life in the Limousin

The fact that my internal organs and most of my remaining brain cells are engaged in processing a vast array of alcoholic drinks and calorific overload means that this weeks blog comes in the form a simple video clip taken on Christmas Day. We ate out for the first time and it was indeed a lovely change. However, during dinner one guest decided to entertain us with a stunning rendition of “Step into Christmas” by Elton John. That song is in fact a Christmas classic which has thus far eluded me however thanks to this Gentleman and my wife corpsing for the next few hours means it is now very much etched into my memory bank.

watch?v=L9tuc_Jr5j0

(can’t get it to embed, You’ll have to cope with a link)

No more detail is necessary, so much can be  said without words.

Am feeling a little sheepish today. It was my friend Paul’s 40^th last night in Huddersfield, an event we’ve been looking forward to for ages. In the event, it was threatened by the weather with snow blizzards throughout the day making the roads hazardous. However, everyone gamely battled to get there and a great time was had by all……..well perhaps not all. One of my friends has two boys one an absolute angel and the other an absolute devil child aged 9. He is rude beyond belief, has absolutely no manners and argues the toss about absolutely everything. At one point he dumped a load of sweet wrappers over the floor and then refused my requests for him to pick them up. His Dad didn’t seem too bothered and was also unfazed by him telling me to ‘piss off’.

Thirty minutes later, as he and his party left a drink fuelled snowball fight developed. Snowballs were flying in all directions but I had spotted my target. I could see him in the distance gathering up snow for his next snowball and I seized my opportunity, aiming low and hard.

As he stood up to launch his next missile the whole affair played out in remarkable slow motion culminating in my snowball planting fairly and squarely in his face and almost knocking him off his feet. He turned angrily towards me like some kind of feral monkey and then promptly burst into tears. His Dad didn’t look too pleased but everybody else found it quite amusing and I didn’t particularly care until I woke up this morning feeling slightly guilty about the whole thing.

We had a great time last night but I’m suffering a bit today and haven’t ventured back out into the ever snowier conditions.

Yesterday, Fred (my Father-in-law) and I sat down to commence our planning for the work in France next year. I’m starting to feel enthused about the whole project once more. Due to the economy, exchange rate and uncertainty in our finances we haven’t done any work on the holiday home barn conversion for over a year. Therefore I haven’t though about it in too much detail and I really enjoyed the process of envisioning how things will look on completion.

There are many Gites and Chambre d’hotes in the area but our property will have four bedrooms, each ensuite and will therefore cater for 8 people in total. It will eventually have a pool and lovely terrace but that will come at the end of the development.

We plan to start again in February and yesterday we agreed the priorities and approach that we are going to take. Fred and Pat are travelling out in February to oversee the work and Fred will do some of the work himself. We’re really fortunate to have Fred’s expertise and experience and I know he is as keen as we are to see the project through to completion.

We had planned a week in France ourselves in January but we have made a radical decision instead to spend a week in Tenerife soaking up some sun. We haven’t holidayed anywhere else apart from France in 3 years and having both worked so hard recently we could use a relaxing break without stressing about my ever expanding list of jobs that need to be completed in France.

So our next trip to France will not be until April unless we go for a cheeky weekend in the interim. This makes me feel a little sad but our enthusiasm for our project and living in France remains undiminished.

The Christmas season is in full swing. I’ve successfully swerved two work Christmas parties as the thought of drunken people talking shop and throwing up on my shoes is not massively appealing.

However, this Thursday I will be attending our staff party in Birmingham though thankfully work commitments on Friday mean I will have an excuse for bailing early and not getting drunk.

Next weekend is my best pals 40^th birthday which is bound to be a boozy affair so I must try and impose some self-restraint over the coming week. Our annual re-discovery of mulled wine occurred last week and we had to work really hard to perfect the recipe over each consecutive evening. By Friday we had got it pretty much spot on, the winning combination being:-

1 Bottle of reasonable quality red wine (reasonable being anything better than tramp juice)

4 Cloves

2 pieces of Orange peel

1 Cinnamon stick

1 Star Anise

2 Tablespoons of Sugar

1 large packet of Rennie (for afterwards)

The pan is heated gently but not boiled and then taken off the heat for 30 minutes to let the flavours infuse. I find it best to have a cheeky brandy at this point as 30 minutes is quite a long time to wait.

