Lost in France
Back in the days when my Dad was still active, Dearest and I, along with Eldest and Youngest, accompanied him and my Mam on a fortnight’s holiday in a Gite near Coutance in Normandy. We took two cars, Mam and Dad following Dearest and myself on the long trip down to Portsmouth, onto the ferry and then the 100 or so miles to our destination. A good time was had by all with all the usual Frenchified shenanigans being experienced: good, cheap wines, excellent food and surly Frenchmen. My father didn’t help of course, his absolute refusal to use one word of French certainly did nothing to improve the already well-established Gallic hatred of “les Anglaise”.There was one guy though – a near neighbour – who was helpful, friendly and courteous. He must’ve been in his late 70s and he probably thought he’d seen and heard all the world could throw at him until that fateful night when two crazy English women appeared at his farmhouse door, miles from anywhere, miming the unmistakeable routine of giving someone a blowjob.
It all started sometime during the second week of the holiday. All six of us had been to Caen and as we were getting in our cars my Dad said he would probably be needing petrol soon. There was a petrol station not far from the Gite, he said he’d fill up there.
I slowed down outside the petrol station – little more than a village shop really, with a few pumps. I watched as an old woman shuffled out to my father, before setting off home.
After half an hour or so Mam and Dad still haven’t appeared. It’s only a five minute drive to the petrol station. Something was wrong.
Sure enough five minutes later my Mother turns up on foot in tears.
“The car’s broke down, your Dad thinks the Frenchwoman’s filled it with diesel.”
Now I know there’s a certain leftover animosity between the English and French and a history of fisticuffs from Agincourt to Napoleon, but filling a hapless tourist’s automobile with the wrong fuel smacks of taking things a tad too far.
We all toddled off to push the dadmoblile home.
Further interrogation of my father (after he’d stopped cursing the entire French race), revealed that he’s pulled up at a pump clearly marked “Gazole” and said “fill her up”. Hmmmmmmmm.
Anyway, the recriminations would have to wait. The important thing was to get the offending crap out of the car. But how? After an hour or so of pissing about with various ideas and devices, we hit upon a solution.
We attached jump leads between the two cars, kept my engine ticking over and my Dad kept turning the ignition key in his. We had detached the fuel supply so every time the ignition was turned a small amount of diesel would be ejaculated. Trouble was we had nothing to put it in and nothing to transfer it from the fuel pump.
We realised we need a large receptacle and, crucially, a tube or hose or somesuch to siphon the gazole into it.
Cue my Mam and Dearest setting forth to other houses in the vicinity hoping against hope that someone had a smattering of English.
‘Twas not to be.
Most of the places they tried were empty – including the nearby owners of our holiday home. Eventually they stumble across the old farmer’s place. After a while he opens the door to find two women gabbling away in a foreign language. He probably guessed it was English but he certainly didn’t understand it.
My mother attempted to use the time-honoured English method of communicating with other races: talking slowly and loudly – as though to a simpleton.
No dice.
Becoming increasing desperate, and liberally sprinkling their speech with “le car est broke” and “le car est kaput”, they eventually donned white-face and began their infamous attempt to make him understand thay they needed a tube or something through which they could siphon. How to mime siphoning? It’s easy. You just position your hands as though holding a tube and start sucking.
Apparently his eyebrows shot a foot off the top of his head. It was few seconds before Dearest and my Mother realised the signals they were sending out and quickly stopped before bursting into laughter. Fortunately the old guy laughed as well (possibly in anticipation – who knows?).
Eventually, with the help of a pen and paper, he understood and accompanied them back to our Gite with a massive bucket and a long hose. Once he saw what we were doing he pissed himself and walked away laughing and muttering indecipherable French interspersed with frequent use of “gazole”.
It took eight hours to empty the tank. Eight fuckin’ hours.
Then I had the unenviable task of acquiring a few litres of “essence avec plomb” in order to get dad’s car back to the petrol place and filling it up correctly.
But that’s another story.
I'm right pissed off. Earlier, as I re-acquainted myself with 
Well. Monday night on More4 is become required viewing. Last week we were entertained on the Blunkett-go-round, and this week 
Dearest has always had a problem acquiring footwear that fits. She reckons she has a broad foot. I reckon she's just scared of a little pain or, as Dearest calls it "searing pain". "Wear 'em in", I say "they'll be right as rain in a couple of days and you'll be able to walk round places like Venice photographing washing. Just like in the photograph on the left."
Dearest never quite *got* Mr Zimmerman. Sure she appreciated stuff like "Just Like A Woman", "Knockin' On Heaven's Door" etc., etc., but the rest of it? "Crap. He can't sing."
We kept happening upon sculptures like the one on the left as we trolled through the alleys, backstreets, squares and innards of Venice. Severed heads lay in the middle of main thoroughfares. Strange obelisks appeared where you least expected to find them. Huge balls of wool, amorphous blobs scattered like playdough and all surrounded by architecture to die for.
I've been all cultural this past week.
Venice though. What a place - and to think I wasn't really looking forward to going. Yeah it's expensive but not 
I should be at Eastlands today watching the Blues and Bolton scrap it out but I'm full of a cold so Dearest has taken my place. So I log on to BBC's website for online comms and peruse photographs taken at the day's Premiership matches and who do I spot in the glorious sky blue shirt but Freddy Flintoff. Now I admired the man before but I can assure you he has just acquired God like status in my eyes. Shame about the smoking though - not much of a role model is it? 
Not content with his less-than-adequate reponse to the disaster unfolding in the Deep South, President Monkey Smirk now decides to lead his 
That's me and the shit machine having a slight disagreement about whether she should carry on sniffing the tree trunk, or whether it was time to move on.
Bugger me! 
OK. Mea culpa. I booked time at work this afternoon but spent my time watching Messrs Flintoff, Pietersen and Jones (et al) stuffing the Aussies. Cleaning up the virus outbreak it says on my timesheet. However, after Wednesday's little outbreak of honesty from the management, sitting at home watching first England's magnificent batting and then, joy of joys, England's bowling annihalation (sp?) of the Australian top Bruces, felt like heaven. 
Well, here it is, the absence of O. The hole in my keyboard that is causing me pain, grief and more pain and grief. You have to bloody hammer it you see. Hammer it, just to ensure that it registers. In the normal course of a paragraph yu would probably hammer it a couple of hundred times.