life in the Limousin

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.

After three weeks of gluttony, excessive drinking and lack of exercise, a weekend of self-restraint and puritanical living was in order. Unfortunately it was my sister-in-law Penny’s birthday and therefore all that fell by the wayside. We also had dinner at our friends Paul and Sally on Saturday night, which is not the correct setting for Quaker style behaviour. I also had a dreadful week at work so a hedonistic weekend was pretty much a foregone conclusion.

I therefore feel like I have eaten enough food to feed a small African nation and every step I take is accompanied by the slosh of several varieties of booze in my stomach. I have eaten more Rennie than can possibly be good for a man and I have a headache which I seem unable to shift.

I am in dire need of a comprehensive detox programme. However, we all know comprehensive detox programmes are a load of nonsense. So instead, I’ll stop drinking and eating like the world is about to run out of food and drink. I’ll also make an overdue return to physical activity though will probably have to go in disguise so that no-one is shocked at my bloated appearance.

I have a ridiculously early start tomorrow for a return to scene of previous blogs Milton Keynes. Then I am away in London for three days. I’m missing Mel already and I haven’t even gone yet.

Having returned to the UK on Wednesday, our holiday in France already feels like a distant, fading memory. It has already assumed sepia like qualities in my head and those memories will have to keep me busy for some time as we do not now return to France until January.

The journey back was straightforward and uneventful, our stop-over in Boulogne-sur-mer breaking the long journey up into two manageable days.

I have been to Boulogne a number of times, on school trips and cheap booze swoops in my twenties and have always been pleasurably disappointed by it. Everyone carries in their heads an image of French seaside harbours, freshly caught seafood restaurants . The problem with Boulogne is that it was the victim of Allied bombing around the time of the D-Day landings in an effort to hold back the defending German naval activity. Consequently, the harbour and much of the City was rebuilt during the 50’s and 60’s in the ugly, brutalist architectural style of that era.

The good weather that had blessed us on every day of our holiday came to an abrupt end as we approached Boulogne and as darkness descended it was a race to find a hotel for the evening. Eventually, we settled on the nearest IBIS we could find as they typically have a secure car park that would allow me to sleep safely, knowing that my car full of fishing gear and other semi-precious materials (our life belongings) were safe for the night.

We dumped our bags and set out in search of sustenance. The old walled city was eerily deserted as the weather worsened and we headed down the hill eventually settling for what purported to be a fine eatery. However, consistent with our recent visits to France the food was disappointing, unfathomably expensive and the menu misleading. I ordered steak with Gnocchi which turned out to be gristle with Findus potato croquettes and vegetables which had been pureed into baby food. Mel ordered fresh cod which was probably fresh at the point when Captain Birds eye caught it. That and a bottle of house wine came to nearly 60 euros, which using my advanced currency calculator equates to approximately 60 pounds.

It is fair to say that all of our preconceptions and hopes for France have been realised over the last 3 years since we bought our house in the Limousin. The countryside has been even more spectacular than we had hoped, the nature more fascinating and varied than we had thought and French people more open and warm than some would have you believe. However, the one thing that has consistently underwhelmed us has been the standard of the food on offer.

I realise the contentiousness of that last statement and ought to make myself clear. No-one would dispute Frances contribution to fine cuisine. From the humble baguette, the extraordinary variety of cheeses, the simplicity of crepes, the splendour of true haute cuisine and the truly wonderful variety of flans, cakes and desserts.

In contrast, English cuisine has long been ridiculed by the French. Jaques Chirac once said that “one cannot trust people whose cuisine is so bad” and this sentiment has been echoed a number of times down the years. Any reference to English cuisine is typically met with a sneer or a short gallic laugh. I would strongly contend however, that this view is based upon the Berni Inn, Chicken-in-a-basket or scampi and chips version of eating out that was the norm in the UK 25 years ago.

Today, English cuisine is as good as any in the world. The availability of top quality ingredients, the wide variety and fusions of culinary styles and the sheer number of eateries in the UK puts the myth of poor English cuisine safely to bed. I could walk out of my front door in Manchester and enjoy Italian, Indian, Mexican and Chinese and even French cuisine all within a mile or so. The popularity of eating out means that prices are competitive and the quality of food on offer is as good as anywhere.

The counter argument is that most of our time is spent in a relatively sparsely populated area of France where competition is not so prevalent and tastes not so varied. I accept that, however I would say the best food we have experienced in the Limousin is at the roadside Bistros such as the one we frequent in Nexon. Here for a fixed price (12 euros) you are served a five course meal of the day, i.e with no choice. The food is simple and almost always excellent. We have had other good experiences such as Les Voyageurs” in La Coquille and other restaurants in Limoges. Outside of the Limousin, our experience has been similarly disappointing though we are committed to testing that experience at every available opportunity.

I realise I am over-simplifying the argument and am hoping that someone will tell me of amazing places to eat out and when they do I will put them on our list to try. I will have to start saving up now though as even allowing for the currently horrific exchange rate, eating out in France is a very expensive business.

For now, it’s back to corporate life and working hard to finance our renovation project which will resume in the New Year. I really must find some way to influence the currency exchange rate, so if anyone has any ideas please let me know. Praying? doing a currency dance? animal sacrifice? All ideas will be considered.