Just When You Think You’ve Figured The French Language Out…

Tags

Annoying, France, French, fun, Humor, Humour, Language, Learning

 

I’m hosting a birthday party for my son.

First parent rolls up and deposits a kid.

We chit chat.

Then he looks at me, eyebrow raised quizzically à la Roger Moore – the universal parent’s sign for ‘What time shall I pick my kid back up?’.

‘Dix-sept heure’ I say.

‘Cinq heure?’ he replies.

I nod my head, mentally correcting my French lingo.

Parent two rolls up and deposits a kid.

We chit chat.

Then she looks at me, eyebrow raised quizzically à la Roger Moore – the universal parent’s sign for ‘What time shall I pick my kid back up?’.

‘Cinq heure’ I say

‘Dix-sept heure?’ she replies.

I nod my head, mentally screaming at the French lingo.

Parent three rolls up and deposits a kid.

We chit chat.

Then he looks at me, eyebrow raised quizzically à la Roger Moore – the universal parent’s sign for ‘What time shall I pick my kid back up?’.

I hold my hand up with five fingers splayed out, point at it and nod my head smiling.

 

Tune in next week to hear me moan as I try to work out when to say ‘des fois’ and when to say ‘parfois’

 

 

 

Games I Play With My Kids (That I Invented)…

Tags

entertainment, Family, fun, funny, games, Humor, Humour, kids, Life, Relationships, stay-at-home Dad

 

There are loads of games you can play with your kids aren’t there? Hide n’ Seek, tag, musical statues, sleeping lions etc. I however have become a pioneer in this field and have decided to do what no other parent has ever done: I have invented my own kids’ games.

Wow! I mean, I bet your mind is blown right now, isn’t it?*

So without further ado here is my current selection of games. I say current because the games change as they grow older, and what they love today they may not necessarily love next week. Or tomorrow for that matter.

 

To The Moon

For: both kids

Necessary props? A swing set

This game involves me having one or more of my kids on the swings. I then ‘check their tickets’, these tickets being purely imaginary. All details on the tickets have to correspond with each child, and they must agree with each and every detail. So for instance if I say that their name is Lord Poopy Pants the Third, and that their favourite hobby is eating rotten squids with snails, then they have to agree.

I also say all this in an South African accent. I do not know why I do this.

Once they have agreed to all details on the tickets then they may ‘go to the moon’. This simply involves me counting down from 1,000,000 or sometimes just 100 in a very haphazard manner e.g: 999, 12, 6, 57, ZERO! And I then launch them as hard as I safely can on the swings.

I am then obliged to relaunch them multiple times, verifying new details on new tickets each time, and must also keep their momentum up by pushing them several times – even though they both now know how to do it themselves.

 

Plants VS Zombies

For: both kids

Necessary props? just us

 

This is a variation on the popular mobile video game. Except played in real life of course. Now before you start thinking I am one of those amazing parents who designs plant costumes for his kids, and wears authentic zombie make-up to chase them around the garden let me reassure you: I could honestly not be bothered to do any of that, so it’s just me in my coat (depending on the weather) slowly chasing my kids around the garden and moaning and shambling like a zombie.

I am always the zombie. They let me be a plant once, oh what a happy day that was.

I also get hit now and again as the kids have to ‘defeat’ me, and they are both at that age where they are somewhat dangerous. My son because he is eight and can throw things with some force, and my daughter because she is five and is at the same level as my testicles.

 

Poo Lamps

For: my daughter

Necessary props? lights and a dark night (is nighttime a prop?)

This game is one which we generally play at night before bedtime. This is because it involves us looking out of our upstairs bedroom window and counting how many poo lamps we can see.

Now for the uninitiated – by which I mean everyone – poo lamps are poos that have been laid by cats in our garden that glow in the night.

In reality they are actually my many, many solar lights and any other neighbourhood lights that may be lit at that time. So three solar lights, two lights in the neighbour’s house = five poo lamps that night.

Sometimes my daughter improvises and counts the moon and the stars too. On nights like that the game can go on a while.

As it’s not dark now until after she goes to bed she has taken to counting the next-door neighbour’s chickens – around ten of them in total – and she still classifies them as poo lamps…

 

Pizza Delivery Foot Phone Call

For: my daughter

Necessary props? one of my daughter’s sweaty little feet

This game involves me using one of my daughter’s feet as a mock telephone. I place one of these damp little things – left or right, we have no set preference – next to my ear and pretend to phone a pizza shop. My daughter is the ‘chef’ and answers the call. I then place an order and verify each item, however I must always, always pretend to get annoyed with her if she does not have what I ask, or if she has something that I think she shouldn’t. Here’s a brief example:

Me: Can I order a pizza please?

