Tag: FRENCH

Guest Post: 7 Reasons Why The Brits Are Uptight About Sex

1. The Conservative Party. The Conservative party specialise in a particular duality; Tories like very much to keep things business and respectable at the front, but murky, duplicitous and even sinister at the back. When I say ‘back’, I mean of course that hidden away room in the tower out on the west wing of their country pile in the depths of Surrey where they keep the, er, apparatus. This dual existence means that, instead of embracing their sexual tastes as part of their identity as they should, they prefer to hide them away and keep them under lock and key and then present this as some sort of honest virtue. What a crock.

2. The Victorians. Perhaps the definitive age in British sexual mores, the Victorians have a lot to answer for. The Victorians had a tendency to tie up and repress the bosom of their emotions in a corset or a strait-jacket and take away its air, suffocating it, starving it. Their bedrooms cold and draughty, their beds stone slabs when compared to the kind of things on offer for bedrooms today.

Of course the figurehead for this smothering of desire was the Queen herself, all jutting chin and jowel and brimming with disdain for any show of open affection: a real ice Queen. Imagine her now, faced with the flesh-fest on Geordie Shore. She’d cancel Christmas and cut off supply routes to the north-east in an instant.

3. Female Suppression. For so long in Britain, the prevailing cultures – political, social and sexual – were patriarchal. You might well argue that this is still the case. The idea of discussing female sexual desires and needs was anathema; it was all one way stuff, if you excuse the image. That whole concept is based on male control and male control is predicated on holding stuff back in case things start slipping out of their hands. Again, you’ll have to excuse the image there. Sorry.

4. Stiff Upper Lip. Brits love to be seen as old warhorses; stoic in the face of unremitting adversity; taking every blow on the chin but never giving in, always soldiering on. The old stiff upper lip. If only they’d be a bit happier about keeping something else stiff? This piffley-idea of sanctified stoicism is laughable when you think of it. It’s like the Brits have seen Sisyphus and thought what a good idea his lot in life looked like.

5. The French. Brits are terrified of the French, how they smoulder, casually turn on and turn off their passion switches, how they can make even the most trivial of actions look effortlessly cool. More than anything else they are terrified of the French having sex. And being better at it than the Brits. The Brits think that if they pretend it (ie sex with the French) doesn’t exist, then the French cannot be better at it than us. It’s an ostrich shoving their head in the ground scenario. The French know their heads are better used elsewhere. Haw, hee, and indeed, haw.

6. Class. As a nation, the Brits are utterly obsessed with class. It defines every social occasion, every coming together on public transport, every purchase they make, every personal affect. Sex of course should and does transcend any pseudo-idea of class but the Brits being the Brits think that certain sexual habits are only to be associated with the underclass whereas everyone uses a variety of vegetables as part of their sexual role-play games don’t they? Don’t they? No? Oh.

7. Eros: not just a waiter. The name ‘Eros’ to a Brit is more likely to be associated with the waiter who brought them cheap plonk in that holiday complex down on the Costa del Torquay, not the God of Love. Cupid rhymes with stupid as they see it – the Brits will always find a way to undercut, downplay and not face up to the force of true sexual emotion when they should just let everything go, open their arms wide and embrace Eros to their hearts. Even if he is a bewhiskered, doddery old fella with breath that smells of cigarettes and dried shrimp. Especially, then.

June 22, 2013
7 Reasons It’s Time To Fin…

Hello people of the world and of other places that we’re less familiar with. We have an announcement to make. It’s time to fin….Here are (wait for it! Wait for it!) seven reasons why.

1. Familiarity Breeds Apathy – Part A (Us). The more observant of you will have noticed that 7 Reasons has been rocking the internet for two years. In the beginning we made a promise to ourselves – and you – that we would post every single day. And, for the most part, we did. For the statisticians among you our strike-rate was a healthy 92.28%. The problem is, as time passed, we grew weary of the 7 Reasons format. By the time we published our 690th post/4,830th reason, the joy had dissipated. It had become more of a chore than an enjoyment. So we’re stepping back. We’re tearing up our promise and changing it to something like, ‘7 Reasons for something or other if and when we think of it, which we might. Possibly. Or not’. In other words, the relentless day to day posting is a thing of the past. Instead we’ll post irregularly. As and when we think of things. The joy will come back, the writing will be more fun for us and angry emails accusing each other of failing to deliver will cease. We might even become friends.

2. Familiarity Breeds Apathy – Part B (You). We’re modern men. We can pick up signals. As a 7 Reasons reader – and we are thankful to all of you who turn to us for your lunchtime* reading – we know it’s easy to think it’s okay to miss a post. And of course it’s okay. As strange as it may seem, we’re not your parents, and we’re especially not your mother. What isn’t acceptable is why you’re missing them. Don’t like the topic? Fine. Too busy at work? Fine. Happy to miss one because there’ll be another one along tomorrow? Not fine. Again, that’s not what 7 Reasons is supposed to be about. So by going to an irregular format, we’re making 7 Reasons posts a novelty. Something to cherish and savour.

