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Taxe de Sejour - What is the Point????


The Riff-Raff Element
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[quote user="Dick Smith"]Quillan wrote:
"With regards to disk space the Lounge in not archived and is cleaned out automatically (I think at 6 months but I will have to ask Steve the IT man). Unfortunatly it's counter productive to do this in the rest of the forum as it is a referance source for users."

This is the issue, of course. This forum is not provided for people to chat to each other, it is here to help sell magazines by providing lots of information (?) for people who might want to buy and therefore need magazines to pump up their nerve. Please see the movement and deletions policy in that light.
[/quote]

Thanks Dick for backing that up. The Lounge area is provided for 'chatting' as requested by the users to stop it breaking out in other parts of the forum.

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It is clear that this thread belongs here. In my defence, I did start

the post in all seriousness, albeit illustrating the point with some of

the senseless garbage that roams around inside my head. I did not

expect it to go the way it did.

Still, we're safe enough here, the winter is long, and I want to see where this goes.

Soooo......

Pierre-Yves surveyed the squalid bar room

before him and took sight of its seven occupants. In his growing madness, he

did not notice Bernard’s missing arm, nor his son’s twelve fingers, proof, if

proof were needed, of the locally held truth that Bruno’s mother was not only

also his sister, but his aunt, second cousin and, quite possibly, his

grandfather.

 

He did not see Yves’ two lazy eyes, took no

note of Gabriel’s staggering obesity, paid little attention to Stephan’s

hunched back and made no observation of the fact the Joël was wearing a truss

on the outside of his trousers.

 Instead, he saw before him the flower of

French manhood, the clean-limbed, firm buttocked sons of Marianne, untainted by

Anglo-Saxon “culture” and, he believed, an army needing only a leader.

 Christophe farted loudly and the others

giggled. They none of them quite knew what to make of the man standing in the

doorway. Pierre-Yves had dressed himself, he fondly imagined, in the garb of an

ordinary French working man: viz, jeans and a shirt. However, he had chosen

Armani jeans, an Yves St Laurent shirt in salmon pink, a blue cravat to replace

his customary tie and had topped the ensemble with a beret taken from his wife’s

wardrobe. Pierre-Yves had little interest in casual clothes, but sometimes

Colette insisted. Oh! Colette! At the thought of her a tear of self pity sprang

to his eye and blood surged to his loins. Soon, she would be his again!

 Gathering himself together, he strode to

the bar. “Good evening, mes amis! Barman, if you would, a bottle of your finest

red for the company!”

 Christope did not have a winelist as such.

He bought all his wine illicitly from a friend of his brother’s who drove

tanker loads of Moroccan vinegar from Mohemadia to Calais for bottling and

selling on to les Rosbifs at 1000% markup behind some Australian label or other,

but he was business man enough to mix some of it with rubbing alcohol bought

from the chemist on his late mother’s prescription for bedsores and to bottle

it as “cuvée patron.”

 

He plonked a bottle on the bar. Their

trepidation disappearing in the time it took to draw the cork, the others

gathered around: a free drink was a free drink, no matter how deranged the

buyer might appear. Pierre-Yves filled their glasses and his own before

proposing a toast. “La Belle France! Let us drink to Her health with the product Her bountiful vines!”

He drank deeply, not flinching an inch as he destroyed a palate that had cost

hundreds of thousands of euros and thirty years to develop.

 

The bottle swiftly emptied. And the second.

Halfway down the third, and to his horror actually starting to like it,

Pierre-Yves played his hand.

 

“You know, mes amis, I am surprised that a

fine establishment, embodying as it does all that is so fine about France, is not more

crowded.”

 

Christophe shrugged. “Look across the

square M’sieur. There is your answer. All the young people go there. Even the

women are allowed to drink in there. They do not like wine, the young; they

want foreign beers, Abba records and condom dispensers. It is the fault of weak

government!” The others nodded.

 “It is true, what you say,” said

Pierre-Yves, “but there are those who have some little power and influence who

think that, perhaps things would be different if the culture Anglo Saxon were,

so to say,  less attractive?” He lowered his voice. “Now, would you gentlemen

be interested in being some of those people?”

 Long stares were exchanged. Then slow nods.