Her: Yes of course, what would you like on it?

Me: Can I have mushrooms?

Her: Yes.

Me: And do you sell Anchovies?

Her: Yes.

Me: Why would you sell Anchovies? they are disgusting and taste awful, you should be shut down for serving those things they smell like poo and make my eyes water! You know each time you eat an Anchovie a demon is born in hell? What are you thinking?

Her: (laughing) OK! OK! We won’t sell Anchovies any more

 

And so on…

 

I Can’t Talk Properly Because My Son Is Crushing My Chest With His Powerful Muscles And Making My Voice Go All Funny

For: my son (surprise, surprise!)

Necessary props? Just me and my son

My son is at that age where he thinks he is very strong and likes to display this power by occasionally pushing over his five-year-old sister and squashing my chest. So this game involves me lying in bed next to him and just having a casual chat with him about day-to-day life. While I am talking however he will start pushing himself – using his bedside cabinet as leverage – into my side and so making my chest constrict and causing my voice to alter.

Of course as my son weighs about the same as a bag of sugar this means I have to pretend that he is very strong and he is doing this, when in fact I am just modulating my voice, much to his amusement. My son is however made out of elbows. Hard, bony elbows, approximately 67 I would guess, and these things can really dig into you. The result is that the next day you generally end up with a new bruise that you didn’t have before.

But at least he doesn’t bite like his sister.

 

 

So that’s the current crop of games that I have invented for my kids, your read it here first, you don’t need to be constrained by the world’s selection, you can make your own!

All it takes is a bit of imagination and a desire to make your kids shut their bloody mouths for more than five minutes.

 

 

*Tune in next time when I will be showing you how you can teach your kids to go the wrong way UP A SLIDE! OMG! Rule breaker right here!!!

 

I Blame Me, And I’m Not Alone…

Tags

Family, fun, funny, Humor, kids, Life, Nineties, singing

‘I’m a Barbie girl, in a Barbie world’ sings my daughter as we walk down the road. ‘Come on Barbie!’ my son tunelessly adds next to her ‘Let’s go party’. Their warbles bounce off the walls off the (mercifully deserted) street. My partner squeezes my hand a little too tightly and glares at me. Yes, I am responsible for this.

I’m on a serious nineties music kick at the moment. It’s probable all down to that period being tied up with my years of going out ‘dancing’ and drinking. I added quote marks to dancing as if you ever saw me ‘dancing’ you would probably tell me that if at any time in the future I wrote about my ‘dancing’ I would need to use quote marks to differentiate between what most people class as dancing and what I do.

Demon-possessed person being flung around probably covers it best.

It was these tunes that were the background to my youth, or early-to-mid twenties anyway. And so it’s with wistful nostalgia that I’ve been hitting that repository of everything that is YouTube, in order to get my vintage fix. It pains me to type ‘vintage fix’ when referring to the nineties I’m not going to type ‘retro’.

One of the tunes that I wouldn’t normally listen to though is Aqua’s Barbie Girl. That’s because Barbie Girl is, by any definition, a bloody awful song. It’s even worse when you watch the music video of it, then it’s as if someone has vomited skittles into your ears AND your eyes.

It would never be made these days – with its lyrics objectifying women and giving men all the power.

That plus it’s bloody, bloody awful.

I did feel that my daughter would like it though, as she’s very much a girlie girl, and loves all things pink. And all things Barbie. I also thought it might be nice for her to view it with her brother, as a kind of history lesson, and insight into what we used to send to number one in the music charts back in ‘the day’. Sigh.

So yes, I made the mistake of letting them watch it on my tablet, one wet boring Sunday (It’s April so basically pick any Sunday). Oh dear. Whatever possessed me (Not the dance demon at least, his days are done)?

I made the further mistake of leaving my daughter alone with my tablet while I helped my son with some of his crafts. She watched it on a loop, again, and again, and again…

So now I’m in the envious position of being unable to escape the lyrics of the Danish-Norwegian dance-pop. It follows me around, like the worst backing soundtrack you could ever imagine.  To be fair to them both they aren’t causing anywhere near the amount of aural damage that the original song was responsible for.

What’s possibly worse, even worse than the way my partner now looks at me when they start singing it, is the fact that I now hum it to myself. I also correct them if they sing the lyrics incorrectly. So when my daughter sang ‘Come on Barbie let’s go Barbie’ I told her that instead of the second Barbie she should actually sing ‘Let’s go party’.