We have also discovered that several bottles can be added to the pan over the course of the evening. Another revelation is that by 10pm you won’t give a shit about the combination of spices. By 11pm even a miserable git like me is rendered  ’Chritmasy’ though in my case that amounted to eating the various assortment of chocolates, twiglets and sweets that Mel had stocked up on for the festive season.

Mel and I have been and stocked up on Christmas food and drink twice already but have pretty much cleared it all already so more exercise has been in order to try and balance the equation.

It’s not easy being accident prone. In fact, it can be quite tiring being a magnet for mishap. A website that I regularly visit had a thread asking “What is the most embarrassing thing that has ever happened to you?” I thought about it for a few minutes and soon realised that choosing one would be very difficult indeed. There have been so many embarrassing episodes that I could probably write a book containing all the mishaps that have blighted my life so far.

In the end I plumped for a particularly horrific story from my mid-twenties that still lurks at the back of my mind and periodically returns to haunt me. My uncle ran a haulage business and every now and again hosted some of his customers at Burnley Football Club. Often he would have 12 or more customers in the corporate lounge and one particular day he asked my Dad and me if we would help him host his clients. Naturally we agreed, I have never been able to turn down free alcohol and I always enjoy a game of football particularly without the pressure of my beloved Manchester City being involved.

On arrival we were introduced to the various customers and after several drinks sat down for our meal. The starters were served and eaten without incident and then the main course was served. The waitress walked around the table with an enormous serving dish full of pork and gravy. She served each of the 12 people before arriving at me. There was just one piece of pork left on the tray and approximately four pints of gravy. As she served me the piece of pork the serving dish tipped and dumped the entire contents over my head.

As is often the case, there was a millisecond of complete silence followed by a titter and then raucous laughter. I was wearing my best suit and was literally covered head to toe in hot gravy. The waitress was of course mortified and made some feeble attempt to clean it off me but quickly realised she was fighting a battle that she would never win. At this point she burst into tears and ran off. After returning from the toilets where I cleaned myself up as best I could the manager arrived with a Burnley shirt and I was forced to wear this for the remainder of the day over the top of my gravy stained trousers.

Several years later, this story is regularly trotted out at family parties and still causes much mirth. I think embarrassing incidents are always best when it involves the victim wearing some form of food. It brings out the slapstick in people, as evidenced this afternoon when Mel and I met our old next door neighbours for a carvery Sunday lunch. We regularly eat at the Village Hotel around the corner on a Sunday as they do an all you can eat buffet for just £12 and more importantly they serve waffles for dessert.

Mel and I were stood in the middle of the restaurant waiting for our waffles to be cooked in the big theatrical waffle press. Eventually the chef placed them in the dishes and Mel asked me if I wanted ‘Squirty’ cream from the huge dispenser that they have. Naturally I said yes, although I thought she meant on my waffle, as due to some kind of defect with the dispenser it exploded cream all over my shirt and face. Several fellow diners tried hard not to laugh whereas Mel made no effort whatsoever. I had to literally scoop her up off the floor whilst simultaneously cleaning myself up.

Even now, four hours later she is still erupting into uncontrollable giggles every time she thinks about it which to be fair, I would too if it was the other way round.

Christmas party season is now in full swing and I have a couple of parties that I need to find excuses to get out of over the next few weeks. The older I get, the more I prefer Christmas to be about intimate gatherings of family and friends and less about large scale festive frivolity.

I really wish we were in France this Christmas or New Year but I have no holidays remaining with work and so our next trip will not be until the end of January when we will celebrate Mels birthday. So instead, we are having Christmas Dinner out at a nice pub with Mels family and New Years Eve at our friends in Huddersfield.

