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

[The Riff-Raff Element]

Pierre-Yves le Pompodore de Frou-Frou clicked his tongue with barely

suppressed fury. His family connections had led to the hushing-up of the

unfortunate incident with the two Polish sailors, the tub of swarfega and the

armadillo, but it had meant the end of his high-flying career in the

“Interesting Ideas for Thwarting Naughty Non-French Types” department of the

Foreign Ministry. Worse he had been banished from Paris (city of one

thousand dark & discrete alleyways) to this God forsaken hole in the South Vendée, reduced to the

rank of a humble tax collector.

 And now, the nadir of his humiliation: dealing

with an impertinent, scruffy Englishman over the trifling matter of €60.

 He flared his elegant nostrils, those

sultry tunnels lined with the silkiest of hairs that had made so many women

swoon and so many mean seethe with envy.

 “M’sieur” he barked in his stentorian

tones, honed at great public expense to the keenest of edges at l’Ecole

Nationale d’Administration, “M’sieur, it is a very simple matter! You are the

proprietor” – he almost choked on the word! - That this Englishman with his

dreadful haircut and moth-eaten jumper could ever have been allowed to run any

kind of business in France was insupportable – “of an accommodation enterprise. As such you receive

paying guests and, ergo, are liable for taxe de sejour based on the number of

nights for which you had these guests”

 His tormentor smiled. “Yes, yes. I

understand,” said the Englishman, brandishing a small wad of grubby €5 notes.

Pierre-Yves squirmed in his immaculately tailored trousers (a stark contrast,

he noted to the somewhat soiled jeans sat in front of him). Cash! Would the

vulgarity never end!

 “But what I don’t quite understand,” the

English continued, “is why you are bothering to collect this tax in the first

place. Let’s imagine that there are 100 enterprises letting accommodation in

the Pays de Fontenay le Comte, OK? Right, assuming that our setup is paying the

average amount, then the total revenue from this exercise is €6000. Now this office,

that is solely concerned with the administration and collection of this tax,

employs your good self and two other people. I find it very hard to believe

that once the overheads of this are covered there can be much left over for the

promotion of tourism in this fine region!”

 Pierre-Yves wanted to scream at this lack

of deference to social betters. Ever since the carte de sejour  had been discontinued – a move he had advised

against – the borders of France had been laid wide open to riff-raff such as this. Somewhat dusky

riff-raff, he noted further. In the old days they could have been stopped, but

now... Even the rat-infested hellhole that passed for a school where this idiot

in front of him had received his laughable education, someone must have

explained that administration was an end in itself, not the means to achieve

some other aim.

 He ground his teeth, splintering the

expensive ceramic crowns into priceless dust, as he considered a response, his

ENA training eventually overcoming his distaste.

 “M’sieur is quite correct: in the short

term the taxe de sejour will not in itself cover the expense of promoting

tourism in the South Vendée. However, the introduction of this tax in this region is only one

contributory item to the overall scheme. M’sieur should rest assured that our

objective remains to secure considerable return on this early investment.

 This seemed to satisfy the Anglo-Saxon

Moron as he grinned broadly. “Oh well, in that case Pete me old fruit, here’s

the cash!” and he started to count out the stained currency. “Ooopps – that

one’s got a bogey on it – kids, eh? Still, I’m sure it counts anyway!”

 Pierre-Yves buried his immaculate head in

his manicured hands. Would this horror never end?

[Cerise]

But worse was to come for poor Pierre-Yves.  On returning that evening to his immaculate little pavilion he was greeted coldly by Mme le Pompodore de Frou-Frou (who incidentally had NOT forgototten or forgiven the incident with the armadillo) with the unforgettable words 'I was not aware you had an English boyfriend Pierre-Yves!'  

Protesting that he hated the English and the sailors were a mistake anyway, he waited to see what else Madame had to say.  "We have been invited for drinks by some ....people" she shuddered, recalling the person -she really could not say a lady - who had marched up the drive and said that her husband knew 'Pete' having met him that day at the tax office, thought him a great bloke and wanted to know if they wanted to come over for a lager when the kids were in bed.  Colette le Pompodore de Frou-Frou had studied English at the Sorbonne -she did not remember having learnt the word 'bloke' and really thought it too bad that this vulgar anglaise wanted her to wait until the goats had been stabled before the aperitifs.  However, Maman had taught her to be kind to social inferiors and she had felt that she had to accept - but nevertheless she longed to be way from this place where more and more of the local houses were being turned into gites and other kinds of accommodation and where garish packets of Birds Custard and Heinz Beans now laid casually alongside the dusty tins of cassoulet at the local superette.

