Why I Hate The French
Last night after coming out of the Big3 studio, which is in terrace house, to a small tight cobbled street we find that Lees car has been blocked in, a BMW is in front of it and a Red Renault Cleo is behind it. After a brief “burr?” moment Lee went and knocked on the door of the house nearest were the Cleo was parked. As he was doing this a sinister looking cigarette smoking man stepped out of the shadows, after asking him if either of the cars was his he replied in a thick French accent that neither of the cars were his but that the BMW belonged to someone in that house, with accompanying point to the house next to where he was stood.
A knock on the door and a conversation with the inhabitants reveals two things:
A. They are all drunk and several of them are French.
B. They do own the BMW but it’s broken and can’t possibly be moved. It can’t even be pushed, which I’m more then a little skeptical about.
The French chap still smoking a cigarette tells us that probably the best thing to do would be to knock on all the doors and ask the inhabitants if they own the car. Well thank you Captain Obvious.
So it begins. We (well those of us who weren’t too scared to knock, no names but you know who you are) knocking on all the doors up and down the cobbled back street. Met mostly with no answers or by identical looking people, I would swear they were running from one house to the next just to confuse me. There were some more intresting doors we knocked on.
A. A House full of good looking half dressed girls, damn was I glad I knocked on that door, nearly forgot what I’d knocked on there door for.
B. Some crazy polish person thinking I’d come to rob him, do robbers often knock on the door and ask you if a cars yours?
C. Not a door I knocked on but one of Ian’s that I saw as I was walking by. I could see through the window that there was a couple having a argument when Ian knocked on the door, the woman said “who is it from behind the door” and Ian replied with a “It’s me” The man didn’t look to happy about this. Probably thinking his misses was having a affair, it didn’t look to good one guy coming to the back door knocking and then saying “It’s me”.
All the while through this the French chap was stood in the shadows smoking his cigarette, I don’t know if it was the same one or a different one, but we’d been knocking on doors for about a hour and he’d had a cigarette in his hand all the time, his idol must have been the Cancer man from The X Files. When we regrouped we decided that we’d leave the car keys with Mark and he’d call us when someone had come and moved the car, so we sorted out a lift and went back into Marks house for it to arrive. About ten minutes later a couple of scantily clad women came out of the French chaps house and got into the Cleo and drove off.
The French git surely knew it was their car all the time.
Last night after coming out of the Big3 studio, which is in terrace house, to a small tight cobbled street we find that Lees car has been blocked in, a BMW is in front of it and a Red Renault Cleo is behind it. After a brief “burr?” moment Lee went and knocked on the door of the house nearest were the Cleo was parked. As he was doing this a sinister looking cigarette smoking man stepped out of the shadows, after asking him if either of the cars was his he replied in a thick French accent that neither of the cars were his but that the BMW belonged to someone in that house, with accompanying point to the house next to where he was stood.
A knock on the door and a conversation with the inhabitants reveals two things:
A. They are all drunk and several of them are French.
B. They do own the BMW but it’s broken and can’t possibly be moved. It can’t even be pushed, which I’m more then a little skeptical about.
The French chap still smoking a cigarette tells us that probably the best thing to do would be to knock on all the doors and ask the inhabitants if they own the car. Well thank you Captain Obvious.
So it begins. We (well those of us who weren’t too scared to knock, no names but you know who you are) knocking on all the doors up and down the cobbled back street. Met mostly with no answers or by identical looking people, I would swear they were running from one house to the next just to confuse me. There were some more intresting doors we knocked on.
A. A House full of good looking half dressed girls, damn was I glad I knocked on that door, nearly forgot what I’d knocked on there door for.
B. Some crazy polish person thinking I’d come to rob him, do robbers often knock on the door and ask you if a cars yours?
C. Not a door I knocked on but one of Ian’s that I saw as I was walking by. I could see through the window that there was a couple having a argument when Ian knocked on the door, the woman said “who is it from behind the door” and Ian replied with a “It’s me” The man didn’t look to happy about this. Probably thinking his misses was having a affair, it didn’t look to good one guy coming to the back door knocking and then saying “It’s me”.
All the while through this the French chap was stood in the shadows smoking his cigarette, I don’t know if it was the same one or a different one, but we’d been knocking on doors for about a hour and he’d had a cigarette in his hand all the time, his idol must have been the Cancer man from The X Files. When we regrouped we decided that we’d leave the car keys with Mark and he’d call us when someone had come and moved the car, so we sorted out a lift and went back into Marks house for it to arrive. About ten minutes later a couple of scantily clad women came out of the French chaps house and got into the Cleo and drove off.
The French git surely knew it was their car all the time.