Yesterday was our annual December boys trip to watch the football. This ritual has existed for twenty years now. My friend Paul and I, are usually joined by some other long suffering Manchester City fans that we have known for years, however this year proved too difficult to organise so just the two of us met. . (The more astute amongst you will have noticed that it is not yet December - this is a mere technicality arising from life getting in the way of it actually being on a Saturday in December). The ritual used to be a fortnightly event, when football was played on a Saturday and we were young and flush enough to get away with it. Now it’s an annual event due to being grown up and slightly more sensible.

The format is devastatingly simple. We meet on a Saturday in December when City are at home and at 11am start drinking our way towards the stadium. Having arrived at the ground, at least a couple more pints are consumed prior to enduring a tortuously frustrating football match. After the game, more drinks are consumed before the entire game is drunkenly dissected, minute-by-minute in an Indian restaurant over a hot spicy curry

I was a little worried this year that all the money that City have spent (£200m in 18 months) might spoil our tradition by proving to be entertaining and rewarding which has never happened before. I was worried it might take something away from the day, that our new found wealth might erode another footballing tradition.

However, I need not have worried. The game was as the pundits would say “really crap” and despite going a goal up in the first half we succumbed to a sucker punch penalty late into the second half. I’m always at my happiest when I’m either totally relaxed and serene (like when I’m fishing) or when I’m incandescent with rage after an abominable refereeing decision (like yesterday). By the time he blew his full time whistle, I was positively neanderthal.

There was much to discuss after the game and we worked really hard to ensure that no positives were allowed to venture into our post match analysis. The curry house (Darbar – on the famous Rusholme curry mile) served the most amazing Indian food I have ever eaten to the point where I really struggled to maintain my grumpiness. The condiments were of course used to highlight formations and strategies and at one point my naan bread was used as a makeshift pie chart used to illustrate our ongoing plight. My team have now drawn their last seven games, which is a source of huge disappointment after such a strong start to the season. This necessitated more lager as we just couldn’t get to the bottom of our tactical challenges.

I called Mel to collect me at 9pm and managed to establish on the short drive home that she wasn’t really interested in discussing the merits of a 4-3-3 versus a 4-4-2 formation. She was however interested in discussing her sister Penny’s new dog which is a Bichon Frise and had been collected from the breeder that afternoon. I was taken to meet the new little girl which is called Saffron or Saffy as I am instructed to call her. On the basis of hearing her name, I was expecting her to be a golden yellow colour but not so, she is in fact white.

Saffron

She didn’t seem too concerned by my staggering although she did seem quite keen on checking my face for any residue curry so maybe Saffron is the right name for her. After a brief introduction I was whisked home on health and safety grounds, in case I sat on Saffy which in my state was a distinct possibility.

The Christmas party season starts this week and my bah humbug senses have already started to tingle. Mel is a huge Christmas fan and for her sake I will try and enter into some form of Christmas Spirit.

Mel and I have just returned from a fantastic weekend in the Limousin. I’ve always wanted to say that. Jetting off for the weekend makes us sound really cosmopolitan and cool (in my twisted mind anyway). The reality is that a chance discovery of £10 each way flights made the weekend feasible but we grasped the opportunity with both hands.

We flew from East Midlands Airport which is a two hour drive but the Friday evening flights are perfect for a weekend away. Last weeks biblical weather in the UK had left me slightly apprehensive about the flight. Sure enough, it was extremely turbulent but we arrived safe, intact and on time.

Neil and Roz were kind enough to pick us up from Limoges Airport and before we knew it we were guzzling wine like our lives depended on it and heartily tucking into Neil’s fantastic casserole. The stresses and strains of a week away travelling with work evaporated in a jiffy. Less than an hour later I was slurring my words and acquainting myself with Roz’s most recent Pet rescue, Tammy the kitten. In truth, I’m not a cat lover mainly on the basis that I am allergic to them but he/she/it is extremely cute and definitely worth rescuing.

On Saturday I just could not wake up and Mel and I both slept in until 11am which is pretty much unheard of and probably reflects how hard we have both been working recently. The silence of the Limousin always has a soporific effect on me and I never have a problem sleeping when I’m there, the challenge is always getting up again.

