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Only failures become 'ex-pats'


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According to this article

"The fact of the matter is this: every single person who ever moves to

another country – with the exception of America where you go to grow –

is a failure. Seriously, no one has ever woken up and said: “I am

completely happy. I have a lovely family, many friends, a great job and

plenty of savings. So I shall move to France".
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You go to America to expand your waistband

You go to Italy to expand your wardrobe

Me? I regularly go to rural France and expand my mind

I am such a failure at being a failure! I would love to be able to afford to be a failure by the writers definition (Expat rather than beetroot snouted lush) but my loving wife and I are saving up for our chance to fail and hope to do so while still young and fit enough to enjoy it.

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The full text of that quoted paragraph is:

"The fact of the matter is this: every single person who ever moves to another country – with the exception of America where you go to grow – is a failure. Seriously, no one has ever woken up and said: 'I am completely happy. I have a lovely family, many friends, a great job and plenty of savings. So I shall move to Australia.'”

This bit rings true in the case of several people I have met:

"But I know two things. First, home is not where you live; it’s where your friends are. And second, within a week, I’d be a raging alcoholic. I’d start by trying not to drink before 12. But then it’d be 10 and before I knew it I’d be pouring gin on my cornflakes and my nose would be enormous and covered in what look like barnacles... I’d have to keep reminding myself, by reminding absolutely everyone within earshot, constantly, that I couldn’t possibly live in Britain because it’s full of bloody foreigners who hadn’t bothered to learn English. Then I’d summon Manuel and, in English, order another pint of gin.
"There they were, in their chips and footie bars with their desperate eyes and their booze-ruined noses, regaling everyone with their stuck-record views on life back in Blighty. 'Don’t know how you can live in Britain. Bloody weather. Bloody Muslims. Bloody Brown,” and then, after a wistful pause, “. . . you don’t have a copy of today’s Telegraph do you?'”

I posted it on another forum last week when it appeared, but, to be honest, didn't dare put the link here. Sometimes even Jezza can be right...

 
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[quote user="Jeremy Clarkson"]But I know two things. First, home is not where you live; it’s where your friends are. And second, within a week, I’d be a raging alcoholic. I’d start by trying not to drink before 12. But then it’d be 10 and before I knew it I’d be pouring gin on my cornflakes and my nose would be enormous and covered in what look like barnacles... I’d have to keep reminding myself, by reminding absolutely everyone within earshot, constantly, that I couldn’t possibly live in Britain because it’s full of bloody foreigners who hadn’t bothered to learn English. Then I’d summon Manuel and, in English, order another pint of gin.

"There they were, in their chips and footie bars with their desperate eyes and their booze-ruined noses, regaling everyone with their stuck-record views on life back in Blighty. 'Don’t know how you can live in Britain. Bloody weather. Bloody Muslims. Bloody Brown,” and then, after a wistful pause, “. . . you don’t have a copy of today’s Telegraph do you?'[/quote]

 [:D]  [:D]  [:D]

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[quote user="cassis"][quote user="Jeremy Clarkson"]But I know two things. First, home is not where you live; it’s where your friends are. And second, within a week, I’d be a raging alcoholic. I’d start by trying not to drink before 12. But then it’d be 10 and before I knew it I’d be pouring gin on my cornflakes and my nose would be enormous and covered in what look like barnacles... I’d have to keep reminding myself, by reminding absolutely everyone within earshot, constantly, that I couldn’t possibly live in Britain because it’s full of bloody foreigners who hadn’t bothered to learn English. Then I’d summon Manuel and, in English, order another pint of gin.

"There they were, in their chips and footie bars with their desperate eyes and their booze-ruined noses, regaling everyone with their stuck-record views on life back in Blighty. 'Don’t know how you can live in Britain. Bloody weather. Bloody Muslims. Bloody Brown,” and then, after a wistful pause, “. . . you don’t have a copy of today’s Mail or Telegraph do you?'  I need to do some posts for this French Forum[:P][:P]  [/quote]

 [:D]  [:D]  [:D]

[/quote]

[:D][:D][:D]

 

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