3. Autophagia. That’s right. We’ve begun to eat ourselves. 7 Reasons has become a part of our daily lives. And not necessarily in a good way. In a bygone era we had blogs and if something grabbed our attention we’d write about it there. If it didn’t, we’d leave it well alone. In the past two years we haven’t been able to leave anything alone. It has been impossible to do anything without working out how a 7 Reasons post could be made out of it. While it was kind of fun for us initially – and is great for friends who keep suggesting topics, no matter how hard we try to stop them – it’s actually a quite restrictive format to write to. And 7 Reasons was never meant to make us cantankerous old gits. But that’s what we’ve become. It’s time the old Marc and Jon came out to play again. The uncynical Marc and Jon. The ones who – on seeing a woman falling down a manhole cover – would feel obliged to effect a rescue (or at least make a video), rather than to begin writing 7 Reasons Women Shouldn’t Fall Down Manholes.***

4. Time. A lot of it has been dedicated to 7 Reasons. Remember the good old days when Jon was busily planning 83-trips back and forth across America, catching 100 buses in one night, searching the world for his best-friend’s look-alike, growing a mo and making Richard Bacon seem interesting? Well, in the last two years he hasn’t done any of that sort of thing. And that’s not what 7 Reasons was supposed to do. It wasn’t supposed to consume so much time. Its overbearing beat wasn’t supposed to dominate the rhythm of our lives.

“What’ve you been doing today Marc?” friends ask.

“7 Reasons,” comes the reply.

And that’s the same conversation both of us have been having for the last two years**. We want to be able to reply with, “I’ve been writing a script”, “I painted six sheep luminous yellow” or “I’ve been wondering why See Hear has a theme tune”. We want to be fun again. Or daft. Or both. And we will be.

5. Archive. There’s enough stuff here already. There’s bloody loads of it. There are many, many very good posts here containing some of our best words that have barely been read at all. Every once in a while, someone will discover one of them, dust it off, share it with their friends and it’ll get loads of hits for a few days and then it’ll quieten down again. Then another thing that even we’d forgotten we’d written will get discovered and shared around the world. If you think you’ve read every post you’re probably wrong. Or, even if you’re right, you’ve probably forgotten them by now and could read them again afresh. If you think of 7 Reasons as a goldfish bowl, we have put the gravel and water in, plus the castle, the diver, some food and a post about attacking a train with stones and excrement. You (the golden fish in this scenario) can merrily swim around here forever reading and rereading things with nary a hint of deja vu. We have written enough.

6. It’s Not Like We’re Totally Going Away. We’re not. We’re still running the Emporium – in fact, we’re putting new merchandise into it soon – and we’ll still be doing strange things to the back end of the website in the middle of the night, usually with disastrous consequences. We just won’t be here every day. Well, we probably will, we just won’t be saying anything with our words. Or our pictures. So we won’t be posting anything under Daily Posts any more. Instead, we’ll be posting things under New Posts, should the mood take us. We’ll also still be happy to accept good guest posts from readers(/writers) that we know. After all, guest posts are brilliant. Sometimes it’s as if they just write themselves.

7. Because We’ve Started Talking French. After all, it’s not goodbye. It’s au revoir. Au revoir!

*Midnight reading if it’s a Fearns’ day

**Not together

***Unintentional innuendo win

October 27, 2011
7 Reasons I Have A Le Tour De France Heart Shaped Problem

I have a problem. Le Tour de France is French. I know. Shocking isn’t it? But that’s not really my biggest problem. The biggest problem is that I like Le Tour de France. A lot. I always have. Ever since Gary Imlach was born. This all means that I like something French. Bad times. Here’s why:

1. Time. This isn’t just a case of me liking France for eighty-minutes (I have been known to support them over Wales, Scotland & Ireland in the past – purely for England’s gain you understand). This is a case of liking France for three whole weeks. Three! Weeks! That’s nearly a month! It’s 5.7% of the year! That must be against the law.

2. The Countryside. I hate the way TV directors cut to aerial shots of the French countryside. The sprawling fields. The streams. The chateaux. Even the vineyards – and I’m not a wine fan – look appealing. And the sun’s always shining. The sun always shines in France. And in that minute I forget myself. And I fall in love. I fall in love with France.

3. Village. On ITV’s coverage they send Ned Boulting off up the road to a small remote village that last saw pair of shorts in 1972. In a matter of hours 180 cyclists are going to zoom through the place, so Ned enquires with the locals as to how the preparations are going. Are they excited? Do they know what a bike is? Usually they seem somewhat bewildered. Which is understandable. Given Boulting’s passing resemblance to Matt Allwright, through the haze of Gauloises one could be forgiven for thinking they are about to star in a poor man’s Rogue Traders. It never happens though. Boulting just talks about bikes. And the old man continues smoking. And I fall in love with this place. And I want to go there. Right that instant. I want to go to France.