“Good! I knew I could rely on you when I first set foot in this place.

Christophe – do you have an upstairs room in which we could meet discretely? Excellent,

excellent. 10pm tomorrow? Another bottle then!”

 Their glasses filled once more, Pierre-Yves

raised his and said a single word: “Libération!”

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It is the following day and Pierre Yves has thought about his evening meeting with his army at the Boules d'Or all day at his office.

With barely concealed impatience, he  has seen off a succession of the riff-raff at his ministry office.  He has dismissed most of their queries and complaints with the aplomb and inattention to detail as befits the new Napoleon.  Bof, what do they know about taxes, never mind the taxe de sejour.  Useless to explain to the imbeciles.  Even more useless to explain to these noveau arrivees, les rosbifs, who run their B & Bs on French soil.  B&B, qu'est-ce que c'est que ca?  What the devil are B & Bs; isn't chambres d'hote good enough for them?

He looks up at the gilt ormulu clock on the wooden mantel piece hewn out of a solid piece of good French oak.  Beneath the mantel piece roars a log fire in the Godin stove.  The spare logs in their log basket, the fire irons and gridirons are arranged just so on the hearth.  The clock chimes 7 o'clock.

Pierre Yves sighs - still 3 hours to go to his meeting.  Nevermind, meanwhile his little wife, Collette, is preparing his diner and he feels in need of sustenance before the fateful rendezvous that is to come.

"Alors, ma cherie, un aperitif!"  With that, he pours 2 inches of Pineau Charente into Colette's glass and 3 inches into his own.  They sip appreciatively.

Pierre Yves looks with newly-critical eyes at Colette.  He takes note of the difference in Colette's bearing.  Does she not look a bit more, how shall we say, "ANIMATED"?  And what is that new subtle change of couleur in her hair?  What would you call it, "CHESTNUT" perhaps?  So, all les francaises dye (er..colour) their hair but gleaming chestnut is surely not how he left Colette's hair this morning?  Is this new incarnation anything to do with Jon, that despicable rosbif?

Ah, here are les hors-d'oeuvre!  Colette deposits 2 plates of salade with andouille on the table.  "Andouille", now THAT's what he calls a civilised language.  And even I must admit that "andouille" sounds much more appetizing than chitterlings.

He uncorks the bottle of vin rouge and fills their glasses.  "Bon appetit", he exclaims, while at the same time opening his splendid nostrils to the whiff of Colette's perfume.  Would that be her Chanel No 5, that she only uses on special anniversaires?

The entree finished, Colette reapears with the roast rib of pork.  En suite, she brings in the tureen with the pommes roasted in duck fat. Oh, happiness must surely consist of roast pork and potatoes.

Pierre Yves re-fills their glasses.  They savour their roast pork and, when knife and fork do not suffice, they pick up the pieces of ribs in their fingers and gnaw off the meat.  They dip their fingers in the finger bowls and wipe them on the serviettes embroidered with their respective initials, after removing them from les ronds des serviettes.

Madame now produces the cheese board.  Now, what would he have this evening?  Perhaps a piece of that goat's cheese he is so fond of?  Or shall he take the camembert as it's at just the level of runny ripeness he favours?  What a choice!

Pierre Yves dips his spoon into the creme brulee and sighs with repleteness and satisfaction.  Say what you like, his Colette can produce a dinner, just so.  Of course, Auchan is a mere 5 minutes from their pavillion, but he is sure that his wife has prepared all of this grand repast all by her little self.

He goes to the sideboard and pours himself a cognac and Colette a little liqueur.  The wallpaper, in glorious greens and reds and fawns in a pattern of leaves and garlands of flowers, provides the room with an air of genteel domesticity and warmth.  How happy he is and how like a general he feels!

The coffee warms the cockles of his heart.  He is the complete picture of a man, happy in his own French world.  He glances at the clock.  But, it is only 2 minutes to his meeting with his new comrades!

He gives Colette a hurried and, I regret to say, perfunctory kiss on her cheek; pulls on his cashmere and wool coat, dons his matching muffler and gloves.  He does not forget his (that is, Madame's) beret and goes out into the clear, star-lit night.  He is a man with a destiny.  Nevermind that his meeting is with Bernard with the missing arm, Bruno of the missing fingers, Yves with the 2 lazy eyes, rotund Gabriel, Stephane the hunchback, Joel with the hernia and Christophe the barman.  Are they not his very own army with which he will defeat les anglais? 

