Une bière, s'il vous plaît.

I thought I’d share a few things that have come to my attention, regarding the way the perceptions the French have of the British. I was going to compile a list of the feedback I got and talk about each point but I feel one particular topic deserves a whole blog entry of its own. I promise to share the other observations in another blog. 

But, obviously the topic of this entry is alcohol. Yes, drink, booze, liquor, grog, juice, grandad’s old cough medicine – call it what you like, but it seems to be the number one thing that comes to mind when asking a French person for some English stereotypes. It is summed up quite nicely by this comment I received from a lovely French lady, “I don't have that much to say about [English] boys. The only thing that comes to my mind is that they like to get pissed drunk. Like if they don't puke, it's not a good night“.  Isn’t that wonderful? The one thing that sticks out is our fondness for a pint or two. The girls are thought of no differently. Without wishing to get too serious, the consequences of our relationship with the bottle can have quite a sobering effect (pun intended – I am a gimp) and I wonder if I, and indeed my nation, should try to address our drinking behaviours. It has certainly been an eye opener living, or more specifically, drinking with the French; to say that our attitudes to alcohol are different is an understatement. Whilst they appreciate and carefully select a fine wine to complement whatever fine food they happen to be eating of an evening, we are happy to drink whatever is on offer at Tesco’s and call it a liquid dinner.

Example 1) My first ever “pre-lash” session in Paris (of course the French don’t call it pre-lash). Three (English) friends and I were simply invited to have a drink at somebody’s flat before we ‘hit da club’. As we arrived at a chic apartment in a posh area of Paris, the hosts were so surprised at our extravagant generosity and told us we needn’t have brought so much wine. Little they did they know that the bottle of wine in each of our hands was not for the other party-goers to share – no, no, no. They were to ‘get us started’ and properly warmed up before we tackled the crates of beer we had. Looks of both confusion and horror started appearing on people’s faces as they slowly realised this fact. I recall the gasps of exasperation when, due to a lack of wine glasses, we filled pint glasses with the wine and hastily started glugging it. The worst part is, we took wine because we thought that would make us look a little more sophisticated. That was us making an effort! It’s a good bloody job we didn’t opt for the usual cheapest bottle of vodka and cheap cola as mixers. I wondered if the French have ever heard of the Strawpedo - they hadn't. I felt so ashamed of our irresponsibility and lack of class... at least until the booze started doing the job.

Example 2) I was also in France for the world cup final. I went to a friend’s flat and brought a few tinnies with me – you need a beer to watch the football, I’m sure that’s a strict rule written somewhere. Anyway, I was planning on having what I thought to be a social drink. By the end of the game, I had drank about 7 or 8 of the stubby little cans of Kronenbourg (funny how you never remember the exact number eh?). I’ve done the math, and that made it only a shade over four and a half pints. To me that is almost the dictionary definition of a social drink. But to the French, that is what is called binge drinking. After the game, as I was getting my coat and getting ready to leave my girlfriend took me aside and asked quietly, “Are you ok? A lot of people noticed you were drinking quite a lot tonight”. I was horrified to think of them watching me and commenting as I went to and from the fridge that night - I felt dirty and ashamed. Did they think I had a problem? Did they think less of me? I would hate for them to see the English idea of drinking quite a lot, that’s for sure. 

Example 3) Having missed the premiership’s opening weekend as I was in Belgium (where I drank lots of beer and bought two cool beer glasses by the way), last night I chose to decline an invite to dinner and went to a French bar alone to watch the United game. It was an Australian bar so I felt quite happy to sink the 7 pints of Fosters while I was there. I should point out that I got there an hour early (the time difference still catches me out!) and didn’t drink them all in 90mins. However the people around me were mostly French, and as such I realised that 7 pints is still rather excessive - even if spread over the course of the evening. As happy hour came to an end mid way through my session, and I ordered myself two pints at once, the girl who was sitting next to me at the bar moved away. I’m sure she did so for a genuine reason, but I couldn’t help but think that maybe I was being perceived as one of those people in a pub you should just avoid. You know the type of mad old codger that you steer clear of for fear of being drawn in to a conversation or shouted at - every bar seems to have one. After all, I was sat at a bar alone, getting pissed and, because of my reactions to the football, appeared to be talking to myself. All the classic hallmarks of a mad old codger. Have I become one of those blokes? One of the losers that you see in films; drinking alone at a bar, and shouting at the telly? I probably would have considered that a bit more if I wasn't too busy getting pissed by myself. But why did I feel the need? There was no peer pressure. No atmosphere in the bar. In fact, there was nothing at all that would have been conducive to a little bender. In hindsight, it all seems a bit sad. 

