e Squared (28 page)

blogwatch.com
Posted by
Cybergaze
17/01/09, 15.04 GMT

 

 

So the other day I was going through some expat blogs to see if there's anything tasty. A dull, dull job. Let's face it, no one wanted to listen to these people when they were in the UK, which is why they became expats. But it's got to be done because you never know where you'll unearth a gem out there in the blogosphere.

 

I was reaching the point where the thought of pulling out my own fingernails to a soundtrack of Pink was preferable to reading another post about the difficulty of getting PG Tips tea in Cyprus/a plumber in Poland (they're all in North London, you dork) when I found The One. In all my thousands of blog trawls, I've never come across a Serial Virgin—a string of posts unread by anyone anywhere. And this one's a biggy: 81 posts to date, ignored by the entire population of cyberspace. Until I came along.

 

The blogger is a Brit holed up in the Dordogne. He calls himself Hornblower. An initial skim revealed him to be a pretentious arse prone to slipping pointlessly into French. So far, so what? There are countless self-important cocks out there who think the world owes them a hearing. What makes this one special? It's the untranslated conversations with Papin, his gardener/house boy. My French is feeble, but my antennae were twitching. Something about Papin's tone (and his frequent use of se faire foutre, as in foutre off) intrigued. Further investigation was warranted. I turned to my mate Devon, the only supermarket security guard I know with a degree in French (yes, it's a biggie, this recession). It was about time he put it to use.

 

I was right to be curious. Papin is a sewer-mouthed genius who's found the perfect fall guy in Hornblower. Read for yourself at
blogass.co.uk/hornblower
,
but arm yourself with a good dictionary of French slang. In the meantime, here are some recent highlights to whet your appetite.

 

Papin tips up to work and greets Hornblower with, “You still poncing around in your pyjamas, my English arsehole?” Then he asks, “Where is your bitch?” The “bitch,” it turns out, is Hornblower's wife, Celine, and she has returned to England. Papin commiserates. “She was good,”
^*
he says, “I'll miss her fat tits.” Papin ends the conversation with, “You are a lonely and pathetic cunt. Go fuck yourself.”

 

(*Devon tells me that “bonne” in the phrase “Elle était bonne” literally means “good,” but should be taken in this context as meaning “a good fuck.”)

 

Feeling like a true Frenchy, Hornblower takes us out and about, stopping off at the cheese shop where he comes across Mme Poincare. She is clearly Papin's female counterpart because she introduces him to her assistant as “my English queer,” before ordering the girl to serve our man with “the shittiest stuff.” When Hornblower returns home with his rank purchase, we have my favorite Papin-ism: “I see she sold you the stuff that smells like an Arab's wank.”

 

Hornblower and Papin are chewing the fat over a bottle of pricey dessert wine. “London must be full of sad cunts like you,” Papin says. “Do you miss it?” Hornblower gives this some thought and decides that, on balance, he doesn't. “Fucking hell,” Papin explodes, “if twats like you keep coming to the Dordogne, I'll have to move to London.” Hornblower tells Papin he wouldn't cope in the Big Sophisticated City, but the old boy,
naturellement,
has the final word: “At least I'll be able to eat your wife's pussy.” Hornblower's blogs are a triumphant
Tour de Filth
, yet he remains oblivious to every disgusting reference. Go explore, blog watchers, and have fun.