Speccie pretentious moi by 31st July
 

More prose. Infamy! Infamy! They've all got it infamy!

No. 2809: pretentious, moi?

You are invited to submit a letter liberally sprinkled with evidence of an imperfect grasp of foreign languages (up to 150 words). Please email entries, wherever possible, to lucy@spectator.co.uk by midday on 31 July.

Achtung! Ever thought about sprechening a bit of die olden Deütsch? Well it’s highlichë Zeit that you did, mein Fründ! The Zecondvörldskrieg was a long time ago and we should all have fürgiven and fürgoten by now, espezialische because the glorious Färterland has risen from die Ashen to become the Economizchepaüerhaus of Europe. Zair güt! So, if you are really gevanting to succeed in das Modërnβusinessvorld then eine kleine Deuch is pretty much ezzensial, as they say in Minsk. Messcherschmidt! Zeeg heil! Why nicht let our kräck team of language Professiünalen induct you auf the ancient tongue of Wolfgang Schiller and Manfred Mann and before you kennen it you’ll be as fluent in Duetsch as einen Trüenkraut. Gott in Himmel! Aiieee! Box 999 (or should we say ‘Ja, ja, ja’?)*

*No.

Not quite what was meant perhaps, but it deserves an outing.

Mon Cher,
Le Criquet – magique! Zut alors! C’est bon! C’est what your right arm’s for. To bowl le bal, to power le bat, to score les courirs. Fancy that. Mais comme vieux Jacques Crapaud joue, c’est une mystère to moi et vous. Le futbol, oui, le rugbie aussi. Mais lbw et bosie, coupé tard, bal mort, jambe fracture? C’est sanglant ridicule, bien sûr. Le Criquet, c’est un jeu anglais, quelquechose les grenouilles say.
Your vieux mate, John Bull

She was mon cherry, mon savoir-lady-fair. Mysterieux! Hiding behind her nom de plumage, her hair in some sort of je ne sais coif, she sat, sans chemise, around la table nibbling au courants and spooning soupçon. It was coup de food. It was love at first bite. It was chez my house. Enchanté! She parlay-voodoo'd, "Avez-vous faim? Voulez-vous une croque-madame?" Zut allures! I wanted femme, coquette, and madame! A ménage à quarte! But, no, a mauvais quart d'heure, a pièce of résistance threatening to ruin my cul d'état: a mousse! A petite mousse scurrying sur la table from fromage to well-âged fromage. She eek'd, shrieked. I quashed, quelled the horreur, prêt-à-deported it to heaven animaux, and awaited my bonbon. Encore? I give you la petit more: I kiss, we tryst, and the rest is too risque.

Promise me you will enter this in the competition?

I hope Orwn does, but he'd better get word counting. Looks like more than 150 words.

Nope - 136.

Ann, I promise. I was going to send it off this morning but wondered if it was sufficiently like a letter.

Well, you've still got fourteen words to play with if you want to add a sentence that will make it more letter-like.

Letter closure from my high school French book (60 years ago, and I'm not going to bother with diacritical marks):

Veuillez accepter, mon cher monsieur, mes sentiments les plus distinguees.

Oh, Esther, how that reminds me of one of my favourite photographs...


http://www.centrepompidou.fr/cpv/res...8b23464cb16370

(Hommages Respectueux by Robert Doisneau)

There's something attractively high-flown & French about that, & once upon a time I would use it to close letters enquiring about holiday accommodation. Nowadays e-mails each way generally end 'cordialement'. Which I also like.

They done taught you wrong, Esther! 'Sentiments' is masculine, so it should be 'distingués'. A feminine alternative is 'salutations les plus distinguées'.

Bazza, there is also 'amicalement' when writing to friends. 'Cordialement' is good, but can cover a wide range of meanings, including (when writing, for instance, to complain about a defective purchase) 'fuck off'.

Good heavens, Ann - Dominique Strauss-Kahn does get around a bit, doesn't he?

Brian, no they didn't teach me wrong, I remembered wrong.

I shall have to edit down to 16 lines. Probably drop L5, or rework last 3?
Oh, I know a poem's not asked for, but anyway...

je ne suis pretentieux, moi-
je ne suis trop la-di-dah-
je suis un des pommes de terres,
savoir faire, un gen d’affaires,
yeux ciel-bleux et poiles d’oranges
suite fabrique de Ralph Lauren
chic et froid dans ma Citron
roulant langue de promenade-
jalouse gens se sens malade!
‘carp y gem’, n’attende plus tard.
voila ma sportif voiture;
voici mi en suite, bien sur,
juste complet et avant-garde:
‘volksprang deutsch technik’, regarde!
je ne suis pretentieux, moi!
je le dirai encre en bois-
je ne suis pretentieux, fah!

I wonder if that’s a Citron Pressé, Graham? Don’t know if the following is ‘liberally sprinkled’ enough, but toujours le je ne sais quoi and Fingerspitzengefühlkeit.

Dear Clare,

How nice to hear from you for the first time since schooldays. No, I never received my call-up papers, or appel sous les draps, as the French would say and so know nothing of the Stert und Drank or Blöd und Eis of the military life for your book. Not to worry, I think it would have been just demiasado of a nightmare or peccadillo in my case. It’s a time of odium cum dignitatem at the tranquil back of beyond, or el quinto pito, for me these days. Chacun à son goo and all that.
To return à nos croûtons, yes, we can meet on Thursday in the buffet at Waterloo, which is relatively sine prole, as you suggest. Ah, what poetry Charles Hugo made of that name!
Waterloo! Waterloo! Waterloo! morne gare!
Où le spectre en plein jour raccroche le passant . . .

Hasta huevos! Sam

I'm finding it hard to find anything to sprinkle with, except the remark made by a friend who prides himself on his French: "The trouble with driving in Paris is all the confitures de trafic."

That's a beauty, Brian!

(For this one, I'd better change my name to "Losesome". (No one ever called me winsome.)


Just a quick note from France. In the words of Edward Heath, “ayant un merveilleux temps!” It’s wonderful how easily O-level French comes back to me.

Driving in Paris is a nightmare - it’s an endless confiture de trafic. Apparently the Mayor of Paris is a bit of a Nancy, which is presumably why it’s called “Gai Paris”.

At the restaurant yesterday, I wanted to call the waiter, and remembered the word “Garcon”. But it was a waitress, so I used the feminine form “Garce!” I still don’t understand why the manager threw me out.

I’m off to the South of France tomorrow - I’m looking forward to wearing my snazzy new tronc de bain. And of course, the French kiss each other all the time. Apparently, to get a friendly kiss from one of those topless beauties at Saint-Tropez, all you have to say is “Bonjour, mademoiselle, je voudrais vous baiser.”