"Cherie, you cannot possibly have accepted" exclaimed Pierre-Yves "The man was a complete barbarian and he demanded to know the reason for the Taxe de Séjour - we cannot possibly mix with people like that..  On learning that not only had she accepted for Friday evening but furthermore the invitation had included 'a spot of supper', he rushed to telephone the doctor to make an appointment for Saturday morning.  Everyone knew that it was tantamount to suicide to eat ANYTHING prepared by an Anglo Saxon - anything was possible, even the dreaded jelly - how had he, whose prospects had seemed to bright come to this?

[The Riff-Raff Element]

Right - I'll be back

[Cassis]

Pierre-Yves sat alone that evening by the fireplace in his sejour-cuisine with American kitchen, his faithful bichon frisé curled upon his toes, a large whisky clutched between his manicured hands.  As he looked into the warm, comforting pool of alcohol, a sudden realisation came to him.  Whisky - Scottish - made in England!  With a cry of horror he hurled the glass into the fireplace, where it shattered into a thousand pieces, like his own shattered dream of making France a place where true Frenchmen could live without fear of hearing the guttural utterings of foreign tongues.  As the whisky burst into flames on the electric element, his whole body shook with rage and impotent fury.  How was he to combat this continuing tide of barbarity that was slowly but steadily drowning the very fabric of la Republique?  Who would take a lead, who would be the new Napoleon? 

Pierre Yves rose to his feet.  He now knew what he must do.  Shaking the dog from his foot, he wiped his eyes on his silken pocket kerchief, slowly rose and walked to the window where he gazed across the Place de Basingstoke.  The sound of music drifted across to him on the breeze from the Irish Pub on the far side of the square, where Le Bar de la Libération had until recently stood..

[suein56]

Gosh, this is superb, I am loving it; what a hoot.

Next instalment please.

Sue [:D][:D]

[mint]

The new Napoleon?  "Mais oui, c'est moi!" Pierre-Yves tells himself.  As he does so, he draws himself to his full height; a tad under 5ft 6 inches (metre conversion for yourself, please)

Pierre-Yves does not deign to hurry (the French think it beneath them to do anything so infra dig as hurry) but, shall we say, he hastens from the room.  Reaching the elaborate, carved staircase in solid oak of chez Pompodore de Frou Frou, he ascends with mounting excitement in his heart.

He throws open the door of the bedroom.  There on the matrimonial bed, Mme Pompodore de Frou Frou looks up at her husband.  She notices the gleam in his eye, the flush on his handsome cheeks, the barely-suppressed emotion evident in every inch of his body.

Madame clutches the bed linen, the finest bedsheets just back from the blanchisserie that very morning, to her bosom.  She half shuts her eyes, "Mon Dieu!" she murmurs.

A smile of infinite pleasure spreads across the face of Pierre-Yves aka Napoleon.  "My dear," he says with a mixture of faintly perceptible condescension and affection,  "When we are alone, a deux, you may call me 'Mon General'....."

"Ecoute, s'il te plait!  Apropos les anglais,  I have thought of a devious plan!"  Sorry, I don't know the French equivalent of "devious plan".

At this last remark, Madame's eyes, which had been half-shut as you recall, fly open.  "Un PLAN!".  She has read about how les Anglo Saxons are all emasculated or retentive (in the Freudian sense) and are terrible lovers to a man. But, up to now, she has no idea that they need a MAP in the bedroom.  Madame begins to tremble a little; a frisson of je ne sais quoi is seeping down her spine.

Pierre-Yves bends his mouth (that mouth with the luscious lips comme Mick Jagger's) nearer to Madame's shell-like ear.  "Let me tell you my plan," he whispers.............

"Woof! Woof!" come the ear-shattering cries of the bichon.  Ah zut, zut et zut.....................!   

 

[The Riff-Raff Element]

Pierre-Yves sat on the antique oak chair

that he kept in the cellar for thinking through his more difficult problems. He

ran his hands loving over the ancient, polished wood – good, French oak! – and pensively

chewed his bottom lip.

 Tonight, the English would pay what they

called the “return leg” of the visit. They would sully his home with their ugly

shoes and inappropriate trousers. How he hated the savages. And were this not

enough, his wife, his own dear Colette had invited them.

 The previous evening had started as well as

he could have expected. He and Colette had arrived properly late in keeping

with the need to snub these dreadful people but to his horror they had been

welcomed as though they were old friends.

 Pierre-Yves and Colette had decided that

the only way this awful evening could be borne was by maintaining a veneer of

icy formality. They had accepted drinks with only the most grudging courtesy,

but at every turn the Anglo Saxons had been wreathed in smiles. Where these

people so ignorant of basic etiquette that they did not realise how roundly

they were being insulted?

 But then, oh unhappiness, his wife and the

ghastly English woman had discovered that they had more than just the human

race in common. Both had played hockey for many years. Colette had changed on

the toss of a coin and had started drinking gin and tonic like a woman possessed.

