Vive le France

The Easter break, no boys football arranged, the cricket season not yet begun, so as we have done for the past few years it is off to France for our “summer” holiday. Not for us the decadence of a day by the pool, sangria in hand, flicking through a magazine while gazing idly through shaded eyes at any passing Greek god. No, wellies must be packed, anoraks ironed, and bodies braced for a week’s fishing in some remote part of the continent. Days of driving to some far-flung outpost, where Madame evolution has only recently dished out the thumbs. Paris, Bordeaux, Biarritz or St Tropez, all have bits of water that he could sit beside as he attempts to redefine his hunter gatherer role as supposed head of the family, but we have to end up in some godforsaken mud puddle light years from civilisation.

One blessing is the football free environment that presides for the best part of a week. After four to five days we are usually back on speaking terms and there is an essence of a spark about to be rekindled, which is normally safely extinguished by the six hundred mile drive home.

This year, despite rigorous planning, disaster struck. The second leg of the chumpions league game between his love idols Liverpool and Satan’s Chelsea fell during our week away. All avenues of viewing the game where explored, including a preposterous attempt to fix the sky dish to his fishing umbrella, before it became apparent that his only method of keeping in touch with the progress of his team was via mobile phone.

The day of the match dawned, the signal to his mobile disappearing when I accidentally dropped the phone in the lake, and suggested we could perhaps spend the evening at home together, instigating panic and mayhem not seen since the opening of Primark in Oxford Street.

Under a black cloud we stopped at the small local supermarket on our way back from the lake. A rage developed over the absence of marmite from the shelves, leading him to call into question the French and their opinions about food, finally haranguing the lady at the checkout in staccato English, as to the location of a local bar with the Canal sports channel on which he could see his match. The lady in question smiling, and scribbling on the back of the receipt a small map with directions to what look liked an out of town bar.

Placated by the hope of seeing the game, my husband’s mood lightened, leaving the shop with a cheery “bonjour” we headed for home to don his football shirt and lucky shoes. Full of Bon homme he waxed lyrical about the entente de cordial, as I drove us to the bar. The directions were superb, my husband insisting that the bar was near an ICI plant, until I assured him that it was the French word ici and that the bar was in fact a truck stop in the middle of nowhere.

We entered the bar, and I was surprised and delighted to find a beautiful room, with dance floor, glitter ball and superb quality soft furnishings. Most of the inhabitants were male, well turned out, as most French men seem to be, and indulging in polite conversation with the occasional display of affection. My husband sought out a seat in front of the television, while I headed to the bar to get drinks. The bar man was a dish! manicured hands, tight shirt, jeans and thick wavy hair, not at all like the florid faced French fishermen I had been stuck with all week. As he complimented me on my hair, I swooned and struck up an instant rapport, only to be forced away from our conversation by my impatient husband seeking out his beer. He was a little concerned that the Canal Sports channel was not on the television yet, especially as kick off was only five minutes away. He was receiving attention from several of the men, who, he assumed were also interested in seeing the game but also kept asking him questions in French about Lorraine Kelly. The darling barman informed my husband that the match would not be shown tonight, instigating a resumption of his earlier supermarket assessment of the French character, peaking with a tirade against French football: they who were not fit to lick the boots of legendary Liverpudlians such as Fernando Torres, Sammy Hypia and Pepe Reina (when your every room has a poster of the entire squad you tend to remember a few names).

The barman informed us that this was not a sports bar, apologised for our wasted journey, and suggested that when we had asked for directions to a bar with Canal Sports, the lady had not heard him pronounce the letter C; my husband red faced and gasping, charged out to the car.

Unwilling to insult our charming hosts I stayed on for a few turns around the dance floor, choosing to leave when the shapes the chaps were throwing became decidedly less non-contact. Returning to the car after a thoroughly French night out, to find my husband asleep, mumbling about marmite, gay trucker bars and Lorraine Kelly.