4. Art. If I went outside with my chalks and started wrote ‘Allez Claire!’ on the hill, I would get some funny looks. I’d probably also get a visit from the Police. During Le Tour however, anyone can write anything on the roads apparently. Particularly in the mountains. I can only assume this is because the Gendarmes can’t be bothered to go all the way up Alpe D’heuz to slap a €100 fine on someone who will have long gone. The art itself is brilliant. It’s like wordle. On a road. genius. I want to be a French graffiti artist.

5. Supporters. I have seen Le Tour de France live twice. Once in 1994 when they went through Sussex – and I lived twenty minutes away – and once in 2007 when they rode around Buckingham Palace and I lived a ten minute walk away. In terms of effort, it didn’t take much on my part. The French though, they head up mountains in their caravans and then wait for days until the peloton (plus the stragglers) pass them. It’s a whole lot of effort for a few minutes of live action. And I love them for it. Because they’re stupid. I love the French public.

6. Laurent. You might be startled to hear this, but my favourite rider is the late Laurent Fignon. A Frenchman. And it has absolutely nothing to do with his ability as a rider. It’s because he wore glasses. It’s because, due to his glasses, he was nicknamed ‘The Professor’. It’s because he looked a bit like Christopher Walken. Without his glasses.* So what? Well, in the days before I wore contact lenses, I wore glasses. And let me tell you, riding your bike, in the rain, with glasses on, is terrifying. It’s also thrilling. Which is why, whenever I went out cycling in the rain, I would pretend I was Laurent Fignon.** And every year, when Le Tour is on, I am reminded of this. I am reminded of the time I loved pretending I was a Frenchman.

Laurent Fignon (Not former 7 Reasons guest writer, Dr Simon Percy Jennifer Best)

7. The Run In. The final stage of Le Tour sees those who have managed to stay on their bikes for the duration cycle towards the finish on the Champs-Elysees. The best thing about this is that it is tradition for all the riders to drink Champagne on route. Then, when they’ve knocked backed the bottles, they put their heads down prepared for one last race around downtown Paris. An eight-lap course which features a significant section of cobblestones. This is French ingenuity at its best. Not only have you pushed your body to its absolute limit with little more than bum blisters and crack rash to show for it, now you’ve been intoxicated with alcohol ahead of one of the most dangerous surfaces on which one could possibly ride. Well done France. You’re funny.

*At this time A View To A Kill was my favourite Bond film. The first half of it anyway.

**Wondering who I pretended to be when I played cricket in the garden? Listen to the all-new 7 Reasons podcast this forthcoming Russian Roulette Sunday. ***

***This may or may not happen.

July 5, 2011
7 Reasons to Replace the Horse With the Cow

Great news from Germany! The horse is obsolete. A fifteen year old girl has trained a cow to show-jump because her parents refused to buy her a horse. At 7 Reasons, we love this sort of defiant ingenuity so, in honour of the quite brilliant Regina Meyer, here are seven reasons to replace the horse with the cow.

1. The Grand National. Or, The Festival of Horse-Death – as it’s called in my house – with its high fences and terrifying leaps is dangerous for both riders and horses. If we replaced the horses with cows though, imagine how much better it would be. Would cows even attempt to hurdle over Canal Turn or Becher’s Brook? No, of course they wouldn’t, they’d just amble round them, perhaps pausing to nibble at the racecourse (or grass, as it’s known to laymen). There’d be no injuries to jockeys, no innocent animals would be shot and there’d be fresh milk for everyone at the finish. Or – if the race had been ridden at a quick pace – milkshakes. Even if cows did get injured and required shooting it would still be better. If you shoot a horse, you get a dead horse. If you shoot a cow, you get a nice sofa or a handbag. Or a steak.

2. Food. Strange as it may seem, there are people out there that eat horses. They’re called The French. But French cuisine is awful. After all, if it was any good, French chefs would stay there and cook it, wouldn’t they? But they don’t, they’re all over here in Britain, cooking food that doesn’t contain horses; making hors d’oeuvres rather than horse d’oeuvres. Is France teeming with British chefs? No. That’s because horseless cuisine is better and they want to stay. If France replaced the horse with the cow, their chefs wouldn’t leave in their droves.