Saturday was spent lazing, listening to the football on the radio and enjoying various combinations of fine cheeses, crusty bread, cold meats and freshly laid eggs. I had a brief worry about all the jobs that need doing around the place but had to remind myself that was not the purpose of this trip and returned instead to self indulgence, casual drinking and relaxation.

In the evening we went to the village dance at Champsac as discussed last week. I can assure you, dear readers that France did not disappoint on the accordion front. Each song was accompanied by one of the bellowing blighters as well as a saxophone and a full band. They reminded me of a French version of the Worzels although if anything, slightly older. I would have thought they had a combined age of 340, maybe more. Weirdly, there were also three different drummers throughout the course of the evening. I’m not sure if that was a deliberate rotation policy or whether it was due to age related exhaustion.

The dancing began before the meal had started and interestingly, without the aid of any alcohol whatsoever which I’m afraid is a concept lost on me. To me alcohol and dancing are natural bed fellows though when I think it through, I might be alone in that as I can’t imagine the contestants on Strictly Come Dancing imbibing cheap cider before they hit the dance floor.

Some of the dancing was really quite sophisticated and some unrecognisable songs triggered some very specific unrecognisable dances - which was nice. However, no amount of alcohol would have encouraged me onto the dancefloor. I’m just not sure that the French or indeed our English friends would appreciate either of the two dances that make up my meagre repertoire. My first is the ‘Geography teacher trying to be groovy at the school disco dance” which involves swaying from side to side. The second is a less energetic version of the dance made famous by Bez from the Happy Mondays only without the maracas. Irrespective of the tempo, style or song – those are the two dances I deploy sometimes switching seamlessly from one to the other. Consequently, Mel penned me into the corner of the room in case one of my two dances slipped out.

Our table of twenty people consisted of several couples, four children and two adults who were driving and yet by the end of the evening there were approximately twenty empty wine bottles on the table. Every other table had perhaps 2 or 3 wine bottles and several empty bottles of water. I don’t know why this particularly surprised me. The differing attitudes of the French and the English towards alcohol are well documented but it was strange to see it so amply demonstrated and being personally responsible for such a significant part of the comparative difference.

It was a great night, in lovely company and we eventually got to bed about 1am, thereby ensuring Sunday morning was a write off. The weather which had been kind to us on Friday and Saturday turned into the same weather we had left in the UK. Squally showers and blustery winds put paid to our planned horse riding session though it should be noted that Roz and Neil still went.

Mel and I opted out on the basis of having inadequate attire which was certainly true though my hangover was an equally valid reason.  Instead we relaxed in front of the fire and made Sunday dinner, that French classic lasagne(!) and before we knew it we were back at Limoges Airport and back home on the sofa by 8pm.

All in all, a very successful experiment in weekend mini-breaking to France and one which we will now repeat several times a year if we can find the cheap flights.

Strong economic news from the eurozone show that France and Germany have now experienced two quarters of consecutive growth thereby emerging much quicker from the recession than the UK & Ireland. However, even here there is still a sense of optimism and it will not be long before it is confirmed that the UK is out of recession too.  

After the doom and gloom of the last two years I’m looking forward to relaxing the purse strings a little and pressing ahead with our France project. There is still a lot of work to be done, ideally we would like our barn conversion completed next year so that we can generate some revenue that will help to fund the rest of the development. At the moment it’s a very impressive, empty shell of a building that needs wiring, plumbing, fitting out and decorating.  We are planning to restart the work in the New Year finances permitting.

Our initial financial projections conducted in 2007 look like a work of fiction having been rendered obsolete by the global economic crisis and the associated fall in the value of the pound versus the euro.  However, we can only work with those factors that are in our control and hope that external factors take care of themselves so hopefully the evident optimism towards 2010 builds momentum and we can all look forward to less uncertainty and brighter days ahead.

I’ve been away for most of last week in Shannon spending time with a warm and appreciative customer who reminds me that my job can sometimes be enjoyable and fulfilling.  However, a consequence of being away is the unavoidable calorific intake associated with staying in Hotels and taking customers out to dinner.  I returned late on Thursday night feeling like a sumo wrestler on Boxing day, my body crying for low calorie mercy.

