Memories: French pot holes

[anotherbanana]

Trou en formation with a sting in the tail. French genius!

(For those whose knowledge of French is 'challenged', please understand that the French word ‘formation’ can be translated into English as ‘under construction’ (as in ‘being built’) or ‘training’ (as in ‘being instructed’).

Well, there you are, on a lovely Saturday, shooting round Paris on the Péripherique at high speed, for once, trying to stay alive, keeping a safe distance from the car in front that is just too small for the Twingos to cut into, and desperately hoping that the Spanish trucks either side of you will not swerve and turn you into roadkill and swarf, as well as watching out for kamikazi motorcyclists, and you are bored with spotting and admiring Rom encampments with the squads of CRS there to ensure their security, or counting Fiat Duplos, or cutting up GB plated cars with extravagant Gallic gestures or, well, whatever, and then it happens you are about to meet an old and cherished road sign friend.

Who you have not seen for a while, and who apparently hails from Toontown, and goes by the delightful name TROU EN FORMATION (a phrase from the Breton, originally, I think, though the family diaspora is now worldwide ).

But, disappointment, sadness and woe, for you do not find hide or hair of said trou, not even the slightest scratch on the road surface, though, at 120kph the smallest indentation could easily have been missed, to be fair.

Which got me thinking; it was a Saturday when the traffic is somewhat reduced, and it is the Spring, a time of youth, fornication, reproduction and offspring, and it was a big wide bit of road. Of course, (as I slapped myself on the head and got a foul look from the drop dead cute little blonde in the Smart next to me) it was a training day for Trous, run by that famous and rather frightening instructor Majeur Trou and his band of wandering acolytes, the Troubydoors (these are the little buggers who form up right outside you front door or gate).

Imagine the scene in Toontown; a queue of little scrapes jostling together to get into the trouroom for their training days, full of enthusiasm to get out there and break rubber, crack suspensions and cause accidents. The door is opened by a towering, bemeddeled Gros Trou, the survivor of many campaigns, who has always escaped to fight again, and who holds the rare accolade of the Introuvable Medal given only to those who have infiltrated public service, for winning so many battles against their deadly enemies, Les BoucheTrous.

They rush in, lay flat on the floor and volunteers first walk, then drive over them at speed. Of course they groan and moan a bit at the shock, but only those with the greatest number of twisted ankles, for the Pavement Trous Brigade or the most vicious cracked chassis or slipped loads or swerves causing accidents, the famous German brigade, called the Bad Trous, are selected. The failures, Les Trous Perdus are sent off to distant farm tracks and paths to do their worst to hay wagon wheels, drunken yokels in 4x4s and the wheels of bicycles. They are most famous in the country regions of Normandy, Les Trous Normands.

Finally, they are lectured on the importance of their craft and of keeping it simple and local as far as possible, for it has been rumoured that they are to be mass produced in a Chinese process called Usine Des Trous, which will result in the unique Gallic Trou disappearing forever.

Then, finally, in a delightful little Toon truck which dances with joy at being driven, called Trou de Balle, they are taken out at the dead of night, bursting with happiness, these little trou of different types, trou axial, foré, creusé, cylindrique, naturel, artificiel, and given their assignments.

With what enthusiasm do they settle on roads and paths, motorways and runways, driveways and concourses, these wonderful little insurance claims of the future. And remember with pride those who undertake the really secret missions, to infiltrate the health budget, for example, to become the hated and never ending Trou de la Sécu, or those who get lost and turn nasty, les Trou du Culs, or the culinary branch, Les Trous du Gruyère, or the famous marrying ones, Les Trousseaux!

They are legion and should be loved, but please, keep away from me and mine, guys and gallic trous.

Now, if Paris is Toontown, and therefore the President is Roger Rabbit, Mrs President must be ..........? If the trou fits, step in it babyeee.

And then there is a miracle, a metamorphosis as only the French can inspire, for behold, as soon as those carefully trained holes have found a space for themselves and dug in, so to speak and begun their destruction of the nation’s cars, they change, like tadpoles do into frogs, into nids de poules, chickens nests. Ah France!