3. Milk. The phrase, “get off your horse and drink your milk”, is often attributed to John Wayne. But if we were to follow Wayne’s suggestion, and get off our horse and drink our milk, we’d still have to find a cow because drinking horse-milk would just be weird. And would you fancy trying to milk a horse? I certainly wouldn’t. So if you had a horse, you’d still need a cow. If you rode a cow though, you’d only need one animal – your cow – and rather than getting off it to drink your milk, you could probably construct some sort of straw/hose milking-device to deliver your beverage to you in situ. Call yourself a cowboy, John Wayne? Too bloody right you were.

4. Society. Cows aren’t horses. They aren’t evil, terrifying, flighty and they don’t chase me round the dining room in my dreams. The world would just be a nicer place with fewer horses. What happens in a society where there are lots of horses? I’ll tell you. The streets of Edwardian Britain were riddled with the infernal beasts running amok, terrorising women in corsets and babies in perambulators just because they’d heard a backfiring omnibus or been startled by an oncoming charabang. Would cows have reacted in such a dangerous fashion? Nay.

5. The Future. You can predict future events just by looking at animals. If you look at a horse, you can tell that something bad will happen, and if you see a cow, you can apparently tell what the weather will be, just by whether it’s sitting-down or standing-up. And there’s an old piece of country wisdom which goes, “pink cow at night, Angel Delight”. Cows tell you stuff about the future and horses just give you the heebie-geebies.

6. India. In India, cows are sacred and roam free and many drivers will swerve into almost anything to avoid a collision with them. It stands to reason, therefore, that the safest place to be in India, is on a cow. Cars and trucks would actually go out of their way to avoid you. Brilliant. It would be safer than riding a horse and safer even than riding an elephant. And cows aren’t governed by speed limits, traffic lights or contraflow systems. They can go anywhere. Usually to moo at things.

7. My Family History. My late father was a horse. Not all the time, you should understand, but occasionally. I believe he was a horse twice during his lifetime. Or rather, half a horse. As a part of Manchester University’s rag week in the late 1950s, he and two friends competed in the 2:10 at Lingfield one Saturday. He (front half of horse) and his friends (back half and jockey) hid behind one of the fences during a rare – in those days – televised meeting and waited. When the other horses approached and jumped the fence, my father and his friends sprung from their hiding place and galloped down the course in pursuit of them. Despite a great deal of exertion over the following couple of furlongs, they were unable to make up much ground and soon began to tire. Their race concluded early when they were chased away by an angry policeman. That was the highlight of my father’s sporting career. In fact, it’s the biggest sporting accomplishment in our entire family history. But if those horses had been cows, my dad could have won that race. And then we could have put him out to stud. He’d have liked that.

April 7, 2011
7 Reasons That Social Kissing is a Minefield

I’m perplexed by social kissing. I’m referring to non-sexual kissing here, the sort that goes on all the time on all manner of occasions and at every gathering. I’ve been trying to make some sort of sense of it since 8:30 am. On a morning in 1985. As an Englishman, I just find it all a bit fraught and overwhelming. Anyway, here’s what I’ve got so far. Here are seven reasons that social kissing is a minefield.

This is bad. Even I know that.

1. Straight Men. Social kissing, if you’re a heterosexual man, is fraught with myriad rules and conventions that must be strictly adhered to. In truth, it’s a bit complicated. As a straight man, you can kiss any unrelated woman socially, except for the Queen and ones that smell really bad and keep pigeons in their hats. You can also kiss any related woman socially: mothers; sisters; aunts; nieces; cousins; in-laws; grandmas; that woman you’re told is an aunt but no one can remember how the family know her (she probably just latched on to them at a christening in 1974), they’re all fair game. You can’t, however, kiss any unrelated man unless a) you are both professional football players in the act of celebrating a goal or b) you are more drunk than you have ever been in your life and it is your wedding night (I played the role of surprised wedding guest in this scenario, I don’t recommend it) . Related men are simpler. You can kiss both your father and grandfather up to the age of about twelve and you can kiss babies (but not excessively, and once they can walk unaided that has to stop or you’ll get a bad reputation). Oh, and uncles should never really kiss anyone, ever. All clear?

2. Straight Women. The etiquette for straight women is more straightforward. Heterosexual women can kiss any unrelated woman, also excepting the Queen (though they will kiss the smelly woman with a pigeon in her hat because they’re generally kinder than men). They can kiss any related woman (probably including the Queen, should they be related). They can also kiss all men (both related and unrelated). In short, they may kiss pretty much everyone apart from the dead (and even then it’s acceptable for the first few days).

3. Gay Men. It’s more complicated for gay men. The same rules that apply to straight men kissing relatives apply to them but, in the case of unrelated men, things are a little different. The football celebration exemption that applies to heterosexual men doesn’t apply to them, because there are no gay professional football players. At all. None. No! But gay men can kiss each other socially (should they feel comfortable doing so), unless they are in a location where such activity may attract a crowd/mob. They are also not allowed to kiss socially within the pages of the Daily Mail, unless accompanied by some sort of lurid headline about declining standards/moral turpitude/Britain’s going to hell in a handcart because we’re so against modernity that we won’t even put it in a metaphorical car.

