Parlez-vous Franglais?

Every now and then I get an urge to do something different; a new challenge or learn a new skill.
I started water-skiing when I was about 7 years old and I always wanted to, one day, ski across the English Channel - I thought it would be a lot more fun (and easier) than swimming it. Despite being quite capable of doing so - I would ski for hours around Studland Bay and The Solent - I just never got around to it, mainly because it involved so much effort and commitment from others.
Nine years ago, I read a magazine article about a woman who, on the spur of the moment, quit her job, took a bus to Land’s End, then walked to John O’Groats. What a great thing to do! (Although I wasn’t too sure about the walking bit). So, the next day I bought a Dawes touring cycle and, a week later, I was on the train to John O’Groats. I don’t know why I did it the ‘wrong’ way; the prevailing winds are South-Westerly’s, but I didn’t think about that. Anyway, I then spent sixteen days cycling down to Land’s End. The first few days I sorely regretted not doing some training first (and ‘sorely’ is the accurate term), but it was a great experience and an unrivalled way to see our country. Not only that, but the regulars at The Cross Keys, Totternhoe raised almost £1,000 for Cancer Research through last-minute sponsorship.
I sometimes think my wife, Jane, is a bit too impetuous; she will go to muck out her horses, but then decide to ride for hours through forest without thinking to tell anyone where she has gone. But I am just as bad: I have run marathons, leapt from aeroplanes, climbed solo to the summit of active volcanoes and spent evenings in Leighton Buzzard with minimal consideration of the consequences. Often, I’ll see a news item about a 17 year-old sailing single-handedly around the world, or Eddie Izzard running consecutive marathons throughout the country (see www.eddieizzard.com) and get jealous. I get those urges (again) to do something similar.
As well as all the exciting, Indiana Jones stuff, I get repeated desires to learn something new. A skill which will challenge me and make life more interesting. There are 4 skills I would love to learn:
To paint a picture I would be proud to hang on a wall. I have all the oils and acrylics and stuff, but, although I have ‘dabbled’, I have never seriously tried to paint something worthwhile.
To play a musical instrument. I actually have a CD which features me playing bass guitar (and bongos and ’singing’), but I don’t really consider bass guitar a ‘proper’ instrument. I would like to be able to play guitar without having to look at my hands, but, most of all, I would like to be able to play saxophone or clarinet (I have the cheeks for it).
To be able to Tapdance. I don’t know why, maybe it’s my inner bongo-player, but I think it is the least pointless form of dance.
To write a novel. Which is why you are subjected to my various ramblings. I’m not doing this for your benefit…. I’m simply learning to type.
To be able to speak a different language fluently. Whenever abroad, I think it is so ignorant to assume that others will speak English. However, I find it a little disappointing when, for example, I walk up to the reception in a French hotel and say “Bonsoir. Nous avons un reservation.” and they reply, “Good evening Sir. What is your name please?” Why can’t they just humour me for a few minutes?
To be able to count. *
Of the above, I think the most realistic is to learn a foreign language. At the moment, I have two foreign pupils; Andrew, from Poland, and Nataliya, from Russia. Unfortunately, my Polish is limited to ‘Do widzenia’ (’goodbye‘), ‘ and ‘Wybovora’ (a rather nice vodka). However, Nataliya has just started with me, so I make take the opportunity to learn a bit more Russian than ‘nostrovia’ (’cheers!’) and ‘Stolichnoya’ (a rather nice vodka).
When I was at The Cross Keys, I had an Hungarian couple, Frank and Anna, as regulars. They were very good customers, so I was somewhat disappointed when they seemed to disappear - I was at risk of losing over £100 a week from them. I knew it was Anna’s birthday in a few days, so I bought an English/Hungarian phrasebook and sent her a birthday card with ‘Boldog szü letesnaport Anna’ (‘Happy Birthday Anna‘….. (I hope)) written inside. They came to the pub for her birthday and remained good customers after that. I learned Magyar (Hungarian) for various phrases - ‘Good evening’, ‘Please’, ‘Thank you’, ‘You’re welcome’, etc - and Frank taught me Magyar for ‘dickhead’, so we were sometimes able to have little conversations in Hungarian.
I like to think my interest in languages stems from an influential French teacher we had at Cedars school, Monsieur Hobbs. Mr Hobbs was rosy-cheeked and fresh out of teacher training. He didn’t stand a chance with our class. He had absolutely no control over anyone. One day he tried splitting up the class, boy/girl, boy/girl and in alphabetical order. This put Andrew Gogan next to Pauline Glen - a match made in hell as far as Monsieur Hobbs was concerned. Another day he walked into the classroom and, because no-one paid a blind bit of notice, he sat at his desk and put his briefcase up in front of him. After about half an hour, he stood up and, his face a strange maroon colour, shouted “I’VE BEEN WAITING FOR YOU TO BE QUIET!”…. a few uncertain seconds of silence was followed by the class collapsing into hysterical laughter. However, maybe it was just pity, but, eventually we did try to learn a bit of French. In fact, in some strange way, we were inspired by Monsieur Hobbs and tried to speak French outside of lessons. Unfortunately, our grasp of the subject was miniscule, so it mutated into Franglais (as immortalised by Bill Wyman in the song “(Je suis un Rock Star”). My friend, Ian and I had the respective nicknames, Beardy and Farley; which quickly became Beardé and Farlé . We would greet each other with ‘Bonjour jeune homme’. And we generally bastardised most words into Franglais.
Plus ç a change (as we might have said) - The more things change, the more things stay the same. I had a message on Facebook this week, from my schoolfriend, Helen. She said that her 16 year-old son (and also his friends) had taken to speaking Franglais too, talking about going to a ‘parté ’ at the weekend (although, it should clearly be ‘le weekend’). It was good to hear that such traditions are being preserved. Vive l’esprit d’Hobbs! I would understand if you think this is all a bit juvenile and pretentious, but you would be wrong. It is just a fun and imaginative way of conversing, with a self-mocking pretentiousness. I may never get around to my ambition of mastering French, but I certainly had fun with Franglais.
As Mr D Trotter once said, “Mangetout, Rodney. Mangetout.”