   

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Just joined the Forum - didn't know the Lounge existed, but thank heavens it does - at least the story can continue without interruption.  Jon et al - do tell... do you all write for a living? - if not, why not?  

PLEASE keep it running.  We have to know what happens, we now care about these people!

Toots

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Bernard, Bruno and Marie-Thérèse (Bruno's mother/sister/aunt/second cousin/grandfather) grunted in unison as they struggled to persuade Gabriel's wobbling bulk into the driver's seat of Bernard's shiny green 1200hp John Deere.  This was the twelfth and newest in Bernard's stable of uber-machins, which he used in rotation according to the month of the year.  Behind the assembled group stood the others in Bernard's collection - New Holland, Lamborghini, Mercedes-Benz, Renault, Same, Challenger, JCB, Volvo, Massey-Ferguson, Landini and Fendt - none of them over a year old. Pierre-Yves breathed a sigh of relief as Gabriel finally squeezed into the cab like a cork into a bottle of calvados.  The tractor rocked on its springs, tyres spreading as if suddenly deflated.

Looking at the collection of gleaming and barely-used farm machinery, P-Y marvelled again at the ignorance of the foreigner who had questioned the use to which his taxes were put.  "Perhaps", he reflected, "the Englishman should be dragged here by his heels and shown this wonderful example of PAC investment in la patrimoine et la vie rurale.  Maybe then he would cease to question how the authorities chose to dispense his <taxe de séjour>."

"Excusez moi, mon colonel", said Yves.  Pierre-Yves turned and looked Yves squarely in the right eye.  Yves' left eye continued to swivel in its orbit. "Should we others mount?"

"Oui, mes braves", replied P-Y, "I have reserved the Renault for my flagship - you may choose of the others as you wish".

A loud petard issued from Christophe's nether regions as he raised his leg onto the lower step of the Lamborghini.  The others giggled as Christophe fell back in a coughing fit, choking on his own noxious emissions. "Careful not to do that in the cab, Christophe!" chortled Yves, his eyes gyrating wildly.

Stephan sat behind the wheel of the Volvo, his hunched back forcing his head beneath the steering wheel and his gaze towards the pedals.  Try as he might he could not place feet on pedals while looking forwards, but by reaching behind his head he was able to grasp the steering wheel.  Stephan thanked the Lord for automatic gearboxes and prayed that he would be able to keep in formation by following the sound of the tractor in front.

In front of Stephan, Joël winced and twisted uncomfortably in the seat of the Challenger.  Reaching between his legs he tightened his truss another notch, but to little effect.  Reaching in his pocket, he withdrew his bottle of painkillers and re-read the label.  "Warning - May cause drowsiness - Not to be used when operating machinery".  To the devil with that - this was war and normal rules did not apply.  He swallowed four caplets and took another swig from the now nearly empty brandy bottle to wash them down.

Yves looked at the tractors before him - he was sure that the two Bernards had said there were only 12, but he had the evidence of his own eyes before him that there were twice as many.  No doubt some story that Bernards invented for the taxman.  He decided on one of the jolly yellow JCBs and hopped up into the seats, settling himself behind the right-hand steering wheel.

Bruno and Marie-Thérèse shared the cab of the Fendt, Marie-Thérèse being a non-driver (she was, in this respect at least, a woman).  She hoped that her waters would not break tonight of all nights.  She was 18 months pregnant and the baby could be due any day now, but she had been determined to play her role in this historic crusade.  She looked across at Bruno, his fine hands gripping the steering wheel.  "What a formidable grip he has", she thought, "how fortunate that my son and brother should be blessed with a generous helping of digital extremities."  She knew Bruno's fingers well, from the long winter nights they spent huddled together for warmth.  Her hand slid across and stroked his thigh, as she often did in bed.  "Not now, grandfather", said Bruno, "I must concentrate and must not be distracted".  He drummed his many fingers on the wheel and smiled inwardly.