4. Gay Women. Exactly the same rules apply to gay women that apply to straight women, with only one important exception. Under no circumstance can a lesbian ever kiss Justin Bieber. That would just be too much confusion for anyone to bear.

5. The French. Now, the French have their own unique approach to social kissing. French men and French women (of any persuasion) can kiss absolutely anyone they like (except for the Queen and my writing partner, Jon), as long as they do it twice. Once on the left cheek and once on the right.* You can see this demonstrated at civil ceremonies throughout France as various mayors and civic dignitaries present medals for courage in the face of extreme paper cuts to postal workers and the highly-prized and hotly-contested croix de blanc, which is annually awarded to the first person to surrender their town to any approaching army (or a passing traffic warden should there be no invading army available at that moment).

6. Transsexuals. Okay, the rules are really blurred here. But, as far as I’m concerned, transsexuals can kiss anyone they like, except for the Queen and me outside York Minster at midnight on New Year’s Eve 2004 just when I’m moving in to kiss my wife and am off-guard. Yes, I concede that it would have been very funny had it happened in a sitcom or to someone else, but sadly it didn’t. Oh, and when you’re saying, “I bet you didn’t think you’d be kissing a transsexual at midnight”, try not to do it in a tar-soaked scouse accent, because that just made it feel dirty. Try it in lilting Irish next time, or a West country burr. Then I’ll probably feel better about the whole experience.

7. Eskimos. Eskimo kissing is weird. I don’t know which Eskimos can kiss other Eskimos. I also don’t know how Eskimo gender affects which Eskimos can kiss other Eskimos (or how they can tell what gender the other Eskimo is under all the layers of clothing and the furry hood). I do know, however, that Eskimos aren’t Eskimos at all, they’re Inuits, Yupiks and Aleuts, but they don’t Inuit, Yupik or Aleut kiss, they Eskimo kiss (oh, and they don’t live in igloos**). I’m sure it’s quite acceptable for them to Eskimo kiss other Eskimos (who also aren’t Eskimos) though, but probably not seals and definitely not polar bears. Just as long as they don’t come and rub their faces against the rest of us without warning really, as it’s bizarre behaviour. And by the rest of us, I mean me. I seem to have enough problems with social kissing as it is.

*If an English person says that you can kiss them on an additional cheek, they are insulting you.

**Except for the ones that do.

February 24, 2011
7 Reasons the Anglo-Franco Defence Agreement is a Good Idea

Yesterday, at 7 Reasons (.org) we ran a post entitled 7 Reasons The Anglo-Franco Defence Agreement Is A Bad Idea. I discovered that we had done so while I was eating my breakfast, and it’s fair to say that I was quite stunned. In fact I, the Jacques Tati obsessed, Voltaire-reading, coffee-guzzling half of the 7 Reasons team (the one with the French name), almost choked on my croissant. “A bad idea?!” I exclaimed in a voice so high that it was only audible to very small dogs, “but it’s a brilliant idea!” And it is. Here are seven reasons why:

1. History. The most notable occasion on which we’ve had a defence agreement and a joint expeditionary force with France was the Second World War. And, as I’m sure you’re aware, we won that. Obviously it didn’t work out too well for France, what with Germany annihilating the French army and occupying most of their country, and Britain blowing up the French navy before going home to dine on powdered egg with the Americans. But we did win, so defence agreements with France are a proven success. And now that we have the Channel Tunnel, their government will be able to flee to London so much more quickly than last time. If that’s possible.

2. Cuisine. Working together will rid both nations of antiquated ideas about the other nation’s diet. They will come to realise that there’s more to British cuisine than roast beef – because we’ve had branches of McDonalds since at least the 1970s – and we will come to realise that there’s more to French cuisine than frogs legs. They’ll introduce us to soufflé: An insignificant, over-inflated tart that shrinks at the merest hint of a knife, and Quiche Lorraine: A dish that they readily share with Germans – usually as a starter – which is often followed by a generous helping of their speciality, crêpe à la guerre.

3. Wisdom. Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer: A line from The Godfather – often wrongly attributed to Sun Tzu – that’s a very wise strategy indeed. And who is the enemy in this case? Well, it’s France: The nation we’ve spent more time at war with than any other. They are l’ennemi traditionnel, and by being on board the same ships with them we’ll be able to keep a very close eye on them. Also, should a war break out between the nations, civilian casualties will be minimised as the theatre of war will be far smaller than usual; sometimes it will even be confined to the same engine room or bridge. And remember, should the enemy sink one of our aircraft carriers, they will bear half the cost.