While Pierre-Yves had guarded his sole drink, the liquid becoming every warmer

in his hand as the fires of rage rose within him, she had downed glass after

glass.

 The end came when she started singing.

Pierre-Yves could speak only a little English – it was, he had always

maintained, a language fit only for barbarians – but he could understand enough

to know that it was a song about a dwarf who possessed a particularly long and girthsome

tallywhacker. But what was a tallywhacker and why did the little man need to

whack it so often? He sat with an idiot smile frozen to his face as those

around him fell helpless with mirth.

 And then the final ignominy: Colette had

asked them to dine with them the very next evening. His wife called down to him

– “Darling, could you bring three bottles of the Château Margaux ’61? Jon said that he does like

a nice drop of red. Oh and a bottle of the d’Yquem ’55?” Here in the cellar,

Pierre-Yves felt a curious calm. “Oh yes” he said to himself “come tonight

Drink of our wine and eat of our food, for shortly things will be changing for

all you ‘Rosbifs’ here in the Vendée”

 But first, a General needs an army, and

that would be tomorrow’s work.

[Cassis]

Bernard Gruël and his son Bruno sat at the counter of the dusty, down-at-heel bar of the Boule d'Or.

A Gauloise fog filled the air.  The smell of good, honest sweat hung

heavy.  Bernard, a retired farmer with a chest the size of a barrel and

hair sprouting over the top of his tightly stretched checked shirt,

cast a rheumy eye around the gathered company.  They numbered seven. 

Bernard himself , Bruno his son and heir, Yves the postman,

Gabriel the butcher, Stéphane and Joël the workmen from the atelier

municipale.  None spoke, other than to order another rouge at

occasional intervals from Christophe, the portly bar owner.  A single

light bulb illuminated the scene.

An air of deepening gloom had gradually settled over the Boule d'Or in recent weeks.  Not so long ago, pondered

Bernard, the Boule d'Or and the Bar de la Libération had been the

twin centres of life in the village.  But thirty years ago Jean-Yves,

the owner of the Libéro (as it had affectionately been known) had died,

slumped over the kitchen table where he had been unwrapping an

over-ripe camembert; the premises had then been temporarily closed

while four score and ten-eight of Jean-Yves' relatives argued over how to

dispose of their inheritance. 

When four-score and ten-seven of the inheritors had passed on, the bar had

been sold by the remaining relative to an Englishman, by all accounts from that

obscure part of England known as Ireland.  Shortly afterwards

scaffolding had shrouded the Libéro, workers from Poland and Turkey had

descended upon the village and the Libéro had been reopened as

O'Casey's Irish Pub.  Everyone in the village had agreed that this was

an abomination, an insult beyond bearing, that a foreigner should rip

the heart out of the community in this way.  Nevertheless, slowly, inexorably, the

younger customers had drifted from the Boule d'Or to O'Casey's Irish

Bar where they were exposed to Lord knew what depravities - drugs,

transvestism, foreign beer, Marlène Farmer videos.  Not an accordion in sight.

A spark had been lit with the opening of that English bar, thought

Bernard.  All that the village was waiting for was a man with the

vision, the intellect, to fan the flames of rebellion.  Where would

they find such a man?  At that moment the bar door creaked in protest

and seven pairs of eyes turned in unison.

[mint]

Meanwhile, back at chez Pompodore de Frou Frou, Pierre Yves is tossing and turning on the oak carved bed with the tapestried headboard.  His very soul is seething with indignation.

Le diner this evening has been nothing less than a catastrophe (he pronounces it the French way, naturellement).  What is to become of him and, more to the point, what is to happen to his dear Colette?

Now that she is changing before his very eyes, she is dearer to him than she has ever been.  What if she becomes, perish the thought, like Madame Bovary?  What if she runs off with le rosbif, Jon?  The shame, the ignominy; it is not to be bourne.

He looks across at his petite chou and cannot help but notice that, after the gin and tonics (or is it gins and tonic?), Collete is snoring rhythmically (but still daintily) and musically to the beat of the Marsellaise.

Alors, this is intolerable.  Sleep eludes him.  He tosses and turns.  He groans aloud.  He pushes a corner of the traversin AND the oreiller into his mouth to stifle his audible sounds of despair.

But in his heart, Pierre Yves' resolve hardens.  Tomorrow, demain, he will ACT.

He shifts the weight of the bichon off his feet.  At last, Pierre Yves, with the air of a man who has made up his mind, finally falls asleep. 

 

[Gardian]

And ..................... what happened next?

[The Riff-Raff Element]

It's being drafted. There's a couple of problems with the casting and subplots, but I'll have them sorted after lunch.

