Monday, August 29, 2011

Whirl's Bank Holiday Weekend Q&A

Why are you having a Bank Holiday Q&A?

Because it’s a bank holiday weekend, I’m back from my holidays — and because I can.

But you’re asking all the questions! What Kind of Q&A is this?

It’s my kind of Q&A, so butt out, Big Nose.

Nose off!

Arse Face!


Grolly Pimp!

So. Anyway. Is it true your car was stolen on holiday?

Not quite — Girly of Whirly and I only found out it hadn’t actually been stolen after we telephoned the gendarmes, by which time we presumed we’d be spending a couple of nights rotting in a French jail for irritating said cops with our bogus robbery antics.

How could your car have been stolen when it actually wasn’t?

We walked round the car park three times but mysteriously missed its uniquely filthy silver glow on every single occasion.

Crikey! Next thing, you’ll be telling me the gendarmes screamed into the car park at the precise moment you finally clapped eyes on your supposedly stolen vehicle.

Your assessment of the comic timing on this one is not wrong.

Were you bricking it, given that the gendarmes pack rods?

Some of my hastily layed bricks were reserved for this, yes, but I was mainly thinking about our initial encounter with the gendarmes barely seconds into our holiday as we rolled off the Eurotunnel train into Calais.

Would that be the same Eurotunnel train as the one where you were caught short with no functioning toilets and an endless queue of doubled-up Dutchmen?


So what was the problem with the gendarmes in Calais?

We pulled in front of them on the ring road in our excessively laden car and they stuck the Vs up while packing their rods.

Phew! I thought you were going to say they pulled you over and frisked you till the goosepimples crawled up your neck and made giant lychees of your heads.

Don’t be silly. That only happens in Tripoli — and then only to clearly transvestite dictators down on their luck.

He still has his own hair.

So they say.

Moving on, what was all the business with the malevolent goats?

Apart from a layer of fromage de chevre on a 650-cheese pizza there was no direct goat-on-man action, I’m pleased to say — but I did notice that while I was away, no less than three people dropped in to this blog as a result of searching for “attacked by a goat”.

Hmmm, enough said about the goats. I’m sure you don’t want to scare your readers with any further talk of quadruped menace — so what about the restaurants?

Crawling with creatures with either too many legs or none, I’m afraid. It’s said the French have strange taste in food but I think it’s more a case of a taste for strange things that aren’t food.

Okay — so what about the waiters? And the food?

You mean the overly generous oriental chap who graced my trois boules de Monsieur Whippy with more chantilly cream than actually existed in the world right after serving me a sea bass the size of a whale and a starter monstrous enough actually to be more of a “finisher”? Or the liquified salt cod and mash that came served in a bowl with a jacket potato accompaniment as if in a Look Out There’s A Carbohydrate Midas About kind of a way. Ha! At least that one was tastier than the self-organising fat molecules cunningly self-organised into a pile of chips dancing in a cloud of eau de Carbonised Maris Piper.

Were you molested by a drunk French nudist?

Not quite — though he did come close enough for us to see the blacks of his pubes.

Any skinny dipping for you?

Not intentionally. That said, I did forget I was in a public place on one occasion while changing out of my trunks and accidentally flashed a wrinkled old lady.

Was she scared?

Luckily, her head was buried under a copy of Le Figaro. Made her miniature ludicrous dog howl, though, like it had been prodded with a cattle prod still attached to a rampaging bull.

How was the weather?

Mostly sunny and bright but there were a few days when the French seemed to have laid things on Le Pub style to make us feel at home.

So — plenty of thunder and lightning, huh?

Yes — plus they kept lining up to drench us with their hose pipes.

Including the drunk French nudist?

Including the drunk French nudist. Luckily he was so drunk, his exuberant parabolas missed us, otherwise we’d have gotten absolutely soaked.

By ‘us’ I presume you mean Girly of Whirly and Son of Whirl. What were the highlights of their holiday?

Son sloped around with the enthusiasm of a cocoon for the whole fortnight, breaking the aching silence only occasionally with comments such as, “this is crap”, “this is boring” and “what’s so interesting about the inside of a useless church?” In contrast, Girly of Whirly was a typhoon of energy, racing from one shop to another for a traditional Gallic basket like she does every time we visit France despite there being about a dozen such holiday souvenirs collecting dust in the attic.

Did you kiss Zinedine Zidane in the toilets at E LeClerc?

When I threw my arms around the guy and pressed my lips to his cheeks, I was absolutely certain it was him, but you know how easy it is to make a mistake in the twilight world between urinal and hand basin. Turned out to be Franck Ribèry.

Talking of grottos, how were the many troglodyte caves you visited?

You mean, did I inadvertently offend the ugly woman dressed in green behind the counter at Les Grottes de Matata by joking that her Village Troglodyte badge was a name tag rather than a Gallically reversed reference to the tourist site in question — the same ugly woman who was, in fact, English?

What happened when she tried to wrestle you to the ground in a fit of anger?

We were very fortunate that Franck Ribèry had taken a shine to me and had been stalking us since I kissed him in E LeClerc, and he burst from a group of bewildered Germans and defused the situation with his ball skills.

Beats goats, I suppose.

I’ve heard he does.

That it?

Always end on a goat...


Old Kitty said...

So where'd you go for your holidays?


Take care

jjdebenedictis said...

Doesn't sound like the same France I visited, but it sounds awesome!

With the possible exceptions of the nudist and the goats and the angry gendarmes.

Nice to have you back!

Whirlochre said...

Now i have to spend the next few chilly months gadding about with a tan...

Mother (Re)produces. said...

How soon are the French thinking of allowing you back in the country?

fairyhedgehog said...

Meanwhile anyone taking their clothes off over here got frostbite.

So I've heard.

Whirlochre said...

I've just received word from one of Sarkozy's aides that they'd like to see me again the next time British farmers export anything like mad cow disease.

The memo ends, "bring votre own tomatoes — we'll provide the stocks".

Coldest summer for 20 years, apparently.