To their right sat Bernard in the New Holland, the only manual tractor in the collection.  He was a proud man and never let his under-endowment in the arm department prevent him attempting tasks which normally required a full complement of limbs.  Even without his one good arm, strapped in a sling since the accident this morning with the cider press, he was sure he would be able to manage.  All afternoon he had been practising steering with one knee and changing gears with the other and he was sure he would get the hang of it soon, despite his earlier forays into the ditch.

At the head of the column, Pierre-Yves stared at the array of knobs and switches in the cab of the Renault.  He had never driven a tractor before, but he could not admit this to his troops.  In fact, he had never passed his driving test but had bought his licence from a former colleague in the prefecture who ran a Saturday market stall, where he dispensed "surplus stocks" from the office where he worked during the week.
Pierre-Yves twisted the key in its socket to start the engine, as he had seen Colette do when she drove them into town in their microcar.  Nothing happened. "How does one start this?" He looked at the big red button above his head, paused a moment then pressed it.  The motor burst into life with an ear-splitting roar. 

Slowly, the tractors pulled out into the crepuscular light of the courtyard.

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Pierre-Yves was having the time of his

life. Despite his earlier misgivings, driving the tractor had turned out to be

quite straightforward. He bowled along the narrow lane toward the village at a

crisp 25 km per hour. Behind him snaked a tanker wagon containing 10,000 litres

of liquid manure that had come from Bruno’s gigantic slurry pit.

 To the untrained eye, Bernard and Bruno’s farm looked

less like an agricultural enterprise and more like 180 hectare patch of

assorted weeds with a large shed on it. In fact, Bernard was the very epitome of the

modern farmer. Key to his business activity was the emptying of septic tanks in

the locality, a service he charged for at a very competitive €75 (or €250 for

les Rosbifs and Parisian second homers).

 The effluent he emptied into his slurry

pit. Here, by grace of form E4908/C/2 it was re-branded as cattle feed, and he

was able to offset the revenue from its collection against the “purchase” cost

of pellets for the 350 calf state-of-the-art veal fattening unit he had built

with extensive EU grants. Malheursement, there was very little demand for

crated veal as the bleeding heart brigade had somehow managed to label it

cruel. “Pah,” thought Bernard, “what did these idiot town dwellers know? It was

plain to all in the countryside that the calves liked their snug, comfy pens.

There was no bright light to hurt their sensitive eyes and the pellets were far

easier to chew than unhygienic grass grown in dirty old soil.” Still, he was

paid €100 for each calf he didn’t rear, the fattening shed was in the same

pristine condition as when it was built, never having had a single bovine

occupant.

 And, of course, these non-existent cows

produced a great deal of imaginary manure. Happily, he could find space for

this in the same slurry pit as the feed came from. The push for organic farming

meant that he could gain a further €300 per tonne of manure spread on his land,

and the huge surpluses of grain meant that be could benefit from an allowance

of €50 per hectare for not growing maize. Next season, he hoped, he would be

able to expand and begin the installation of an intensive rearing unit for

non-existent pigs. Ah, the farming life was always a hard one and one had to

diversify to survive in this competitive world.

 It had almost physically hurt Bernard to provide

Pierre-Yves with 70,000 litres of “brown gold,” but for France he

would make the sacrifice. Besides, he would probably be able to offset the loss

against tax. Seven of the tractors towed loads of the deeply aromatic liquid. He

himself towed the trailer carrying the pump capable of moving 1000 litres of

sludge per minute.

The convoy moved off into the night with as

much stealth as eight engines developing almost 10,000 hp between them could

muster.

 Their departure was not unobserved.

Although Bernard had never kept cattle in his shed, it did provide a home for the

five East Europeans that he had at no time employed, did not pay €1.50 per hour

for a sixty hour week and, indeed, of whom he had never heard. Bernard was a fair

man and he only charged them €50 not to sleep in the veal pens and provided

clean straw once a week.

 Of the five, three men watched the drunken

party with detached interest before heading back to bed, but two did not. Dawid

Czcibor and Stanislav Watascharcha stood with blazing eyes at the little

window. Although there had been eight men in the yard (plus one creature of indeterminate

gender) only one had held their attention. A man they remembered from a seedy

hotel in Le Havre. A man who had promised them €1000 apiece to dress up in tutus, tie

him naked to a bed, smear him liberally with swarfega and to insert a bunch of

radishes, one by one, into a place that no self respecting radish would

normally wish to be inserted. They had barely escaped when the police had

broken down the door and had run back to their ship looking like a couple of

refugees from Giselle.

