I arrived in Brussels just over a year ago en catastrophe and in reduced circumstances, due to having had to hand over every last stick of furniture to Nana Godsbrain Boateng Kwaku XVI, The Ya Naa of Mbongoland (West), to pay for Harold’s funeral. In West Africa coffins are custom-made to suit the personality of the deceased, and a bottle of Star beer was agreed to be the appropriate receptacle to carry him into the next world, since it played such a key role in carrying him out of this one. It wasn’t cheap, I can tell you, but I’m sure you’ll agree that he certainly went out in style. I dressed him in his favourite beige cardigan and dabbed at my eye as he was despatched to the care of the great deity Manatcanda, while the choir of the Seventh Day Redemption Chapel sang the theme from Match of the Day.
With African tribal ceremonies the entire village has to be invited, they invite their friends and relatives, who in turn invite their friends and relatives, and they all have to be fed, watered and entertained, at great expense. It would have been cheaper to fly him back in a private jet, but his last wish was to be buried among his “subjects”. (He was suffering from delusions of grandeur by the end). I tried e-mailing friends all over the world for their bank account numbers in order to transfer a large amount of money which was blocked in my Swiss bank account, but nobody seemed willing to help. So, after an exhausting 5-day wailing period, I had to bake four hundred thousand vol-au-vents and distribute alms to the poor - who I then joined, after I had no more alms left to distribute. You could say I was almless. I left Mbongoland by dugout canoe with two Louis Vuitton suitcases, and managed to flag down a Liberian cargo ship en route which gave me a lift to Antwerp, for an extortionate price. But I did get to sit at the Captain’s table every night. In his cabin, mind you.
On arriving in Brussels with only a few cowrie shells to my name, I was obliged to rent a poky maid’s room which was little bigger than a shoebox, in which to rest my weary décolleté. Even though I had little more in my wardrobe than a Chanel suit and a string of pearls, it was hardly a fitting abode for a Grande Dame of my calibre. However, it was situated in a leafy suburb somewhat reminiscent of Cheam which shared the initials of my last name, and thus felt destined for me. I am supremely adaptable, and acquired a pair of green wellies and a shopping trolley in order to fit in with the locals. I soon became a familiar sight at the local Sunday market in my trademark colourful robes and toffee wrapper headdress fashioned à la Scarlett O’Hara from batik tablecloths. With a darker shade of foundation, nobody suspected I was not a genuine Mbongo market lady selling lace doilies and teacakes. I rather missed Mbongoland at first, but now I’ve moved to a neighbourhood which feels just like home, and I can call out a cheery “Woyayah!” to my neighbours in the morning. I still don’t have room for more than one servant, but it’s a slight improvement. Fear not, the south will rise again.
A large amount of money is still blocked in my Swiss bank account. If you would like to send me your bank details, I would certainly make it worth your while.
Incidentally, you should know that North Korea is not the only nuclear proliferator we have to worry about.
The next morning I got up early, jumped in the car and set off to explore the environs. The "hamlet" was nothing more than a collection of crumbling barns, some of which had been converted. Not a shop, not a café, nothing. It was literally the middle of nowhere. The café in the nearest village was apparently British owned, and judging by what I had seen so far, to be avoided. I found the local Intermarché, which was open on Sunday mornings to cater to the resident Brits, evidenced by the large size and poor quality of the wine section and the cases of beer piled high near the checkout. I spoke French and avoided eye contact with my Primark-clad fellow-shoppers as I presented my can of flykiller, bottle of bleach and scented candles to the cashier.
I drove for miles and miles in search of something French, and apart from one very pretty village, Nanteuil en Vallée, a good 50 km away with a preponderance of Type 1 Brits and an excellent restaurant (l'Auberge de l'Argentor, where I treated myself to an al fresco Sunday lunch), found nothing to commend the area. It looked a lot like Northamptonshire, with fields of sunflowers instead of rapeseed stretching for miles. Nothing particularly French about it at all.
L'Auberge de l'Argentor, Nanteuil-en-Vallée, Charente
The other side of Confolens was a village called Lesterps, where La Fête de l'Accordéon was advertised that very day. After miles and miles of deserted roads, I found a couple of thousand aficionados had assembled from all over France, and even Europe, to judge by the registration of the many camper vans parked in the adjoining fields, to see the stars of the "piano à bretelles" and trip the light fantastic. They had certainly dressed up for the occasion, often in his 'n' hers matching outfits. I am a great fan of the accordeon and couldn't resist dropping in for a couple of hours. I heard some virtuoso performers, although none of it in the whimsical style of Yann Tiersen (who did the soundtrack of Amélie) or any kind of wider world music element - such as Louisiana cajun music, or Eastern European bands. This was pure, traditional bal musette, the sort you get at 14th July village fireman's balls, and each number accompanied a particular dance style which was announced formally. "Et maintenant, tout le monde en piste pour un pasadoble!"