The picture to the right was taken at the urinal in the toilets before I left. There are a series of pictures of women staring down at you that I think are supposed to have a look on their face that shows how impressed they are by your knob – call it Australian humour I don;t know. But I couldn’t help but notice the one that was in front of me was laughing at mine - is it just me? Was it the world’s way of telling me I’m a loser? A clever metaphorical representation thrown up to show me that my behaviour was sad and desperate and that the French thought it pathetic? Or maybe she was just laughing at my little knob. I’ll never know.

I think I have learnt something though. Being in France has allowed me evaluate my own drinking behaviour, and therefore the behaviour of my countrymen. It appears we Brits seem to rely on the social crutch of getting tanked up so that we can properly cut loose and enjoy ourselves – in fact, more often than not, the sole aim of the night is to get blottoed. This particular clip shows what we have all been like at some time in our lives. Doesn’t look too good does it? (If you can’t be arsed to watch the whole clip, my particular highlight is around 5 minutes in. But before you think this man is a charming drunk, skip to 7:25 and hear what he has to say - unbelievable). Obviuously we don’t get like that all the time (not all of us anyway), but recently I have been wondering if our whole attitude towards alcohol, and are behaviour whilst under the influence is really the best way to go about things. Besides, it’s too bloody expensive to keep that up in Paris – binge drinking here would require re-mortgaging a house. For your information, a 330 ml bottle of Heineken will set you back around €8, which is at the time of writing is roughly £6.60. Disgusting.

As it turns out though, the French do love a drink, and more often than not, they’re as drunk as the next man by the end of an evening. It’s just their approach to drinking is so different; the alcohol isn’t the focus of a night, and they can enjoy themselves just as much without it. I remember being in a bar in Soho back when I lived in London. I had just met some French people and it was early in the night; i.e. the music was blaring but nobody dared grace the dancefloor as they weren’t nearly drunk enough. However, when a song came on that the French lot seemed to like, they all started salsa dancing and singing in the middle of the floor. They had yet to touch a drop but were still going for it. I can’t remember ever seeing a [sane] British person do the same. They singlehandedly created and maintained the atmosphere in that place and they didn’t need booze to do it. I thought it was great and genuinely inspiring. That is until I caught my reflection in the mirror - I died a little inside when I saw I was one of the many English people in there standing rigidly and awkwardly on the sidelines, unable to relax whilst sober. What is our problem?  Why do we fear doing such things in a sober state? It's something I vow to change, and I think being around the French will certainly help that - they think we're all weird anyway. Me cutting my best shapes on the floor can't damage a credibility that doesn't exist.

The French do things a bit differently to the British. Rather than drinking their night’s worth of booze in the first two hours and bumbling around in a confused daze for the rest of it, they drink casually and refill their glasses when they feel like it - not because they have just been forced to “Down It you cunt” as they’re playing God Save the Queen. If they do end up getting squiffy along the way, then they enjoy and embrace that too. There is a dignified balance to their approach and it’s something I think I might try out. I’ll leave you with the words of Herman "Jackrabbit" Smith-Johannsen, who was a super-centenarian who lived to the ripe old age of 111. When asked the secret to his longevity, he replied, “Stay busy, get plenty of exercise, and don't drink too much.  Then again, don't drink too little.”

Now I’ll drink to that.

Santé.