fact I had trouble moving him when he was alive, so lifting his dead body would be impossible and even if we could do that there was no way that we could carry him the sixty or so metres to the front gate. It was all very stressful and Natalie, keeping remarkably calm, rang the farmer Monsieur Rousseau for advice.
Rousseau, unfortunately, was in hospital, though he didn't reveal this information until, with his usual patience and good humour, he said to Natalie that he'd love to come and help but things were a little difficult at the moment. That was the measure of the man though, and a mark of just how different he was to Girresse, our other farmer neighbour, was that he asked two of his farm hands to go around and help us, something neither he, nor they, had to do at all. The équarrisseur pointed out though that in order to move Junior at all, and that was assuming that we could, we would have to dismantle the stable walls because the door gap would be too narrow even if we could lift him. Natalie took the man inside and gave him a coffee while I set about the stable in the presence of Junior's lifeless body. The amount of times that I'd had to rebuild this stable wall because of his escape attempts or simple aggressive peevishness meant that you could have driven a car at the thing now and it wouldn't have collapsed, but here in one final act of massive inconvenience he had me working on it again, taking it down for his smooth passage to who knew where. He would have loved that.
Rousseau's colleagues arrived and the équarrisseur, with a now wilting Natalie, came back to the stable; Manuel had arrived too but seemed reluctant to get involved. With the stable wall down, the horrible next step was to move Junior's body to the gate by attaching tow ropes to him and dragging him behind a heavy jeep. It would, the farmhands said, clearly having some experience in the matter, be pretty awful and Natalie and I should go inside and they would call us when it was over.
Natalie didn't want to leave him but recognised it was for the best while I said that I'd remain with Junior. 'Are you sure?' the men asked again. 'The sound is awful.' I knew about the death groan and was expecting it, it even sounded like Junior was having one last scornful dig at me and I didn't mind that, but I'm not sure why I didn't just do as I was told and stay inside with Natalie. I wasn't trying to be heroic or look manly in front of these people, any look at what I was wearing had already made their minds up in that regard, I just wanted to be with him.
We had had our run-ins, he never hid his contempt for me but I wanted to be there for him not just leave him in the hands of strangers; I admit though, I had trouble holding it together as his body was pulled unceremoniously to the gate. The force of resistance from the ground kept dragging his head back as he was pulled along making it look once again like he was fighting any attempt to make him obedient or to pacify him; one final futile battle fought for his own benefit, the head held arrogantly high just for the sake of dignity. The grabber picked him up and placed him, thankfully gently, into the lorry. The roof closed noisily behind him and with that, Junior was gone.
Just the Beginning…
'You must wake up every morning, look out of your window and just pinch yourself?'
Yes, well, you'd think so, wouldn't you? But to anyone who knows me, who knows what a neurotic, pessimistic doom-monger I can be then they wouldn't waste their breath asking that question, which is why it was something of a surprise that it came from my sister-in-law, who knows me better than most. So the answer is 'no'. No, I do not wake up every morning, count my blessings and go about enjoying the experience, because usually I've woken in the middle of the night, in a cold sweat and have been fretting over whether it's in any way sustainable.
I don't know what role performing stand-up in French will play in the grand plan, if any at all, but the first gig would be a strong gesture of intent and so there was an awful lot riding on it. But since I had booked it in June, largely at the boys' behest, it had hung over me like a dark cloud, like I'd set the date for my own professional execution. And as the date approached so my nerves got worse, and the many, many reasons I could come up with for cancelling it got more and more compelling and more and more tempting to use. My nerves made Natalie and the boys nervous too; I said to Natalie a week before the show just how anxious I was about the whole thing and she had replied, 'I know! It's making me sick just thinking about it!', which was hardly the vote of confidence I was fishing for. And it wasn't just close family who feared for me either: Cendrine, my hairdresser in France, asked me how I was practising, specifically who I spoke French with, considering she knew that we don't speak the language at home.
'You're the only person I speak French with on a regular basis,' I pointed out to her in what, even for me, was bad French. She went silent, avoided eye-contact and hurriedly changed the subject, quite rightly making the assumption that our six-weekly vocabulary struggles with my fussy, mod hairstyle needs were hardly the stuff of performance articulacy.
It wasn't that people thought it would go badly; it's just that anybody who I spoke to about it couldn't really understand why I was doing it at all. Even I was a little hazy about the whole thing. Like moving to France in the first place, the reasons for doing so were numerous – if it went well. If it didn't go well, then professionally it wouldn't make any difference – stage confidence can be a fragile thing, but dying on my hole in French would have little or no effect on my 'English' performances. However, as far as my self-confidence goes, in the country in which we've chosen to live, it would have been a crushing blow. And not just for me, but for Natalie, Samuel, Maurice and Thérence too, who would be doomed to a life of translating for the thickie in the corner.
