Reply With QuoteThe Frogs love a gong, though, don't they? Everyone who's ever cleared the roads of snow in a commune has some ribbon or other. It's a pretty devalued currency.
the end to offer his tie to bind up Tommy Terrorist has now remembered that, actually, he piled right in there with the septics after all.
Mind you, you've got to admire the speed with which the frogs can dole out medals; Arras had them decorated literally within minutes, and the paperwork required to issue the UK equivalent of a Legion d'Honneur under such circumstances would undoubtedly take decades.
The Frogs love a gong, though, don't they? Everyone who's ever cleared the roads of snow in a commune has some ribbon or other. It's a pretty devalued currency.
...bit who?
not the terrorist but the British bloke that ''piled in''...
I had a particularly fine omelette in the square once. The rather snooty waiter developed a gleam in his eye when I ordered my omelette au jambon et fromage baveuse, and undoubtedly reported to chef that a sale anglais out front needed the **** scared out of him, for what was presented was less an omelette than vaguely warmed eggs.
Perfect.
Surely part of the job description
Victor, maitre d' at l'Artemise on the Chemin des Boeufs in Uzes, is a 6' 3" rugby-playing mountain of gorgeousness whose wife, Peggy, harbours a long-standing ambition to drill him in the arse with un gode-ceinture. Victor, sadly, has a weakness for the local vin ordinaire and often passes out at the end of a long evening of revelling. A-feared that she will one day take advantage of his temporary incapacity, Victor carries the haunted air of a man who really ought to choose between the bottle and an intact ringpiece.
Hmm...
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