We drove up to Hartlepool on Friday night to visit Mel’s parents for the weekend. Pat is recovering well from her knee operation and we were both really looking forward to seeing her. The journey was surprisingly straightforward and we arrived to the most amazing smell of the North East’s favourite regional dish Panaculty.

In days gone by, Panaculty would be made on a Monday from the leftovers from Sundays roast. The whole thing is slow cooked for most of the day, traditionally giving the housewife plenty of time to complete her other womanly chores! Essentially, it comprises of Corned beef, stock, potatoes and onions. Each area or family have variations on the dish and Pat’s stunning version included Black Pudding, Steak, Liver, Carrots.  Thankfully Panaculty is on the whole a healthy dish as I had two portions followed by homemade apple pie. Perfect comfort food!

My weeks travelling and travailing had left me exhausted and I was in bed for 9pm sleeping for a full twelve hours which is almost unheard of for me. I repeated the same feat last night and have awoken this morning refreshed, re-energised and ready for another long week ahead.  We return this afternoon so I can pack for my next business trip.Three days in the south lie ahead of me however I can at least look forward to our mini-break in France next weekend.  

We have both missed France tremendously even though it is just six weeks since our last visit. I can already taste the Cider I made several weeks ago and even though it won’t be ready yet I may try a sneak preview. We are looking  forward to the village dance in Champsac with a mixture of mild excitement and a small amount of trepidation.  I love immersing myself in the culture and traditions of the Limousin though Neil tells me that there will more than likely be accordions accompanying our four course meal.

The accordion is an instrument that I reserve the same amount of fondness for as bagpipes – none. I understand that the French and Scottish historically held a strong relationship known as the ‘auld alliance’. In my mind, this must have consisted of hordes of French and Scottish people converging on England, playing bagpipes and accordions together at maximum volume to torture the English. It would certainly have made me surrender.

Still I’ll keep an open mind; with enough alcohol I could become a convert to a sound reminsicent of a small animal being tortured.

I don’t think I’m a fully fledged member of the Seasonal Adjustment Disorder society (SAD) but I do tend to get a bit melancholic at this time of year. The beautiful decay of autumn always makes me reflect on things that were and things were never meant to be. I realise this possibly sounds like pretentious psychobabble and it probably is but I remember feeling this way every year since……..well since I can remember really.

Setting off from and arriving home in complete darkness is not a recipe for happiness for me and I find myself longing for spring before we’ve even got to winter. This last week has been cold, damp and miserable and Mel and I found ourselves short of something to look forward to, especially given that our next trip to France is not planned until January. For the last two years, we’ve been over in Chalus for New Year but we have both used up our holiday allocations so that’s not an option this year. Mels birthday is in January and we plan to spend a week around our wood burning stove eating birthday cake and watching crap films.

January is so far away though and I hate thinking it will be another nine weeks until we see our house and our friends in France again. So………at Wednesday Roz’s suggestion, we have booked a weekend break in two weeks time. We have booked flights from East Midlands on the Friday evening, returning on the Sunday. Even allowing for the fact that we require a seat for the whole journey, might want to visit the loo whilst in the air and require oxygen for the whole flight, Ryanair are charging us just £10 each way per person. So for approximately £50 we will have 48 hours in the Limousin, which feels like a bargain from where I am sitting.

Roz and Neil have kindly offered to collect us from Limoges and have also mentioned some kind of dance on the Saturday night including live music and a four course meal in Champsac. As long as there is no legal requirement for me to dance this will suit us just fine. I will say right now that I will not be dancing as my moves on the dancefloor are even worse than my vocals on the karaoke which is an impressive feat in itself. That and the fact that Mel is a couple of inches taller than me, even without heels and you can see why I am keen to avoid looking like some kind of Mancunian Billy Joel and Christie Brinkley.

Next weekend we’re off to Hartlepool to see Mels parents and I’m really looking forward to seeing my Mum-in-law Pat after her recent knee operation.

I intend to give myself a kick up the arse this week and be back with a brighter perspective and perhaps a few Leishmanic tales next week.

