I was just thinking about this.
When I was in the middle of writing that last post, I started worrying about whether I should asterisk out the title, for when my now regular-reading Little Mother now reads, or if I should just start the whole thing with an over the top Well Excuse My French, ladies and gentlemen!. But I just couldnt, because its a horrible phrase, because its swearwords and not French at
But what if it IS? What if it is, and I just dont know, because my French isnt good enough?
Luckily, I have a plan.
I happen to be going to France tomorrow (A birthday present. I am going on the train, environment-fiends, having possibly eschewed flying for a bit (unless something fun/I feel like doing comes up, obv) and I am going first class which is good, because I think they give you free stuff. Like free biscuits. And I like free stuff. And biscuits. Where was I? Oh! Going to France.)
I happen to be going to Paris tomorrow, in France, and it just occurred to me that if I have been underestimating the phrase, and all those nasty words Ive been spouting all these years ARE actually French, then Im fucking set!
Ill just wander from place to place, letting forth the bluest stream of joyful swearwords you ever did hear, and I will be fine! Because on some level, perhaps, who knows, it IS French! That phrase that meaningless litttle Excuse my French that British people say after swearing – it has to come from *something*. Perhaps on some base level, French people and English people understand each other, but only while swearing really fulsomely. And loudly.
I will test it out for you.
I will go and swear at the Parisians, merrily, with my best tourist face, and check if that really IS French.
I will walk in to quaint Parisian coffee shops, and order quaint Parisian coffees by unleashing a full stream of really hilariously nasty swearwords on the quaint Parisian coffee-person (or barista, obv), and then say Excuse my French!
And all the French coffee-person will think Yes! That IS French! How silly of us! Ah! She wants a Venti Skinny Latte Frappacino with a sugar-free hazelnut syrup and and extra shot! I see! And he will turn to his fellow authentically Quaint French Coffee Shop Attendant, and say Hey! Marcel? Can I get a Motherfucking Rimjob Tippywank Knobbadger, with a sugar-stick muff-nuzzling mansquizz and some rummycunting fistsex for the English lady by the collect point? Because it IS French, and then his attendant will will mumble something, and he will say Oh, hang on, Ill find out. Madame? Come now, would you like to suck my dog-sodding salt-tipped lovesausage? Yes? Yes, Marcel, she would like a straw. Thanks.
You see how clever I am? A-switching between languages, like a born native?
Yay! I am set!
[Excuse my French, Jan.
PS go and read the post below, its far more sensible]