4. Finance. Even if you’re not au fait with the minutiae of military funding it’s bleeding obvious that we’re going to save lots of money by sharing spending with France. Look at paint. All armed forces need lots of paint and, by getting together we’ll have greater purchasing power when it comes to procuring it. We’ll make substantial savings on grey paint for navy use, and camouflage paint for army use. And we’ll make even bigger savings on red, white and blue paint as we’ll need bloody loads of that now that we’ll need to paint a French flag on one side of things and a British flag on the other. The savings will be enormous. Énorme.

5. Efficacy. The measure by which all branches of the armed services are judged is their strike-capability. And by entering into an agreement with the French, we’ll increase the strike-capability of our military substantially. In fact, with the French on board, our strike capability will be the highest of any force in the world; our strike-capability will be infinity, which is greater even than the combined forces of China, North Korea, Iran, Christmas Island, Easter Island, Chuck Norris and Malta.

6. Co-operation. When Britain and France work together, the two nations have been able to affect profound and lasting positive sociological change. The channel tunnel, for example, which was first proposed in 1802 and was completed a mere 192 years later, allowed refugees of many nationalities to complete the final leg of their epic journeys of migration; fleeing hardship and squalor from across the four corners of Northern France, to civilisation in Southern England; where they were able to escape the tyranny of boules, cycling and listening to Johnny Hallyday and were introduced to the more civilised British pastimes of cricket, morris dancing, and the Daily-Mail-witch-hunt.

7. Culture. Our nations have much to learn from each other and the accord will doubtless be a civilising influence. As we get to know each other as individuals there will be a significant breakdown of prejudice and an increase in cultural exchange. We will teach the French to drink copious quantities of beer and fight with bald men in shirts at the weekend, and they will teach the British to drink copious quantities of wine and run from bald men in shirts at le weekend. We will teach the French to make popular music that will be cherished the world over, and they will teach the British how to sneer at the X-Factor. We will teach them that France is the ideal holiday destination, and they will teach us that France is the ideal holiday destination. It’s a match made in heaven. The Anglo-French defence agreement is going to be great.

November 3, 2010
7 Reasons To Answer The Phone By Saying ‘Goodbye’

There are moments in life, when you wish you had not picked up your phone. And then there are moments when you don’t answer your phone and you wish you had. Thanks to 7 Reasons, that dilemma is now over. Here are 7 Reasons to say ‘Goodbye’ as soon as you pick up that phone.

1. Cold-Callers. Double-glazing, health insurance, wills, bouncy castles, grandmothers. People will try and sell you anything these days. And, no matter how much you try saying it, ‘no’ just doesn’t seem to work. Get in a ‘goodbye’ straight away and while they are baffled by your audacity, hang up.

2. Barclays. I am using Barclays as an example as I have had first-hand experience of their call centres. I am sure, however, you could substitute the company for any other business that has it’s call centre in a foreign clime. Barclays had the foresight to base its call centre in the subcontinent. Which would have been absolutely fine if it had then employed people who could speak English adequately. Unfortunately, they failed in this pursuit. If indeed it ever was a pursuit. I’m sorry, but I simply can not understand what the hell they are talking about half the time. Actually, make that ninety percent of the time. And that is not an environment conducive to conversation. It’s like a Liverpudlian meeting a Geordie in Birmingham. Painful. Given that I am not going to understand them and they are not going to understand me, it’s worth halting the proceedings before they’ve even started.

3. Sanity. Some people – normal people – have a habit of talking to themselves. They can’t help it, it’s just natural. No amount of determination, threat or hypnosis can stop them. Which is where we come in. If you suffer from this narcissistic problem, call yourself. As soon as you answer, say ‘goodbye’. It will be the closure you have been searching for.

4. Tossers. These are the people that just love to have the last word. So, if you get the last word in first, you’ve won.*

5. Reverse. Given that the most important details are spoken about at the beginning of most phone conversations – and they are then forgotten once you have discussed sport/shoes, sport/the next door neighbours and sport/Eastenders – it is surely worth reversing the whole event. Start by saying ‘goodbye’, then talk about sport/rubbish, then the important item and then finish with a cheery ‘Hello’ or another form of salutation.

6. It’s Over. Splitting up with your partner is never a particularly joyous occasion. Even if it means moving on to better things. Finding the right words and a suitable environment to break-up in, is not a straight-forward affair. Sure, the advent of facebook and the relationship status option has made things easier if you are shallow, but what if you’re not? What if you are someone who agonizes over such a situation? Well, the next time they call, it’s time to say ‘goodbye’. And when they phone back, say it again. Repeat until they get the message. (You could also text them).

7. Bargains. Who knows how the person who has just called you will react when you say ‘goodbye’, but if they misunderstand what you are saying they may rattle off a load of ‘good buys’. As a result, you may end up investing in a BMW, a George Foreman Lean Mean Fat Reducing Grilling Machine or a slice of carrot cake. And no one can really complain about that, can they?