In 1900, one of my ancestors William Leishman discovered a parasitic, sub-tropical infection which emanates from the bite of a sand fly. This incredibly nasty and  infectious disease was named Cutaneous Leishmaniasis after his discovery, which probably brought great pride to the Leishman family at the time. In fact today, it is the only reference point that people usually have when I tell them my surname. I suppose it’s marginally better than being named Anthrax, however it would be nice if the name Leishman came to stand for something else in years to come.

Regular readers will remember that I have described previously, my predisposition to bad luck or calamity. Fortunately, it’s not something that happens all the time but comes in brief cataclysmic bursts and usually without any lasting damage to life or limb, even mine. As these incidents appear to be becoming more frequent and as the calamity dial seems to be turned up higher and higher, I think its time to stake my claim to a new term; a ‘Leishmanic’ episode.

This weeks Leishmanic episode surpassed even my own standards. A couple of months ago, I bought three tickets to see ‘Mock the weeks’ Frankie Boyle at the Manchester Apollo. He is without question, my favourite comedian and we had tried to see him previously only for him to cancel at the last minute, due to illness.

My mother-in-law Pat has been into hospital this last week (get well soon Mam!) to have a knee replacement and therefore Mel decided to stay in Hartlepool for a few days, meaning she could not attend on Tuesday night. Her sister Penny had one ticket and suggested inviting a friend of her from work called Victor. He lives in Leeds so it’s a reasonable trek but as he is a big fan too he didn’t mind the journey.

So I finished work a little early on Tuesday, picked Penny up and we set off to the Apollo to meet Victor there. He is not particularly familiar with Manchester and rang a couple of times to ask for directions. We suggested some landmarks and eventually he called back to say that he had found the Apollo but it was closed and there was no sign of life whatsoever. A wave of panic washed over me as we approached and we arrived outside to find the place in total darkness.

Penny fished the tickets out of her bag and turned to me and said “oh shit, it was last night.” I checked and the date was indeed the 26^th of October, not the 27^th. I was absolutely mortified and mortally embarrassed as Penny introduced me to Victor who had driven from Leeds. To give him credit, he was incredibly pleasant and did a really great job of pretending to laugh it off. However, I tried to put myself in his shoes and whenever I did that I wanted to punch myself in the face.

I was flapping like a fish by this point and over-compensating for my embarrassment. I suggested we go for a beer and a bite to eat. Penny worked really hard to bring some humour to the situation and masking her own disappointment. Having dumped the car, I took the only sensible course of action and got myself and everybody else drunk.

In the end, it was a great night. We had a laugh about the whole thing and Victor assured me that it was ‘just one of those things’. At least that’s what his mouth said but his eyes clearly didn’t agree with him.

I awoke with a raging headache at 7am still feeling really uncomfortable about the whole thing. I can, on occasion be disorganised but not usually to that extent. Wasting £70 on three tickets just isn’t me at all.

I logged onto my computer to check my booking and immediately spotted a problem. The booking said ‘Tuesday the 26^th’ but Monday was the 26^th not Tuesday. “Aha! Their fault, not mine” I shouted, which was quite weird as I was on my own and could probably have just thought it without actually speaking the words.

I was already planning a masterpiece of a complaint letter when I noticed one more small but extremely significant detail. Four numbers to be precise, “2010”.

We hadn’t been one day late, we had been 364 days early. Only me.

I spent three days in London last week, attending various meetings, presentations and evenings out with colleagues. There have been many such occasions over the years and I increasingly hope that I will start to warm to the place, perhaps find something that makes me want to return voluntarily. However, in the fifteen years I have been going there regularly, it has never happened. It just leaves me cold and feeling like I constantly need a shower.

I often travel down early or leave my hotel early in a taxi to make a return flight or train home. I often marvel at the sight of people wearing business suits and mismatched coloured trainers, power-walking their way to work with expressions of drudgery and boredom. Presumably their real footwear is in their often gigantic rucksacks that seem to accompany them everywhere. No walker is complete without a cup of supermochafrappaccino in one hand and a mobile phone pressed to their ear with the other.

