Confessions of a Francophile |
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Other bits of miscellaneous writing |
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| It’s time I came out of the
closet and owned up to my true self: I actually quite like the French! Ever
since childhood I have harboured this secret fondness for all things Francios.
French food, French people and even the French language (not, to my eternal
shame, that I can speak a word of it). I realised, quite early in my childhood, that I was different from other people and had often even felt that I was a Frenchman trapped inside an Englishman’s body. The term: ‘Francophile’ was not widely used in those days and it was known only as ‘The Racial Tolerance That Dare Not Speak Its Name’. I think my parents suspected, particularly after my mother came home early one day to find me in front of the full length mirror wearing a striped tee shirt and a beret. I think I had babbled something about a fancy dress party at the time but she never looked at me quite the same after that. When I eventually came out to them, however, it was impossible for them to entirely conceal the shock and the disappointment. Well, I suppose it’s every parent’s nightmare. Eventually they came to terms with it and even accepted it when, at the age of nineteen, I went to visit Paris. It was there that I met Claude Maurice (formerly Clive Morris) who had learned to speak fluent French, albeit with a Birmingham accent, and had applied for French nationality. I briefly considered doing the same but becoming a transnational was a very big step. Besides, I knew that, in the eyes of the law, I would always be an Englishman. I suppose one should try to understand the resentment British people may feel towards this nation. Particularly in the light of their unreasonable reluctance to consume British beef products just because it has been strongly suspected of being the cause of an incurable disease that manifests in irreversible brain damage and inevitable death. After all, we eat garlic regardless of the effect it can have on a bout of flatulence. However, I am old enough to recall a time when the then Prime Minister, the Rt. Hon. Harold Wilson would have willingly granted Charles DeGaule sexual favours (presumably with the aid of a hoist of some kind) in return for acceptance into the European Common Market. How times change! By and large, I feel much better having come out at last. I realise that I will have to bear the taunts of “Franco” and “Croissant-muncher” but at least I can finally be who I am. I am a Francophile but I am still a human being. It’s time that the general public understood that Francophiles are not a threat to the community. We do not hang around schools trying to kiss schoolchildren on both cheeks. Nor do we hang around dellicatessants inviting customers to parle a little Francios........well, OK some do, but they are the perverts who give the rest of us a bad name. There are no obvious signs of a person’s national orientation and you will find our kind among doctors, teachers and even judges and politicians. I hope this gives others the courage to say “I am a Francophile!” |
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