EDIT: there was a serious point being the OP, but what the hell.

[Quillan]

This has nothing to do with B&B's and has gone way off subject so the whole thread has been moved to the lounge.

Please keep your posts to within the subject of the forum section.

For idle chat you have been supplied with The Lounge so please keep it there and do not take threads off subject, I refer to the Code of Conduct

"Please keep to the topic of the original thread and do not start more than one thread about the same topic in different sections. This will help users to locate the information that they are looking for and will save space on the servers."

and

"Impedes or disrupts the flow of the discussions in the Forum"

Our forum shares servers and disk space with the rest of the Achant forums and it is by far the biggest in space useage. We reallt need to keep the 'chatter' in one place, the place you were given, The Lounge.

Thank You

[Cerise]

Mea culpa - I started the silliness and to be honest I didn't notice what forum it was in - rarely do.  Apologies to all those who may or may not be offended - I will go away and write lines 'I must not be silly'.

Jon - actually took your serious point and alluded to it.  We MUST NOT question the point of completely pointless taxes even if they may have another agenda.

Quillan - why not move it to a silly spot and then Jon can start up his serious enquiy again if he wants.

Yours - terminally sensible from here on in

Maggi

[Will]

I know Quillan is correct, within the forum rules, but why do I feel annoyed about being moved? How does moving it save server space? As I would not have made this post otherwise, surely the opposite applies. [;-)]

I was enjoying resting on Pierre's feet. Being moved has woken me up and I need to go outside now.

[Cassis]

Pierre-Yves heard a scratching at the front door of Chez Pantouflard.  Rising warily, he edged towards the doorway of the séjour-cuisine and peeped around the corner.  Guillaume looked up at him and whined plaintively.  Pierre-Yves opened the door and let the bichon into the garden where he relieved himself copiously against the base of the plastic windmill that took pride of place in the centre of the lawn.

[The Riff-Raff Element]

Well, that's me thoroughly told. I shall cease this silliness with immediate effect.

[Cassis]

Aw, don't do that, Jon.  I love your writing.  Pop back when you've worked out where to go with this!

[Cerise]

Please Jon let us know if there is a meaning to the Taxe de Séjour  - whether Pierre-Yves finds something even stranger than an armadillo, whether Colette starts a sub branch of AA for Anglo-French hockey players, what happened to the plotters in the bar, will there be another revolution, why do funny threads take up more of cyberspace than fosse septics and taxe foncière - all this and more I need to know.

Pleeeeese - I finished my 100 lines about being silly

Maggi

[The Riff-Raff Element]

I am convinced! Silly behaviour should always triumph over serious (and

not well worded, if I might make so bold) officialdom. I would have

been lessed vexed simply to have been told that this gibberish had been

moved to its proper station rather than having the regs quoted at me,

but then I am a sensitive little flower. I've got some bread to make (I

do get bored with baguettes), and I'll type something.

[Quillan]

[quote user="Will "]

I know Quillan is correct, within the forum rules, but why do I feel annoyed about being moved? How does moving it save server space? As I would not have made this post otherwise, surely the opposite applies. [;-)]

I was enjoying resting on Pierre's feet. Being moved has woken me up and I need to go outside now.

[/quote]

Sad as we are we have been keeping an eye and a log of the threads that have been going off topic and becoming just stupid and there are an lot of them. We have also had complaints by forum members for a while now.

Some time back there was a debate on the forum about a general area where people can keep in contact and post about anything that was not covered within the nominated sections of the forum. Taking on board what the users wanted the Lounge was created on the undertsanding that this sort of thing would now take place only in the lounge. It is clear that some people have a problem with this or have forgotten.

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.

[Dave]

If space is needed then dump the thread 'Word Game' this thread is much mure fun and so far well written...allez Jon![:D]

best regards

Dave

[Chris Head]

Jon wrote>>Silly behaviour should always triumph over serious (and not well worded, if I might make so bold) officialdom. I would have been lessed vexed simply to have been told that this gibberish had been moved to its proper station rather than having the regs quoted at me,<<

Jon, you hang on to that mentality and never let it go, the moment you do you're on the slippery slope to premature maturity. There are many who take life and very teeny weeny little issues way, way too seriously and also folk who aren't too sure how to communicate (as I see it) 'properly' with their peers. Don't take it personally and come boucing back mate....you're all a hoot!

[Tresco]

Yes, fair enough to move the thread once others followed Jons lead, but please continue.

I was loving it too.[:)]

[mint]

cassis, i dare not add anything else after the severe reprimand.  moreover, i am only new to the forum and i know next to nothing about the taxe de sejour.

i have been put in my place and i am worried about being given the "order of the boot" and i wouldn't want pierre yves to be the recipient of same

so........... sorry, admin

[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.