Laughed out of their jobs, they had stayed

in France working where they could and hoping one day to run into the man who

had so humiliated them, and who still owed them a great deal of money.

Silently, they felt in their packs for touches, knives and scarves to cover

their faces. Then they mounted bicycles, slipped into the night and followed

the throbbing roar of the tractors.

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A lively crowd had gathered in the saloon of O'Casey's Irish Bar and Gîte, just as it did every night.  Laughter rang out as Jon the proprietor related the tale of his recent encounter with the over-weening fonctionnaire responsible for collecting Taxe de Séjour at the local Tresor Public.  "I seriously thought he was going to strangle me when I asked if there was a discount for cash!" Jon concluded, accompanied by knowing chuckles from those assembled. "God knows what he would do if he found out I didn't declare anyone who pays cash!"

"That be a roit guid tale, now 'av 'ee got a loit boy?"  said Carl the builder as he rolled another joint of Old Shag.

"Never mind that, when are we going to start this game of boules?  Helmut said he wanted a return match after last weekend's fiasco when the gendarmes had to break up the fight." said Samantha.  The others murmured their agreement.

"I'll have to change my outfit first, if we're playing boules", said Thelma.  "I need something that allows a bit more movement."  Carl leered over his pint of crème de menthe in Thelma's direction, noting how tightly her lurex catsuit hugged her shapely figure.  Once again, he thought what a lucky bloke Steve was.  A steady stream of saliva dripped from his lower lip onto the bar.

"Ja, Tommy", rasped Helmut.  Hauling himself up into his zimmer frame he waved his walking stick around the bar.  "Und zis time ve vill vin!  Helga, bringen mein balls!  Und ve are taken no prisoners!"  Helga had learned to keep quiet and not to ask questions - she hurried out to the car park to collect Helmut's boules from the back of the M-Wagen.  Helmut snapped his lederhosen braces in impatience.  "Gott und himmel, schnell, dumme frau!" he screamed.

"Sosterremo Helmut e Helga" crooned Giovanni from the inglenook where he was sitting with his Swedish 'niece' Agnetha.  "A' leas' poco tempo.  We see how eets going.  If no buon maybe we be with Tommy."  Thelma looked over in the direction of the fireplace; Giovanni winked at her.  Agnetha sighed and continued to twist her hair around her finger, bored.

"Well, I'm only coming along if you all keep to the proper rules this time", piped Geraldine. "And if there are any more arguments I'm confiscating the boules.  No more fighting, it gives the Frenchies the wrong idea about how civilised folk behave."

"Foin boi me" said Carl.  Mal and Rick murmured their agreement as they downed the dregs of their respective pints of Old Peculiar and Speckled Hen. 

"Oi, Jon, me ole cock sparrah.  No chance of a keg to take out, I s'pose?" enquired Mal. "Just to tide us over during the match?  We'll bring it back when it's empty.  And a jar of those jellied eels and pickled eggs?"

Suitably provisioned, the group of sportifs spilled from the bar onto the adjoining boule ground, conveniently lit by the bar's neon lights.  Above their heads, lasers pierced the darkness and spelt the name of O'Casey's Bar and Gîte on the walls of Mairie across the square.  Neatly pollarded lime trees surrounded the playing area and tobacco plants filled the air with their sweet scent.

As Helmut's first boule flew through the air and the window of the bar, the players and spectators heard a deep rumbling in the distance.  "Eek", said Rick, "I hope that's not thunder."

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Back at Chez Pompodore de Frou-Frou, Madame Colette de Frou-Frou loads the machine a laver la vaiselle.  She cannot think what Pierre-Yves could have gone off in such a hurry about!  It is not normale to be rushing off after le diner in such a fashion.

She looks around her cuisine Americaine.  It is SUCH a pretty little kitchen.  There is the cuisiniere electrique, the frigidaire and the l'evier en acier inox.  A vrai dire, she has tout le confort moderne and tous les gadgets modernes!  What more could une francaise want in life?

And yet, and yet......................