*Sometimes I astonish myself with my own genius.

October 14, 2010
7 Reasons My Italian Self-Teaching May Get Me Into Trouble

Hello. I’m on a plane. At least I am if you are reading this at 9am on Monday morning. If you are reading it at 9pm on Monday evening then I bloody well hope I’m not on a plane and if you are reading it in June 2014, well, I couldn’t really care less. I’m assuming, as I write, that it is 9am on Monday morning and I am currently on a plane that is destined for Italy. Yes, I’m going on holiday. I thought you’d be pleased. Over the last week, I have done a little language based learning. And, in what is quite a coincidence, I have been learning Italian. Unfortunately, I am not the best when it comes to languages. Partly because I always sound a bit Indian when speaking with another tongue and partly because I just can’t be bothered with it. Which, I admit, is an abysmal attitude to have, but I will gladly take any applause you are prepared to give me for honesty. As a result of these two factors, the Italians might be in for something of a shock. Here’s why:

1. Accents. My Italian accent isn’t very good. Unless you like Italian accents that sound Indian. I imagine the Italians don’t.

2. What A Mistaka To Maka. I can’t help it. Without a teacher I revert to learning my Italian from Allo! Allo! clips on YouTube. I keep adding the letter ‘a’ onto anything I say. Oh, and I’m speaking English.

3. Roma! Lazio! The only words I can pronounce with any confidence are the names of football clubs or, indeed, names of footballers. I may get away with randomly shouting ‘Cannavaro!’ and ‘Del Piero!’ but I imagine I would not with ‘Totti!’. And, talking about football, Italy are playing Serbia tomorrow night. Along with many people in the 1990s, I watched Football Italia on Channel 4. And, along with many people, I always assumed the phrase uttered at the end of the opening credits – ‘Golaccio!’ – meant…

4. ‘Goal Lazio!!’. That’s what it sounded like after all. You can see it here if you need reminding/have no idea what I’m going on about. Now ‘Golaccio’ may seem like a sensible thing to say if Lazio’s Sergio Floccari finds the back of the net for his national side. But it wouldn’t be. For the simple reason that the word is actually ‘Golazo’. And it’s Spanish. And despite finding this out, I know it’s not going to make any bloody difference. I am still going to shout ‘Golazo!’ if Italy score. Or Spain. Or Serbia. Or England. Because that’s me. And no one would have me any other way.

5. French. The only language I have ever learnt – apart from English and Latin obviously – is French. And, despite years of trying to forget such nonsense, I still seem to remember a fair bit of it. And the reason I know this is because unwelcome words keeps slipping into my otherwise expertly recited Italian phrases, ‘Buon giorno. Parla inglese, s’il vous plaît?’. If someone started asking me a question in English and then slipped in something about frogs-legs, I’d be furious. I would expect the Italians to be similar.

6. Hands. Whether it’s a myth or not, Italian’s are famous for their hand gestures. So I’ve been practising mine too. So far, I have the ‘bang on desk’, the ‘I’ve got the whole world in my hands’ and the ‘bunny shadow’ gestures in my repetoire. And they make very little sense with my Italian/French/Indian speil.

7. Pizza. I spent much of my time in the week before Rome, practising the pronunciation of pizza names using a Pizza Express menu. As a result I am unlikely to be able to eat anything other than pizza for the whole week. While this is not a problem in itself, the fact that I can only pronounce Margherita with any confidence, could be.

October 11, 2010
7 Reasons The Port Of Dover Must Not Fall Into French Hands

The Port Of Dover has asked to be privatised. It’s down to Dave and Nick to make the decision, but if they reply in the affirmative it means the prospect of it being owned by the French is very real indeed. Obviously this would be a travesty. I’m still coming to terms with France owning the fake Blackpool tower, I’m not sure I could take anything more. Here are 7 Reasons (naturally) why it must remain English. Or at the very least, part Scottish.

1. Douvres. That’s French. And rather conveniently for the French, it is French for Dover. If the French take over I’ll have to go to Douvres. I don’t want to go to Douvres. I don’t especially want to go to Dover (it’s near France), but, given the choice, I would much rather not go to Dover than not go to Douvres. Douvres sounds like a household appliance. Why would I ever want to go near one of them?

2. Bouillaboise And Chips. I don’t like stew at the best of times, so goodness knows how I’ll feel to a French seafood version on the day the French takeover the Port of Dover. Probably quite nauseous. I like my fish battered and covered in salt and vinegar. I don’t like my fish tasting like fish. And that is what the French do. They probably won’t let me have chips with it either. I’ll probably end up with frites or something else sub-potato-standard.

3. La Porte D’entree En France. If Google Translate can be trusted, this is what The Gateway To England will become. “The Port Of Entry To France”. Or, if the Queen says something – either about factual inaccuracy or unnecessary use of excess ink – we might get away with, Aux Portes de l’Angletterre. Either way, it’s not good enough. It’s still French to me.

