Saturday, August 1, 2009

Life And Death Conundrums In The Heart Of France

Call me boring, but I prefer my life & death experiences to take place close to home and not, as it turned out, while I’m on holiday.

So here’s how it went...

Having taken time out from Girly of Whirly’s basket shopping antics and Son of Whirl’s Coke-hypered demands for Coke after Coke after Coke, I found myself ordering a beer at a sleazy bar jeux called Le Coupet (literally ‘the carpet’ or ‘the haircut’ depending on whether you use a hover mower or a regular Gillette 20-blade razor).

Normally (when in France) (when in need of beer) (when in need of a break from all the whining and moaning), I head for anywhere selling Pelforth Brune, but since this particular bar purported to sell Jupiler (which I haven’t drunk since way before I started developing the pendulous man-boobs that now pass for inbuilt ice-breakers at parties and other social gatherings), I simply couldn’t resist, and I wandered straight into the place without paying too much attention to who was hanging out in there.


No sooner had I ordered my beer from the (frankly) intimidating tattooed barman than he barked, “Vooz Onglaizzze?” with a gallic rasp to rival Obelix pulling up a pair of hessian Gaul Knicks. Worse still, one of the guys playing pool sidled over to the door and kicked it shut while his ball buddy (what do you call a couple of bikers playing pool anyhow?) gripped his cue and gave me a hard stare.

Now, it may be that, somewhere in the world, there exists an obscure language where the phrase vooz onglaizzze translates perfectly as “marry me, o marry me, you sexpot” — but even if it did, I wouldn’t have been any happier.

So my heart started to race. I didn’t need telling I was in trouble. Oui or Non, thanks to my pallid skin and Shops At Asda chic, Je was definitely Onglaizzze, and probably just about to get my head kicked in.

Nothing if not a mug, I shrugged and said oui, and then, noticing the footie on the telly, tried to strike up a manly conversation about the French national team by adding, “so, who are Paris St Germain playing?” — only it came out as “monsieur...le ball...Paris?” (and in any case, the match was an Italian satellite broadcast of a pre-season friendly between Udinese and some useless Serie B team).

That’s when I heard the first bottle smash against the side of the pool table, and when I braved a glance away from the barman, I saw the fattest of the bikers had three bottlenecks gripped between his fingers like a makeshift knuckleduster. And the thin one had a flick knife.

Instinctively, I grabbed the nearest thing I could lay my hands on: a baguette.

The barman vaulted over the bar and grabbed me round the waist yelling what I presumed to be the French equivalent of “Kill heem! Kill heem! Filthy Onglaizzze merde-cochon!” while the bikers brandished their weapons menacingly.

Was I about to be stabbed and buggered? Or buggered and stabbed?

Uh ho — worse.

The barman produced a rolled-up copy of Nuts magazine, presumably left behind by his last Onglaizzze victim, and turned to the half-completed £100 crossword on page 63.

“Who eez Ashley Cole’s waaaaaarf?” he screamed, his eyes rolling round in their sockets like escargots in uncooked albumen.

“Is Coleen McLoughlin, n’est ce-pas?” mouthed the biggest biker from between his moustache and string of onions.

“Non, non, imbecile,” retorted his ball buddy (yup, tight leathers), “c’est Abbey Clancy.”

Glad, for once, to exist in the same universe as The Sun, I cleared my throat and remarked (with considerable authority for a man wearing no socks), “No, McLoughlin is Wayne Rooney’s wife and the other one hangs out with Peter Crouch. And neither of those fits in with the 6,4 clue, see? The answer is Cheryl Cole.”

“Ah!” squealed the barman, obviously delighted, “so zat makes nine down cunnilingus, non?”

I looked at the clue. “Cauliflower.”

These guys obviously needed some help, and though it meant staying with them for longer than the wrath of Girly of Whirly was ever going to stand, I recalled the sacrifices made by the thousands of brave men who layed down their lives on the beaches of Normandy to aid their Gallic brothers, and with grim determination, said, “un autre Jupiler, s’il vous plais...”


McKoala said...

So just another typical day in Life of Whirl. Only this time, with a French accent.

I see you forgot to pack the pink socks. Perhaps you were hoping sunburn would suffice.

However, happy to see you again, mon ami! Did you get sunburn, or just near death?

Whirlochre said...

I'm modererately bronzed, as it happens.

Sock photos to follow...

JaneyV said...

Welcome back. I'm still laughing that a clue in Nuts can give the answer cunnilingus or cauliflower. Glad that your wordsmithiness saved the day and you didn't have to resort to parrying with a baguette.

Nice pins btw. The water looks good too. What Gallic scenic spot grabbed your attention this year?

fairyhedgehog said...

I'm glad you're having fun.

Robin S. said...

Great scene, great leg shot. (I don't even believe you've got man boobs, by the way.)

I'm with Janey- cunnilingus or cauliflower had me happily stunned - but then I thought...stunned....ah mais non...zees ees Whirl's blahg - natting stuns me 'ere.

Glad you're back! (However, a few people may have realy enjoyed the comment trail being left open on the last post, mate.)

Whirlochre said...

I have more leg shots with which to amuse you in the coming week.

As for comment moderation, I'm happy to switch it off again and go with word verification so people can hang out like wrestlers' bollocks. I've not had to edit anyone out yet — apart from some twat trying to sell cars.

So — your comments should automatically post as of 5 mins...

Geoff said...


Robin S. said...

Woo hoo!

Kiersten said...

Oh NO. Crocs have made it across the ocean?

The world is doomed.


That being said, the best part of this whole entirely delightful post? The (frankly) intimidating bartender.

Tee hee hee hee...oh, you can be subtle sometimes.

So glad you are back. I've missed that amber eye.

Scarlet-Blue said...

Crikey, just think of the damage you could have caused with your wayward baguette...
Welcome home!

Whirlochre said...

Umber to Amber is pure alchemy, me duck.

la poussée de la croûte, as they say...

sylvia said...

Hurray that you did your bit for cross-Channel relations. I'm sure Girl of Whirly understood the sacrifice you had to make!

pacatrue said...

I have an incorrect mind, but it's quite difficult to come up with a way to get cauliflower and cunnilingus to connect. "Eating petals with slight fragrance...."

I've seen Englishmen take out assassins with umbrellas and bananas; your assailant would have been toast. Toast with a delightfully robust crust and soft, airy interior.

Mary said...

Zut! And thank Gaul for your knowledge of WAG lore.

Welcome back to Blighty!

Whirlochre said...

It's better than cross-dressing, I suppose.

Double snort...

The Wags are definitely the best thing about football. They should screen Wag Arsenal vs Wag Man U sometime — a shoe shop at either end of the pitch and one handbag full of £250,000.

Eric said...

No such trouble here in Tenerife. Always know where you are with even the sleaziest local. Those Wags, on the other hand, would be best advised to bank that cash and pack one of the prettier credit cards.

(Have trusted Barclaycard for over thirty years. Highly Recommend. *****)