The noise in London is relentless – the cacophony of car, tube, train and lorry sounds combine to make a background soundtrack against which life is played out. Although like the aeroplanes near our new apartment in Cheadle it soon becomes almost unnoticeable after a while. The accompanying grime however never becomes unnoticeable and the pollution feels at times unbearable to my sensitive disposition.

I have been there as a tourist, which was pleasant enough though whatever interesting history remains is to my mind dotted about in between planning disasters and concrete monstrosities. Everything feels so impersonal and it is easy to imagine yourself invisible when travelling around.

Whenever I have this conversation with friends and colleagues who live there, a heated debate often ensues. This is perfectly natural and I often react similarly to criticism of Manchester. However, my observations are far from personal and not even unique. Most capital cities leave me a little cold; they somehow lack a focal point that smaller cities often have. Multiple outlying towns and districts have combined to form become a huge sprawling metropolis without a discernible single heartbeat.

Something really alarmed me on this visit though. Something that has been happening for years but which suddenly seems to have reached a crescendo. I am talking about the seemingly dramatic change in language and in people’s vocabularies. It has gently irked me and others I have spoken to for a number of years but it really does seem to be reaching a crescendo.

This phenomena is in reality a representation of the increasing Americanisation that is spreading through the United Kingdom like a disease.

It comes in a number of different forms – the Jafaican accent prevalent in American gang culture which appears to have been adopted by anyone under 25 or Ciddyspeak which is spoken amongst professionals, bankers and in particular IT employees.

Ciddyspeak is the easiest to explain and does seem to be confined to London at least for the time being. It involves dropping any usage of the letter ‘T’ and replacing it with a soft ‘D’. It effectively gives the speaker the ability to sound American but with an English accent. An example, in my line of business would be “da compuder is priddy good” and apparently must be delivered with a slight furrowing of the eyebrows to convey maximum sincerity. It sounds really terrible and unbelievably faux, forced and insincere. It is a despicable trend.

The Jafaican phenomenon is more complex and certainly more widespread. It is not of American origin (as its name suggests it is a cod version of Jamaican patois) but is particularly prevalent amongst the hip-hop and R&B culture that has emanated from there. I don’t have a problem with it in its proper context, languages have always evolved and different cultures and their accents change with the times. However, hearing some spotty white south London dizzee rascal wannabee talking like he was born in the New York Bronx is a bit much to be honest. It has now spread everywhere. I even heard some guy from Bolton being interviewed on the radio the other week talking about how he had been “aksed if he as a naaf” (asked if he had a knife). Much as Peter Kay’s professional northerner routine grates on my nerves, I would much rather that than be surrounded by Northern Jafaicans speaking gangspeak but with the occasional flat vowel.

Its not just accents either. Last week, I was inundated by people telling me that “It’s all about the passion” or “It’s all about the chill’. What? Where did that come from? What does it mean? Why do I have to listen to it? What kind of stupid American comedy programme did that come from?

I’d love to know whether these or similar changes are happening in the rest of Europe and in France in particular. I know that Rap, Hip Hop and R&B have got a hold on Frances inner city youth so I should imagine there is some form of similar effect but hopefully it has not affected the farmers of the Limousin! Presumably they are not driving round in tractors ‘dissing les bitches’ or carrying ‘naafs’ or anything.

I am genuinely fascinated by the change in languages, dialects and accents but worry that they are becoming increasingly homogenised. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not some kind of linguistic Nick Griffin (Thank God……) fighting to purify the English language. I accept that language always has and always will change but some of the ‘dumb ass’ phrases that are creeping into our vocabulary ‘really suck’.

France has worked harder than most to protect itself against American cultural imperialism but in the end a degree of influence is inevitable and probably welcome in many ways. I appreciate I may sound xenophobic towards America so I ought to say that not everything the US does is bad; in fact a lot of American cultural contribution has been fantastic, let down somewhat by its political contribution. However, there is a fine line between American influenced and Americanised (not Americanized!) and I just feel that in the UK at least that line has now been crossed.