4. Payback. As I am sure you are all aware – or if you are not Wikipedia is aware for you – Calais was, correctly, owned by the Kingdom of England up until 1558. I am not quite sure why we wanted it, but we did. Which suits me fine. Sometimes there shouldn’t be reasons for things. Anyway, the fact that we owned Calais and the surrounding catchment area has been bugging the French for many years now. So much so that they are desperate for a piece of us. It was one of the things that kept Napoleon awake at night. Instead of going the Bonaparte route this time, the French are going to try and buy us out. We must not let it happen. Our cash machines must not be infiltrated by Euros.

5. Inconvenience. A) We’ll all have to start parking on the wrong side of the ferry. B) Everything will smell of garlic. C) Britain will be invaded by an influx of berets. D) French people might move to Kent and commute to France everyday. E) The Port Of Dover will change time-zones.

6. Il y Aura Bluebirds Sur Les Falaises Blanches De Douvres. It’s enough to have Dame Vera Lynn turning in her grave, which, as she is still with us, just goes to show how desperate this situation is. I don’t want my bluebirds sur les falaises blanches-ing, smoking Gauloises, drinking cognac and selling onions on from bicycles. I want them over the white cliffs. Doing Bluebird things; in an English manner.

7. The French Invasion. It is going to be much harder for us to invade (as detailed earlier on 7 Reasons) if we have to get past the French in our own country first. Okay, it’s not as if I don’t mind a challenge, it’s just that I will now have to redraw my Risk board and re-deploy some readers troops. It’s just hassle really.

August 31, 2010
7 Reasons Everyone And Everything Should Have Auto-Tune

You don’t have to be interested in the X-Factor to know about autotunegate or whatever it is called. I am the living proof of that. To be honest, I don’t know what all the fuss is about. Auto-tune is good. It makes things bearable. Just think how good life would be if everything and everyone had auto-tune.

1. Annoying Voices. No more high-pitched Joe Pasquale shrieking. No more Andy Murray monotones. No more confusing regional accents. No more chavs. Just a straightforward English accent that everyone can understand.

2. The Monarchy. They are bit like marmite. You either love them or you hate them. Or you are indifferent to them – as I suspect at least 90% of the world’s population is to marmite. I have long thought that the hate for the Monarchy is borne out of their accents. They are well-spoken. Which immediately alienates anyone who pronounces ‘Good Morning’ as ‘Alright fella’. If a member of the Monarchy had auto-tune they would be able to walk into The Tattooed Arms, order a bevy and become darts team captain before the end of the night. ‘Bonnie’ Prince Charlie then really could become the people’s King.

3. Movie Accents. My top three awful movie accents in ascending order. Kevin Costner in Robin Hood. Mickey Rooney in Breakfast At Tiffany’s. Dick Van Dyke in Mary Poppins. Horrendous. The lot of them. And no, Dick Van Dyke’s cockney does not fall into the category of, ‘so bad it’s quite charming’. It’s not charming. It’s mute-button inducing. And it will always haunt me. Everytime I look at a chimney.

4. Polystyrene. Arrrrrggggggggghhhhhhh! Which git invented a material that not only feels like…erm…polystyrene, but also sounds like Alan Carr on helium when rubbed?*

5. Nails On A Chalkboard. Arrrrrggggggggghhhhhhh! (Again). Auto-tune would turn this into the Intermezzo from ‘Cavalleria Rusticana. Or the theme tune to Postman Pat. Anything really. Just not nails on a chalkboard. Or polystyrene. Or Joe Pasquale. Or Dick Van Dyke. Or Aqua’s Barbie Girl.

6. The French. It’s not the fact that I don’t like them, it’s the fact that whatever is said in a French accent sounds sexy. At no point should, ‘I take the cat and I put it in the bin,’ sound at all sexy. Yet, said with Frenchness, it does. Have a go. (Insert you speaking in a French accent here). See? What you’ve just done is wrong. The French accent should therefore be auto-tuned to English. ‘I take the cat and I put it in the bin,’ will never sound sexy in a Coventry burr.

7. Nuclear Warning Siren. I hope I never get to hear it for real. At least not in the next year. (There’s the Ashes and two world cups for England to win). But just supposing for a minute that I did hear it. There is a fair chance it might be the last thing I ever hear. I therefore want to go out in as relaxed a mood as possible. Not listening to something that sounds like a dolphin being drilled through the eye. The Nuclear Warning Siren should therefore be auto-tuned. Then we can all fall asleep listening to Geri Halliwell being penetrated by a unicorn.

*I can see what you might be thinking here. You have the wrong end of the stick.**

**I can see what you might be thinking here. You’re a pervert.

August 25, 2010