She recalls the encounter with Jon in the Intermarche only this morning.  She had been waiting at the fish counter to be served.  She does not normally go to the Intermarche.  She doesn't like the fact that it is called "Les Trois Mosquetaires"!  Why that Alexandre Dumas has gained such an international reputation writing about those ridiculous men, she cannot imagine.  Musketeers, what PURPOSE do they serve in contemporary French life?  Anyway, she has a jeton for the supermarket trolley and she might as well use it AND the carte de fidelite that she has been provided with.

Back to this morning...., she was waiting, as explained, at the fish counter, for the filet de saumon which was on "promotion" that morning.  Much as she would like to be like maman and be able to buy the best of everything, she knows that, inevitably, she has to watch the centimes and stoop to look at things like "promotions" and special offers.  For it is not easy to lead the life that she and Pierre-Yvres would like to be accustomed to on a tax collector's salary.

As she waits for Aurelie, the fish counter assistant, to greet her and ask what madame would like today, she turns to find herself greeted with an over-friendly "bonjour, ca va?" in a foreign tone.  She adjusts her focus and sees before her the bearded Jon, le rosbif of her acquaintance.

Of course, she has been unable to totally ignore les rosbifs that seem to more and more be crossing into her life at her south Vendeen village but, this Jon, this rosbif is like no other she has encountered before.  For one thing, he is so..... tall and is really un bel homme in his foreign way.  Now he bends down to plant a kiss on both her cheeks.  The impertinence!  Why, they are only on "vous" terms and his accent is execrable!

Colette blushes and manages, just, to return her "pas mal" in what she hopes passes for a polite but stand-off tone of voice.  However, she is not to be let off so lightly for now the rosbif is saying,"Voulez vous bien me dire 'tu' au lieu de 'vous'?" Half fainting with the unexpectedness of it all, Colette finds herself nodding in an uncertain way.

The rosbif is now inviting her to call him "Jon".  As he so succinctly puts it, "Je ne m'appelle pas Monsieur; je m'apelle Jon!"

Colette's heart misses a beat.  Not for many years has she had such attention from a man.  She appraises the rosbif.  She supposes that in his foreign way, he is QUITE attractive.  But, he has such unrefined manners and such a FAMILIAR way of  greeting her and talking to her.  It is definitely NOT the French way.

Colette starts from her reverie.  She looks at the clock in her kitchen.  The hands point to 11 o'clock.  It is now a good hour since Pierre-Yvres has left the house in such a hurry.  Where is he?

Little can poor Colette know that Piere-Yvres is at this very moment heading a convoy of assorted French peasantry across the French country side where owls are hooting their hearts out and foxes are watching with gleaming red eyes at the headlamps of the vehicles of Piere-Yvres and his army. 

The juggernaut with the "exceptionelle" cargo of nuclear waste and the impressive flank of traffic police outriders rumbles past in the starry-lit night of the French countryside.  Colette frowns a little.  She feels slightly uneasy; as though the world that she has always known and loved has tilted on its axis.      

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The convoy of agricultural equipment roared

into the square and juddered to a halt. “Dismount!” yelled Pierre-Yves, and

under the bemused gaze of the crowd playing boules about 100m away, the assorted

drunks, derelicts and semi-humans tumbled out.

 

What followed was for Pierre-Yves his

proudest moment so far. With barely a word of command, his troops began to work

swiftly and with a great sense of purpose. A hose was run from one of the

tanker trailers to the suction of the pump, a second hose from the discharge to

an irrigation water cannon adapted for the night’s business. Valves were

opened, flasks of strong liquor were passed from hand to hand. Yves was given

the task of aiming the weapon. Turning his head to the side, he sighted up the

barrel and picked the uppermost of the two bars in front of him.

 

Pierre-Yves noted that the group outside

the bar had lost interest and gone back inside. Happily, it was a warm evening

and all the windows were opened. The strains of “Waterloo” reached

him on the night air. Ordinarily the impudent ABBA song would have infuriated him, but

tonight it seemed strangely appropriate. He smiled to himself: Napoleon would have

his revenge this very night and with such appropriate ordinance. What a shame

he could not see their faces from here…

 

“Is all prepared?” “Yes, mon Genéral” came

the reply. “Well then….”

