Sunday, January 18

I am The Booby

18th January
The competitive pétanque season will start next month and the club captain is keen that we go forth and win prizes. In order to develop our killer instinct, a tournament was played outside the bar yesterday, with prizes for the winner. Due to lack of talent I played spectacularly badly. My performance was so bad that at the end of the prize-giving ceremony I was presented with a booby prize for being the worst.

The pétanque club are pretty much the last surviving customers of our village bar which is dying a death. The newly married goth couple who are currently running it are fed up and want to go home - they complain that it’s just a village of old people. I’m not sure how they know because they only ever leave their house to get in a car and drive to town – Lord knows I’ve tried to get Courtney to come to yoga with me, when the postlady gets back from maternity leave there’ll be at least one other person under 50 in that class. Neither was Courtney interested in the village charabanc trip to Andorra*, and that was quite a hoot once we’d got everyone who needed lavatories sorted out, then rounded up the ones that had wandered off and got lost during the lavatory chaos.

Kurt has assigned himself the job of chef and lets his wife run the bar. Kurt rarely cooks though, passing his days mostly on the computer while his new wife opens up the bar and sits on her own watching tv downstairs. She’s missing her friends in Denmark and is sad about the marriage. Courtney tells me that she’s not even known her husband for a year yet. He invites his heavily tattooed friends over for poker evenings, the motorbikes parked outside until the early hours tell the villagers all they need to know about the place and Mme Bontette adds speculative layers of salacious gossip.

Kurt is British, his mother and wife (who don’t speak French) both think that Kurt can speak French quite well, but I know that he can’t - which might account for his refusal to be in the bar or write his bar flyers and menus in French. I also know that Kurt’s mother (who owns the place) has decided to come and pay a visit soon to see how they’re getting on.

*Andorra is a duty free principality in the Pyrenees. The French get very excited about going there to buy tax-free butter, I was very excited by the lovely big tin of olives I got for half the price I’d pay in France, that plus the big plastic jerry can of 'Port’ for 5 euros.


  1. I do believe that Madame Defarge is keen on this sport. It doesn't sound like the best thing for working up a sweat.

  2. I'm down on goths at the moment as I have to work with a couple of them and it's like being in outer space, rather near a black hole. So, they're complaining that it’s "just a village of old people" and they want to go home? I have little sympathy - they'll be old too one day and if they're still wearing the black eye-liner and the face like a wet weekend then I'm sure the youngsters will avoid them as well!

  3. Ah, bulk wine. I've a friend who is well-regarded in our circle for being knowledgeable about boxed vintages (price mostly).

  4. GB - which is why I like it. I don't do things that work up a sweat in public.

    Gadjo Dilo - I can't make that link work. Our goths are a trifle self-absorbed, I'm assuming they want to take the Sid Vicious route of avoiding old age.

    xl- nothing like it for a proper hangover eh?

  5. Aren't goths pretty much like old people though? All they do is smoke and complain about how dreary life is while listening to boring music and wearing lots of drab clothing. Soon enough they'll be yelling at kids to get off their lawn if they haven't already.

  6. I've never even played it - how bad am I at joining in. I'm sure I'd join you in the booby rankings though.

    You've been tagged by the way (I can hear your groan from here)

  7. Now I've finished all this dashing about 'tagging' I've returned for a relaxed read.

    Village life does sound funny where you are - funny in an interesting raconteur sort of way. You really do it justice. We're in a town of 4k Bretons - we don't have a 'town bar' we have about 17 of the buggers. So dark from the outside, it's like the pit of gloom when you go inside them; there is one that is not too bad though but we seldom go in.

    We really must patronise it though. Every year we make a vow to do so and then don't.

  8. Prunella - that is exactly what they're like and they already don't like children.

    FF- I am incorrigibly nosey and will give everything a go at least once - except morris dancing and incest obviously.

  9. I should have mentioned on your current post that YOU HAVE BEEN TAGGED - think I stuck it on an old one.

  10. Sorry Lulu, it wasn't a link at all - I typed < a ... rather than < b ... etc! Ooh, the "Sid Vicious route of avoiding old age": just tell them to lighten up a bit! After all, you're a long time dead, as they say.

  11. Drop the insect documentary and start making a film about the village. Fellini lives!


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