What’s wrong with me?

I’m going to let them listen to STEPS next.

Tragedy? Yes, yes it is.

King Of The Castle…

Tags

Family, fun, Humour, Life

So we’re having work done on our road at the moment, to drag us kicking and screaming into the 21st century and upgrade our internet to fibre. Woooh!

This has resulted in a LOT of upheaval to parking, traffic, access etc. etc.

One of the bonuses from all this work however is all the machinery that the workers use. The kids love it.

They especially love it when the workers dump a ton of rocks right outside our front door too. I look at it and see something vaguely annoying, and wonder why they couldn’t put it somewhere else.

This is because I am old and grumpy.

My kids see something else, this is because they are young, and have fresh eyes. They see Everest and want to conquer it. So that’s what my son did:

 

Yay! Round of applause! Now go clean your bedroom…son? Son? Why are you running away????

Sandwiched Between Indifference…

Tags

Family, food, fun, funny, Humor, Humour, kids, stay-at-home Dad

On tonight’s menu in Mr Mum’s house we have a veritable feast of delightful foodstuffs, all lovingly prepared to cater to the needs of the individual’s requirements. It may be only sandwiches, but no corners have been cut (literally BOOM BOOM!) in the efforts of the Michelin starred chef that has created this bounty of bread-based, bite-sized taste-bombs, that will surely set the tongues of the tasters alight with joy.

 

For Her

Carefully sectioned into quarters, this sumptuous feast features only the (supermarket) freshest ham available, and with all the fatty bits trimmed off and shoved in the bin, there remains only the choicest pieces of ham to ensure the palate is treated to a veritable pork-based party.

Cucumber has been loving rinsed for three seconds and then sliced to make it look slightly posher than it actually is, and the segments have each been painstakingly, and liberally, salted, to avoid cries of ‘SALT! SALT!’ as has happened from time to time.

Fresh (ish) tomatoes have been added for a little variety, and also because there’s nothing better than cleaning the seed explosion from off of the sofa cover (purchased to protect the sofa underneath from seed explosions*  (*and other things)) when madam bites into them like some kind of animal.

The whole dish is served up on a dazzlingly blue plate emblazoned with Ella and Elsa, or Sarah and Sue or whatever they are called, from the tragi-comedy that is ‘Frozen‘.

 

CRITIC’S RESPONSE

Grunts and chewing noises can be heard and there seems to be a word emitted from the thing on the sofa. Could be ‘Merci‘ or ‘Thanks daddy, I love you‘ or ‘This is delicious, I’m so lucky to have you making this for me‘ but in all likelihood it’s probably ‘Where’s my water?‘.

 

For Him

Eschewing the needless frivolities of cucumbers or tomatoes, this dish is served up in as bare a bones style as possible. This suits the needs of that most exacting of connoisseurs: my son. Who has rigid rules, very much like Fight Club.

These rules basically boil down to:

1. I don’t want any fruit
2. I don’t want any veg
3. I just want ham
4. With bread
5. Or sometimes pasta

With this in mind the meal for sir has been carefully prepared on seedless brown bread – oh yeah, rule number six, I forgot:

6. I don’t want any seeds in my bread

Again all traces of fat have been removed from the ham to ensure only the best meat passes sir’s lips. The resulting mix of bread and ham and butter has been loving shaped in to what one hopes resembles a face. Six consecutive attempts were made to try to lovingly shape it into this, after the first five were what could lovingly be described as ‘nightmare-inducing‘.

The whole meal is beautifully presented on a random beige plate due to sir’s ‘Marvel’s The Avengers‘ plate being out of commission due to an earlier incident involving chocolate.

 

CRITIC’S RESPONSE

‘What’s that?’ (after being told it’s a face) ‘No, it looks weird, it doesn’t look right…where’s my water?’

Getting All The Latest Gossip At Maximum Volume…

Tags

France, French, fun, Humor, Humour, Life

 

So it’s Sunday, it’s miserable and threatening to rain, and so the kids, the missus and I decide to head off to the local fair. It’s organised by our village church and so is full of lots of people of, to be kind, advancing years. I always find that slightly depressing, when you find yourself to be the youngest people there even though you are in your forties.

But at the same time I also enjoy the chance to bask in my youthfulness because, even though I’m in my forties, I’m one of the youngest ones there.

It’s an indoor affair – which is a huge bonus on a day like this – and is held in our local ‘salle de fetes’ or community hall, for the non-French speakers reading this.