 

   

              

**********************************************************************************

 

On the other side of the row of buildings, Adjutant-Chef Jean-Louis Le Blanc regarded the aperitif glass he held in his

huge hand. The other three men were putting the finishing touches to the table

in front of him. Jean-Louis sighed contentedly. The detail often ate their

supper on this table in the tiny square outside the church. When the nights

were warm, anyway.

 

Jean-Louis was in the last few years of his

service in the gendarmerie nationale. For twenty years he had worked in the

tough portside streets outside of Le

Havre
, where the lily white

boys of the police nationale feared to tread. But two years ago, fate had

smiled on him. Called by the manager to a dreary hotel near the oil refinery,

he had broken down a door from behind which unnatural noises were issuing. What

he had found stretched even his belief in the true depths of human depravity.

Certainly it had put him off radishes for life.

 

However, the revelation that the man

trussed up like a chicken on the bed was the brother-in-law of a senior government

minister had done him no harm. He had stayed in Le Havre only one

day more before being packed off on a month long leave with his wife to
Reunion at the tax payer’s

expense. He had returned not to
Normandy but to the South Vendée, to one of the softest billets anywhere in France.

This was the reward for discretion.

 

All the other men in the detail were, like

him, over 45. And all, like him, were here because they could keep quiet when

the situation (and the interests of France!)

required. There was very little to be done around here. They could take the time

to enjoy a proper supper – charcuterie, Blanquette de veau with artichoke

hearts, four cheeses and his wife’s legendary tarte Tatin.  

After they had finished, they would go into

O’Casey’s for a digestive, and to gently remind the customers that they had

beds to go to. Jean-Louis liked the British. They gave him really very little

trouble to speak of. Even the brawl last week had been a storm in a teacup, and

they had been very polite to the gendarmes who had arrived to stop it, and had

bought them drinks to say thank you. In addition, because Jean-Louis secretly

spoke good English, a little judicious eavesdropping could give him a great

deal of information about who was working on the black and where. Then he could

avoid the areas where he might be called upon to actually do something.

 

Lost in his reverie, he had not heard the

tractors arrive in the larger square on the other side of the buildings in

front of him. However, as Gaston drew the cork from a bottle of a rather good côtes

du Rhone they had picked up earlier in the evening, he thought he heard the

distant sound of an engine being started….

 

   

              

********************************************************************************

With Bruno’s mighty tug on the starter, the

pump started on the first try and a high pressure jet of raw sewage hurtled

from the nozzle. Due to Yves uncertain aiming, the crescent of noxious liquid

rose over O’Casey’s and cascaded down into the church square behind….

 

 

 

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Jean-Louis raised his glass and proposed a toast "My fellow officers, I bid you raise your glasses to la Belle France and the clean, wholesome air of the Vendée!" 

"A la Belle  .... Merde!" cried the group, as a torrent of brown-green

liquid cascaded over their table, in no small way resembling the

steaming andouillette, pea and calfs-brain soup in the tureen before

them.  Gasping for breath, they staggered from the table, their eyes streaming and smart blue uniforms unrecognisable beneath their newly applied coat of putrid effluent.  "To the van, men" choked Jean-Louis, "We are under attack!  Arm yourselves!"  The
armoured CRS van stood across the square, loaded with standard issue teargas and truncheons, shields, body armour and gas masks.  Since the riots of November 2005 the van had been additionally equipped with two 15mm sub machine guns, mounted in turrets above the cab.

Slithering on the greasy tarmac, the men wrenched open the doors of the van.

***********************************************************************

At this

moment Dawid

and Stanislav skidded into the main square on their bicycles, legs pumping furiously.  They

arrived just in time to see a small, dark haired fellow with a wild

look in his eyes as he was lifted off the ground and swung in an arc

across O'Casey's Bar, looking for all the world like a goggle-eyed mouse hanging

on to a monstrous, bilious serpent.  They watched in amazement as
six others in turn grabbed onto the body of the snake as it swished to and fro, spewing forth its stinking venom, and were each raised aloft as if weightless.  Had it not been for the bulk of Gabriel in the cab of the tractor, from which he had been unable to extricate himself, there was no doubt that the tanker and tractor itself would have been tossed into the night sky like toys as the full power of the 1200hp motor pumped the foetid fluid through the pipeline.

