Petrol head.    Or, 'How the English can turn rudeness into an artform'.

Sufficient time has lapsed and the culprit in my story has already departed these shores. Having quickly realised the error of his ways and abandoned dreams of relocation here. I thus feel safe in recounting this lititle tale. Names changed so as to protect the guilty (he will know who he is if reading it though; I hope so!).

There is something odd about the English. And I do mean ‘English’ in particular and not their cousins and near neighbours from Scotland or Wales. My native French friends would sometimes politely and gently point it out to me and at first I didn’t believe them, thinking instead it was just some sort of language barrier. After a couple of decades living here though I now fully understand what they mean. The English must ‘point score’ in almost every conversation.

I was standing on the lawn in the sunshine with a small group of friends from our village when another ex-pat sidled over. I hadn’t previously met him but our French host quickly and politely introduced him as a recent newcomer to our happy lititle community.

“Yes, I’m Robert.” confirmed the man after formalities “My wife is over there by the nibbles table. She's Joan.”

It seemed like a good start, I said welcome and to be friendly asked him where he came from in England.

His reply had me wondering whether he had failed to connect some invisible hearing aid to its power source.

“Is that your old Jag in the drive? I wouldn't touch one of those with a barge pole. You’ve got to be mad.”

Followed by a sort of snort that could have him auditioning for a role in the next Jeeves and Wooster series if ever they decide upon a remake.

I was a lititle taken aback so stuttered “Er, well no. Er not really actually, it’s been very goo....” He cut me short.

He continued “My (I won’t mention its marque here because I wouldn’t wish to offend or alarm any reader who made a similar mistake!) is great. Do you know, I can change the alternator in under fifteen minutes and they only cost a hundred Quid?”

“No, I didn’t know that.” I replied. Trying to appear interested.

“Yes.” He continued. “Steering rack. Two hundred Quid and under two hours. Out with the old and in with the new. Shockers, even quicker.”

“Really.” I replied. By this time I actually was becoming genuinely interested.

“Yup, starter motor. Same as the alternator. Fifteen minute job. That’s all.” He went on.

In fact he went on and on and on and on. By the time he had listed just about every component under the bonnet or that had recently fallen off the body shell of his beloved motor car a small crowd had gathered. Fascinated by his ever more wild gesticulations as he ripped out timing belts, relocated top dead centre and changed distributors. Finally, in front of his enthralled audience he turned back to me and said “That old Jag of yours, I bet parts for that cost a fortune don’t they?”

I replied. “I wouldn’t know. We’ve only had it twenty years so other than disc pads and tyres I haven’t had to buy any yet.”

I wish I had the forethought or frankly, even remembered that my mobile is capable of recording sound. I could have played back and enjoyed the applause over and over again.

Robert and Joan never spoke to me again after this episode. So that was a bonus.

Mistral's commitment:
Bringing benefits of computerisation to our RAC industry - without the commonly associated problems.

Close and return to previous page