When I first started doing stand-up I had no great ambitions in the industry – far from it. I can honestly say that for almost the first ten years of being a stand-up comedian I was so shocked that I was being paid for it at all that I almost tried to hide myself away, convinced that at some point someone would tap me on the shoulder and tell me my time was up, that I'd gatecrashed the party for long enough, off you go. This was different. If I could crack this I could potentially be at home far more than I currently was; I could actually leave for a gig and return on the same day, a luxury that was the only thing I missed about not still living in England. Also, I desperately needed to improve my French and I thought if I gave myself a deadline I would stop hiding behind Natalie and the children and actually do something about improving my language skills. Cockily, I'd always convinced myself that I already had the language skills but somehow they were suffering from some kind of locked-in syndrome and that this gig would act as a plunger and suddenly the dormant linguist would spill forth.
Yes. I was wrong about that.
When I sat down to write the French set with Natalie it became apparent, very early on, that my French skills were, in a word, merde. I had a certain level of vocabulary, but my grammar and sentence construction were pathetically weak, which made our joint writing sessions somewhat fraught. I would tell Natalie what I wanted to say and she would come up with a sentence that looked so complicated it was like the work of a French Chaucer. For Natalie, correct grammar and sentence construction is almost an evangelical obsession, sometimes she'll just stare angrily at social media on the computer for hours, shaking her head and on the verge of tears at the 'crimes' perpetrated by grammar nihilists. In the end we had to call in Samuel to help with the writing, just so that we could find some acceptable middle ground between my laissez-faire attitude to accurate syntax and Natalie's Académie Française wordiness.
Strangely enough, I was never that concerned with whether what we were writing was actually funny or not. By choosing to do the gig in London to a French audience and talking about how embarrassingly pitiful my French is, I was essentially preaching to the converted. My logic being that they live and work in England, they are therefore, the majority at least, Anglophones and linguists, so it was going to be a subject they knew about. What worried me most, apart from learning the lines themselves, was the complete lack of skills I would have as a performer in a language I'm not comfortable speaking. Chatting to the front row, reacting to heckles, ad-libs, asides – all vital weapons in a stand-up's weaponry – these were going to be unavailable to me, or so I thought. It was going to be like my first gig all over again, only with a lot fewer words than I had at my disposal then.
The show was to be on a Monday night and I spent the weekend in monk-like solitude in a hotel in King's Cross, eschewing all offers of sociability. I read and re-read my script. It was important that I knew not only what I was saying, but why. There was no point, nothing to be gained linguistically, if I just learnt it by rote. I was like a school pupil before an important exam, too scared to move with any fluidity in case some of the recently gained knowledge fell out of my ears.
On the Sunday, Armistice Day, I went for a walk in Regent's Park. It was a glorious, sunny morning and the park was busy with people taking advantage of the weather, though some were perplexed by the sight of a suited mod, walking the paths, waving his arms about and reciting French very loudly and to no-one in particular. I'd gone there for a bit of peace, but after 20 minutes that peace was violently broken. It sounded like a huge gathering of angry hornets and suddenly the tranquillity of the place was ruined by the incessant, and to me glorious, whining of about 300 mod scooters! I had inadvertently become encircled by the annual Remembrance Rideout and all of a sudden this mod, deep in his own anxiety and fearing for his immediate future, was surrounded by 'brothers'. I took it as a sign.
I went to the Comedy Store early on Monday evening, nervous as hell. The brilliant staff there, most of whom I've known for years, could tell at once I was dreading the show. I was visibly shaking with nerves, carrying my script around with me as though at this late stage that would make any difference at all. I was introduced to the two French acts who were the main attraction on the bill and they were friendly, even concerned as my fragility was tragically obvious.
The lights went down, the music stopped and the French headline act, Le Comte de Bouderbala (which translates as 'Lord of the Ghetto'), gave me a warm introduction to the stage.
I walked on to the famous Comedy Store stage, like I'd done hundreds of times before, took the microphone out of its stand and promptly forgot everything I'd planned to say. I shuffled about a bit, said 'Bonsoir', pretended to look at my hand for the next bit – in my head desperately trying to remember what the hell I should be talking about. I had said to Simon, the stage manager and a good friend, before the gig that what I really needed for my set to be a success was the audience to buy into it, to buy into the 'character' of an Englishman out of his comfort zone, struggling in a language totally alien to him. And eventually, once I had actually begun to speak, they did, thankfully they did. Partly, of course, because this 'character' that they thought was being acted out in front of them was not a comedy character at all; this act had integrity, honesty and pathos because I really was that struggling Englishman, it was about as authentic as I've ever been.
My time on stage absolutely flew by, so much so that in the end, by the time I'd regained a grip on my script, I had to cut things out as I went along, surprising myself with my ability to mentally edit a foreign-language script while still performing. I did my time, the red light came on signalling that it was over and I left the stage to a thundering ovation, a packed Comedy Store house all cheering and whooping, and walked into the dressing room and the warm congratulations, and relief, of the other acts.
As a mark of how well it had gone the French comedienne who followed me on stage opened her set by asking the audience how on earth they had managed to understand me, 'what with that accent of his'. They didn't like that at all, some even booed her. They had very much taken 'their' Englishman to their hearts.
