Postcard from Corsica – Language
The first French I learned at school was the French for ‘a bottle of lemonade, a bottle of milk, a bottle of wine’. Needless to say, this was a state school. If I had been privately educated the first French I would have learned would have been ‘I do not speak French’ and then off for Latin lessons and some light buttered buggery. At the very least it would have been ‘red wine, white wine and a charming little rose please. Milk? Er, no thanks.’
In the 1970s, when a small Macnabbs was parroting this odd grocery list, we were being prepared for life in the Common Market, the town twinning epidemic and exchange visits. I think our teachers thought that we would be a credit to the country, chattering away to the locals in their native tongue. This was very different to their experience of foreign travel, which usually began with an opposed landing on a beach and where all the language training you needed was ‘hands up Fritz’.
In the seventies and eighties of course, Brits didn’t need to speak foreign, we were all visiting the Costa del Sol and they spoke English there, with an amusing accent allowing us to feel superior and get sunburned. No, French was not really useful until later on in the eighties, when the posh kids at school used to go on ski-ing trips. As I listened to them chunter on about how great it was going to be, I hoped that they had learned the French for ‘my friend has been eaten by a yeti’ or ‘the fondu has given me the most terrible shits’.
The French text book I had later on in my ‘education’ was most instructive. This was because some artistically gifted deviant had gone through it adulterating all the illustrations in a way at once amusing and alarming. I remember in particular that ‘Celine goes for a pony ride’ contained images so graphic that it took twenty years and the invention of the internet before I saw anything like that again. I didn’t learn much at all from that book, except that French boys called Xavier wear striped tee shorts and like to suck cock. Apparently.
I was terrified of my French teacher. A gnome like man, he was the deputy headmaster at my school. Jesus, if ever there was a thankless position in teaching, deputy headmaster is it. I bet you have to do all the work and get none of the perks. Even head of house is a better post, at least then you get first pick of the fresh boys. Deputy headmasters have nothing to do except resent the headmaster, simmer in their own bile and take out their frustrations on boys who can’t conjugate. I think those lessons helped contribute to my hatred of the French, although to be honest the French themselves have to bear most of the responsibility for that.
On holiday however, I always like to give the local language a thorough mangling, Corsica was no exception. Except that the Corsicans had beaten me to it. Ruled for a long time by the Genoese, their French had been corrupted by a strong Italian influence. I was easily the best French speaker on the island, which instantly made me a figure of hate so I quickly adapted my schoolboy French to something just this side of ‘Allo ’Allo, with pleasing results. They still laughed at me, but the scoffing had stopped. The great thing about Corsican is that people speak just like schoolchildren. When they say ‘Bonjour’ in the morning, it really is in a sing-song way that makes you smile when you say it.
Mostly I was using my vast linguistic skills in shops (lesson one, at the bakers…now what’s the French for baguette? Loaf?) so while it was great fun to try out the language, the risk of ballsing it up and coming back from a grocery shop with a boules set, a harpoon gun and a budgie was considerable. Luckily, I am a master of the art of pointing, grunting and rubbing my belly. Which is all French is really in any case.
In the 1970s, when a small Macnabbs was parroting this odd grocery list, we were being prepared for life in the Common Market, the town twinning epidemic and exchange visits. I think our teachers thought that we would be a credit to the country, chattering away to the locals in their native tongue. This was very different to their experience of foreign travel, which usually began with an opposed landing on a beach and where all the language training you needed was ‘hands up Fritz’.
In the seventies and eighties of course, Brits didn’t need to speak foreign, we were all visiting the Costa del Sol and they spoke English there, with an amusing accent allowing us to feel superior and get sunburned. No, French was not really useful until later on in the eighties, when the posh kids at school used to go on ski-ing trips. As I listened to them chunter on about how great it was going to be, I hoped that they had learned the French for ‘my friend has been eaten by a yeti’ or ‘the fondu has given me the most terrible shits’.
The French text book I had later on in my ‘education’ was most instructive. This was because some artistically gifted deviant had gone through it adulterating all the illustrations in a way at once amusing and alarming. I remember in particular that ‘Celine goes for a pony ride’ contained images so graphic that it took twenty years and the invention of the internet before I saw anything like that again. I didn’t learn much at all from that book, except that French boys called Xavier wear striped tee shorts and like to suck cock. Apparently.
I was terrified of my French teacher. A gnome like man, he was the deputy headmaster at my school. Jesus, if ever there was a thankless position in teaching, deputy headmaster is it. I bet you have to do all the work and get none of the perks. Even head of house is a better post, at least then you get first pick of the fresh boys. Deputy headmasters have nothing to do except resent the headmaster, simmer in their own bile and take out their frustrations on boys who can’t conjugate. I think those lessons helped contribute to my hatred of the French, although to be honest the French themselves have to bear most of the responsibility for that.
On holiday however, I always like to give the local language a thorough mangling, Corsica was no exception. Except that the Corsicans had beaten me to it. Ruled for a long time by the Genoese, their French had been corrupted by a strong Italian influence. I was easily the best French speaker on the island, which instantly made me a figure of hate so I quickly adapted my schoolboy French to something just this side of ‘Allo ’Allo, with pleasing results. They still laughed at me, but the scoffing had stopped. The great thing about Corsican is that people speak just like schoolchildren. When they say ‘Bonjour’ in the morning, it really is in a sing-song way that makes you smile when you say it.
Mostly I was using my vast linguistic skills in shops (lesson one, at the bakers…now what’s the French for baguette? Loaf?) so while it was great fun to try out the language, the risk of ballsing it up and coming back from a grocery shop with a boules set, a harpoon gun and a budgie was considerable. Luckily, I am a master of the art of pointing, grunting and rubbing my belly. Which is all French is really in any case.
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