When we get there there are a group of line-dancing ladies keeping the crowds entertained with their rather sedate routine (average age of dancers: 76). We wait for a suitable pause and take a seat at a table near the stage where, we are informed, the grand raffle will shortly be held.

The compere for this soon arrives and it’s none other than Madame Dubois, a local character who I know from my English classes and who keeps insisting I call her Celia, and I do. To her face anyway: whenever I’m referring to her to others though I switch back to Madame Dubois.

You know those people who just seem like they will forever be referred to by Mr or Mrs such and such, and to use their Christian name would be sacrilege? Well that’s Madame Dubois, she’s one of those people.

She bustles over to us and says her hellos, steals my children, and then heads off on to the stage. She needs my kids to pick out the winning tickets you see. She also steals my partner, as she needs her to control my kids to in order to facilitate the picking out of the wining tickets.

The raffle kicks off and my kids hand her the winning tickets, alternately taking their place at the giant plastic ball and selecting the green ticket. The prize is then displayed by a glamorous assistant (approximately 82) before Madame Dubois, with the aid of a very powerful microphone calls out the name and number on the winning ticket. This is not the only information she divulges to the crowd (approximately 100-or-so, average age 71) however. She also comments on the current location and well being of the winners, in association with their prize.

It goes a little something like this:

Madame Dubois: ‘Ok what is this, hmmm a toaster and the winning number is 1,257 and the winner is Madame DuChamp. Well that’s no good for her, she’s been in the retirement home for 3 months now, maybe she can give it to her daughter?’

Madame Dubois: ‘And this next one is for a lovely scarf, and it’s been won by Monsieur Lafage with ticket number 245, but I don’t think he’ll be wearing it. Not for long anyway if what his doctor told me is true’.

Madame Dubois: ‘276, 276 for Madam Lafayette, yes, she’s not well she’s been at the retirement home for two years now and she’s a bit lost, so I don’t really think these roller blades will be very good for her’

Madame Dubois: ‘What’s this? Another bloody scarf? OK, stop messing around you two and give me a number. Yes, that one’s 1,035 and it’s for Madame Sedoyer, well she can wear it when she goes to the doctor’s. Again. She’s not well. She’s not well at all’

Madame Dubois: ‘A balloon trip? She won’t be able to get outside, never mind up in a balloon, lost the use of her legs two years ago. And that’s 365, for Madam Kristoff, 365 for Madame Kristoff’

 

I should add that the majority – but not all – of the people Madame Dubois discussed were not actually present in the hall. Or if they were they didn’t hear her – due to deafness of being asleep, it was hard to tell. I am now going to see if Madame Dubois will be the DJ at any future events we may decide to hold, she’s got a definite talent for keeping the crowds entertained.

We didn’t win anything by the way but, judging by the comments, I’m quite pleased about that…

Introducing Dogging To The French…

Tags

France, French, fun, funny, Humour, Language, Learning, Slang, Teaching

As part of my Scottish slang session this week I explained to a group of retired French people what the word ‘Dogging’* meant.

If you don’t know what dogging is then I will explain. It is the act of going to a car park frequented by people who enjoy having sex in their cars while being observed by others. It gets the name ‘dogging’ by the tendency of these observers to use a dog lead – sans the dog – to legitimise their presence there in the case of any unexpected visits from the local police e.g. ‘Honest officer, I wasn’t staring in this car window and masturbating, I was walking my dog. Look, I’ve even got a lead, and as soon as I do up my trousers I will go and find….err…Larry, yes, Larry, that’s definitely the name of my dog‘.

I went into great detail with my students about its origins, its popularity in the UK, as well as the rules that some of the ‘doggers’ employ when they are inside their cars; flashing the lights, dipping the beams etc to signify if they want ‘company’ or not. This was following my explanation of what a ‘boaby**’ is and why one should not ‘chug***’ on public transportation.

By the looks on some of their faces I could tell that this was a new thing for them, and something that many of them found somewhat disgusting. And some of them found hilarious. These looks also told me that it wasn’t prevalent in France.

Well, that and the fact that one of them said: ‘It’s not prevalent in France’.

In my defence I told them that in the previous (Yorkshire slang) session they had asked for Scottish slang to be the focus of our next class, and so only had themselves to blame. I firmly believe that many of them now think that I’m either A) Very thorough, particularly with my mimes of what a dogger is and how they operate, as well as being someone who is prepared to take risks with the content of the ‘coursework’ I give them or B) A pervert.