Talented young Julie Blocher (14) was one of the stars of the festival
The dancing was fascinating. This was "Strictly French Strictly". Each couple had their own particular dance style which made them stand out from the others. I was particularly fascinated by one couple dressed in matching lime green, whose trademark involved breaking apart shortly after the music had started and twirling individually like synchronised doner kebabs. They didn't manage to stay together for one single dance. I overheard someone ask them, during a pause, why they did it. "Because we like it!" Mr W.Dervish replied happily. The French also seem to have discovered line dancing, which was performed with typical French nonchalance, gazing unsmilingly into the middle distance as if waiting for a bus whilst executing precision footwork. I wished Peter Mayle had been there to see it, he would have painted a scene of rural lunacy, probably with dogs running amok on the dance floor and somebody being taken away in an ambulance.
I returned to Royston sur Vasey, my head filled with more escape plans than Richard Attenborough in The Great Escape. I managed to kill the smell in the kitchen with a combination of chemicals and cigarette smoke, but the bluebottles were proving more tenacious. Sitting outside with my glass of wine, I tried to dislodge one reluctant bluebottle from my arm where he was hosing up my blood from the two neat holes he had pierced. I ended up breathing in so much flykiller that night that I was violently ill and spent a second bad night in the house of horrors, lulling myself to sleep with Scarlet O'Hara's mantra "Tomorrow is another day". Although I certainly wouldn't have been seen dead in the curtains.
The next day I drove West for two hours until I hit the Atlantic coast and was relieved to discover I was still in France after all, in La Rochelle to be precise. The English - and the occasional Irish - were still much in evidence, but in a much more upmarket way, and there were a majority of French holidaymakers in their cut-offs and Vuarnets. I took a decision to up sticks, whatever the cost.I spent a very pleasant day in La Rochelle before returning to the gite to inform Reg that I had, regretfully, changed my plans. He asked if there was anything wrong with the accommodation. Having not yet negotiated the cancellation charge, I lied. He said he would talk to the wife and "sort something out".
An hour later he was back to tell me that they would not refund any of the money I had paid up front. I spent a third semi-sleepless night battling with the bluebottles, who had by now decided they loved me and wanted to move upstairs with me and take turns to sit on my nose all night. I was starting to feel like Pig Pen.
The next morning I was packing the car when Reg and Beryl returned from walking their dogs. She barely acknowledged me, and gave me her best Corrie scowl before disappearing into the house. God knows why, they'd received full payment for the week and now had the place free for the next four days. With nothing left to lose, I told Reg what I really thought about the accommodation. He was less than gracious, even defensive, as I had expected, but carelessly revealed that they had been "kicked out" by the French gite rating system. Hardly surprising. He did at least return my deposit (cheque drawn on a bank in Bury - which was pretty much what I wanted to do to Reg and Beryl) and I departed, taking every last tea bag and nobly resisting the temptation to hide the remains of a very ripe Camembert somewhere in the furniture. I was £200 out of pocket, but as Keith Richards wisely said, it's the price of an education. That'll teach me to spurn the advice of Gites de France. It was depressing to reflect, as I drove away, that the very worst of England was now seeping down into my beloved France. They're even broadcasting "Shameless" to the French on a satellite channel. We must be mad or masochistic, or both, to give the French even more reason to feel superior to us - as if they needed one. So when you notice a particularly unsavoury foreigner in your area, speaking no language known to man or goat, with traces of unidentifiable food in his beard and smelling like an old Afghan coat, rest assured that we are exporting even worse examples of our race to foreign parts. If we carry on like this, the French will be paying us to pull out of the European Union.
My hols got radically better within two minutes of leaving Royston sur Vasey, but I'll save that for next week. I didn't, in the end, renounce my British nationality.
Frank Gallagher - proud to be British
(N.B. A Blue Peter badge to Mr McChé for the nifty bit of bilingual photoshopping at the top)
I arrived in Brussels just over a year ago en catastrophe and in reduced circumstances, due to having had to hand over every last stick of furniture to Nana Godsbrain Boateng Kwaku XVI, The Ya Naa of Mbongoland (West), to pay for Harold’s funeral. In West Africa coffins are custom-made to suit the personality of the deceased, and a bottle of Star beer was agreed to be the appropriate receptacle to carry him into the next world, since it played such a key role in carrying him out of this one. It wasn’t cheap, I can tell you, but I’m sure you’ll agree that he certainly went out in style. I dressed him in his favourite beige cardigan and dabbed at my eye as he was despatched to the care of the great deity Manatcanda, while the choir of the Seventh Day Redemption Chapel sang the theme from Match of the Day.
and toffee wrapper headdress fashioned à la Scarlett O’Hara from batik tablecloths. With a darker shade of foundation, nobody suspected I was not a genuine Mbongo market lady selling lace doilies and teacakes. I rather missed Mbongoland at first, but now I’ve moved to a neighbourhood which feels just like home, and I can call out a cheery “Woyayah!” to my neighbours in the morning. I still don’t have room for more than one servant, but it’s a slight improvement. Fear not, the south will rise again. 