"Now is our chance, Stanislav," cried Dawid, "the radish devil is alone!  We will have our revenge and no more will the ghost of the armadillo haunt our dreams!" 

Tossing their bicycles to the ground, the Polish pair took the spearguns from the holders on their backs and slowly advanced towards the tanker where Pierre-Yves stood, staring open-mouthed into the sky from which rang the screams of his brave men. 

"No fishing for carp tonight!"  thought Stanislav "We have bigger fish to roast!"  Raising their spearguns towards the hated object of their fevered nightmares, the two men took careful aim.

******************************************************************

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"Right, nobody moves!" Jean-Louis's voice booms across the square with the aid of a megaphone.  Well, don't expect me to know why he speaks like a cop in a cheap American TV movie.  Maybe he says, "Messieurs Dames, ne bouchez pas, s'il vous plait!" The only policemen I have ever come across on both sides of the channel have always been at their most menacing when they have smiled and addressed me as "madam".

The punters in the square stop in mid action.  Dawid and Stanislav lower their spearguns.  They look at each other with fear in their eyes.  What with the hard times they have had doing all sorts of unmentionable things merely to keep body and soul together, this for them is the worst case scenario.  Since they left their native Poland 18 months ago, life has not been easy.  But then, when WAS life easy for a Pole?  With the zloty worth little more than a quarter of a euro, it's hard graft just to get enough to eat, without having to worry about being illegal immigrants caught in this nightmare situation.

Pierre-Yvres and his army also freeze.  To be honest, they now feel a little foolish and the peasants are beginning to wonder why they have so rashly left their warm homes to follow the madman tax collector.

The only motion in the square is the slurry pump which continues to peristaltically eject its liquid contents accompanied by the whine of its pump.

The police phalanx look the part.  With riot gear hastily donned in the van, their full-body protecting shields held in strategic position and truncheons lifted aloft, they look the very picture of ruthless determination.  The spectators in the square cannot know that behind all the gear, this lot truly have no idea!  To Jean-Louis and his men, this is like a pantomime, mere play-acting.  After all when have they ever had to put on all this stuff since their time taking part in police school drills?

How this frozen tableau would have dispersed is anybody's guess because even as Jean-Louis is racking his brain to see how he can next profitably conduct himself, a scream of animal intensity cuts into the silence of the onlookers.  It comes from Marie-Therese.  "My baby, my baby, it's on its way.  Somebody call an ambulance!"

 

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Shaken out his stunned state by Marie Thérèse's cries, Jean - Louis became decisive, a model of millitary effeciency.

"You!" he shouted to one of the the men on the machine guns "Shoot that bloody pump"

A quick burst from the heavy calibre weapon silenced the roaring engine

in an instant - Bernard was so shocked that he could barely whimper

over the loss of one of his prides and joy.

"You lot" Jean - Louis pointed at the plotters "Move one centimetre and

I will tear you a second a rs e hole - clear?" They nodded. The

Adjutant-Chef was definately looming over them in a way that didn't

invite disobidence.

Jean - Louis turned to Jon "Call the doctor and then bring me a lot of

towels and hot water!" "Oui, Chef" barked Jon "for the baby?" "No. For

me. I smell like a fosse septique. Could you bring a spot of shower gel

too?" He glanced over at Marie Thérèse "On second thoughts, better call

the vet too...."

On the other side of the square, Pierre-Yves stared at the scene before

him with an air of crushed disbelief. His eyes fell on the wrecked pump

- John Derre. He might have known - Anglo Saxon junk. He was starting

to buckle at the knees when he felt a sharp point in his ribs. "Cou-Cou

Monseiur the Radish....remember us?" Pierre-Yves felt ice cubes of

terror slide down his spine. The accent was one he remembered very well

indeed.

"Now then, while everyone is occupied with the Creature from the Black

Lagoon, you are going to step slowly backwards into shadows and we are

going for a little chat....."

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Cassis

why don't YOU write about the 6 frenchmen?  Look, you can only deal with ASPECTS of the story at any one instalment, you know.

And anyway, how do you know there isn't anything in the pipeline (sorry about the pun) about the frenchmen?  Just watch this space, kiddo!

regards

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