This firm belief has now been reinforced even more – with a distinct sway towards option ‘B’ – after I was informed by some Scottish friends that the term dogging, in Scotland anyway, actually refers to the far more innocent activity of ‘skiving****’ off school. For those who don’t know what skiving means, it is the act of not going to school when you should, and doing something else that you prefer, unbeknown to your parents.

So as you can see, sometimes using Wikis to source your information is not the most reliable means. That being said, I doubt we would have laughed quite as much if I had used the correct – and much more innocent – term.

I haven’t told them by the way, I figure I will just let them go on thinking it means what I said it does, if I drag it back up now they really will think I’m a pervert. Plus it may lead to some interesting interactions for them if they ever visit any Scottish schools: ‘Headmaster, can you tell me what those boys are in trouble for?’ ‘Why yes madame, they were all caught dogging yesterday!’.

 

*I appreciate the term ‘dogging’ is not unique to Scotland, however it didn’t come up in the Yorkshire slang handout, so perhaps that one needs updating

** A penis

***To masturbate

**** Go on, someone tell me now that skiving does not mean what I said it does, and these days refers to something far more sinister and sexual, it wouldn’t surprise me

Torturing The French 2…

Tags

France, French, fun, Humor, Humour, Language, Learning, Yorkshire

Just got back in from my Yorkshire/English class and I have to say my group of French students did incredibly well and really jumped in with both feet. Stumbling blocks came when their English – as in ‘proper’ English – met Yorkshire English. They had a hard time with:

 

Yorkshire t’ = English to/the

 

Yorkshire wi’ = English with

 

Yorkshire me = English my

 

I thought Pierre’s head was going to explode when I explained that the ‘g’ in ‘maungy’ wasn’t pronounced the same as it was in ‘mingin”.

 

Fabienne really didn’t like having to say the Yorkshire slang for coal cellar in a sentence: ‘They’re in t’ coil oyle Margaret’.

 

And I fear I have damaged relations between Christine and I after I made her repeat ‘Let’s take a shortcut through t’ snicket’ five times, because she kept saying ‘the snicket’.

 

Yes, it did feel strange correcting people’s English, because it was correct English, but not correct Yorkshire English.

 

Next session we will be finishing this off (we only got up to ‘sup’ before time ran out) and delving into the Scottish dialect.

 

A Yorkshire/Scottish cocktail, what could go wrong?

Torturing The French….

Tags

France, French, fun, funny, Humor, Humour, Language, Learning, Teaching, Yorkshire

 

Every third Tuesday I teach a group of mostly retired, lovely French people, whose only goal is to improve their English.

I asked them the last time for suggestions on what they would like to do at the next class.

‘Tell us about England, about the colour, the life’ they said to me.

‘Speak about where you are from, tell us about Yorkshire’ they asked me.

‘We love hearing all the different ways you say things’ they told me.

‘There are so many regional accents in the UK, it’s really quite wonderful’ they opined.

 

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that, can you say it again but slowly this time please?’ they frequently added.

They may regret their requests when they see what I have in store for them tonight. The handouts I provide aren’t just for reading you see, they are also for reading ALOUD.

Bonus points will be awarded for correctly pronouncing ‘sithee’ ‘ey up’ and ‘Eh by gum, tis chuffing cawd enuf t’freeze t’balls off a brass bloody monkey aht theer’

Introducing French Mole Rugby League…

Tags

animals, France, fun, funny, Humour, Life

I thought I would draw attention to a little-known and underappreciated sport in my new country – French Mole Rugby League. I took a few photographs of a match currently being played on a pitch local to me today, in order to show people what they are missing.

As you can see in the first photograph the home team – Jasper’s Jets – are playing fantastically well. Their prop-forward – Bob ‘The Burrower’ Brown – is just about to make a pass and has achieved a remarkable distance in what is a new record time for the sport of mole rugby-league (7 weeks).

On the other end of the pitch it’s a different story altogether. The visitors – The Taupe Terrors – are looking distinctly disorganised as they have yet to even get started, and some may argue that they appear to be moving backwards.

Further adding to their embarrassment is the fact that their star player – Dave ‘The Digger’ Dawkins – has been sidelined for the second time in as many matches after he was caught smuggling illegal, performance-enhancing equipment under the pitch (a trowel).

Rules are strict on this kind of behaviour and could see him hit with a two-match suspension, meaning he may not see the light of day till 2025, and his sponsors (Moleborough) may put an end to his lucrative advertising deal.

The tension is truly mounting here and for more on this up and coming sport tune back in the same time next year for the half-time update.