Everybody else in the building seemed almost as relieved as I was and then the talk was all about when I'd be doing my next one, come back and do a full set next time, have you thought about touring? I felt like crying. The relief was almost too much to bear and the exhaustion was suddenly overwhelming too.
I returned home the next day on a massive high, I undertook the journey not in my usual state of mute fatigue but with a newfound confidence. Suddenly I was that annoying bloke on public transport, the one who wants to chat, but I didn't care, I felt good and I was going home too.
I was tired, though. Seventeen days I'd been gone, and during that time I had occupied seven different beds, it was time for some serious, and hopefully prolonged, home duvet action.
I really am naive at times.
I don't remember specifically volunteering to become a dinner lady, though I have no reason to doubt Natalie at all on this. Maybe she's become a hypnotist and has me 'volunteering' for all sorts of things without my knowledge, maybe the constant, round-the-clock diet of Star Wars films has taught her Jedi mind tricks or maybe, and this is far more likely, I was lulled into it while away and over the course of a late-night phone call was caught up in a fatal mix of 'trough of despond' and 'misty eyed homesickness' during which, in all honesty, I'd volunteer for anything if it meant being nearer to her and the boys.
The result, however, was rather than have a lie-in at home for once; I was up at the crack of dawn armed with my apron, a catering-sized bottle of HP Sauce, a hundred teabags and a whisk. Maurice's primary school were involved in a project about 'foods of the world', not just specific foods themselves but eating habits and meals and the like, and as part of this project planned to cook the entire school a full English breakfast, the FEB. The full English breakfast holds quite a fascination for the French: firstly, they think we all eat it, all of us, and every day. I have pointed out before that this isn't the case and that if it were then life expectancy in the UK would be about 27 and no Calais-bound ferry would ever leave Dover, and would just sink instead.
They really don't know much about it, so it was suggested that maybe some hands-on knowledgeable supervision in the kitchen would be appropriate, in other words some cooking. Natalie and I had discussed the 'menu' with the school already, mushrooms were out, they said, too unpopular with kids; sausages and bacon were a given; baked beans (an American addition but as long as tomato ketchup was to be added to the rather insipid locally bought stuff, I was prepared to tolerate it); black pudding, though a local delicacy, was decided against too, and no tomatoes; I can't remember why, but as I'm allergic to the things I wasn't fussed. Hash browns were suggested, at which point I threatened to throw a full-on Gordon Ramsay hissy fit if anyone threatened to 'further Americanise my culinary heritage'; fried bread on the other hand, once explained, nearly scuppered the entire venture. Which left eggs: fried or scrambled? Well, it's a personal taste thing isn't it? Personally, I like a poached egg, but seeing as I was 'the egg department' and would be cooking the things for over a hundred seven- to eleven-year-olds, it was going to be scrambled as anything else would be far too difficult to get right. Anyway, the main thing to remember about an FEB once you've decided on the make-up of the plate, is that the food must all be touching each other. This isn't haute cuisine and this may be why it's so very English; this isn't about quality, this is all about quantity. But to give it a French twist, there was absolutely no vegetarian option on offer.
I arrived to find the other 'volunteers' already in the school kitchen waiting for me – only they weren't volunteers at all, they were fully paid-up dinner ladies and the headmistress; I was the only 'volunteer' on the cooking side of this project, and while they had already got the bacon, sausages and beans under way they were awaiting egg-based instructions. I don't like sharing a kitchen at the best of times, so when I said I'll be fine to just get on with it myself, I meant it. 'You'll wash your hands first!' said the headmistress, a fussy little woman who I suppose had every right to be so as perhaps suddenly the idea of inviting some oddly dressed stranger into her school kitchen and just letting him get on with things was beginning to seem a little dicey.
'I'll take my coat off first,' I replied, just letting her know I can compete in the prissy stakes.
'Well how many eggs do you want? Shall I break them?' And then she added wistfully, 'We did a French breakfast for the pupils last year.' I could see that she thought this effort might all be a bit complicated and maybe it would be, but this is a full English breakfast, love, I thought, not just a vat of hot chocolate and skip load of croissants.
The thing is, I've never been all that good at scrambled eggs; I never get the balance right, or the timing, and I wanted it to be just right this time, it had to be. Too often hotel breakfast buffet scrambled eggs, for instance, are either like chewing on a memory-foam mattress or characterless dollops swilling about in too much liquid. So I'd done a little mental prep and had things worked out nicely, though I was a little thrown when I was told that they don't use wooden spoons, which to me are vital in the cooking of scrambled eggs. Honestly, if this had been a gig at that point I'd have walked, citing 'intolerable working conditions'.
I made do and, even if I say so myself, they were the best scrambled eggs I'd ever made: slightly creamy with a good light – it's all in the pre-whisk – texture. I was very proud and therefore not a little upset to see that they would now be put in the oven to keep warm, the oven in which the sausages and the bacon were still cooking. (I know they should be fried but I think 'arteries' are an issue for young kids so I was overruled).
