The Lost Shoe Diaries – Part III

As a frequent traveller – you could almost say a Citizen of the World – I have two rules whenever I go overseas. The first is that there’s no such thing as packing too many shoes. The second is that you owe it to your host country to learn at least a few phrases of the local lingo.

There’s nothing more embarrassing than listening to an Irish man trying to make himself understood in another country by shouting in English while making his accent sound a bit foreigny: “Dooo . . . hyou . . . hknow . . the . . way . . . thoo . . . the . . . tren . . . stetion?”

For better or worse, we are Europeans now, and our days of calling Spanish waiters “Manuel” and farting in the Louvre should be consigned to history.

Laughing

I've decided to set an example on this trip by learning a few phrases of French. There is nothing the people of France appreciate more than you trying to speak their language, then laughing at your efforts.

I have to confess that my own French sounds like a fella from Kilkenny trying to argue his way into a nightclub with a mouthful of hot chips. But like I said to you, you have to make the effort, which is why I typed a few handy phrases into one of these translation engines on the famous Internet, to make sure I’ve enough of the language to – as the man said – get by.

For instance "Je suis désolé si mon chanson à propos un IRA volunteer est offensive," means, "I'm sorry if there are aspects of my country's heritage that you don't like."

Then there's, "Voici ma carte credit. Je voudrais acheter une boisson pour tout le monde," which roughly translates as, "Stick the Visa behind the bar there. The drinks are on me."

And there's no way I would travel to France without the phrase "Thierry Henry, j'espère que votre avis de décès sera écrit dans la pisse de weasel!" – "May your obituary be written in weasel's piss, you cheating f**k!"

I was practicing some of these the other night in the hotel room when my phone suddenly rang. The call was coming from a blocked number but I decided to answer it anyway. It turned to be one of the hyenas from the press – one who’s been thirsting for my blood for a long time.

“How are you?” he said – like he cared one way or the other.

“Busy,” I replied. “Making some last minute preparations of a logistical nature.”

“Well,” he said, a clear hint of joy in his voice, “I’m sorry to be adding to your burden. I just wanted to know are you going to be putting out a statement?”

“A statement?” I said. “A statement about what?”

“About the word that was used the other night. You know it’s caused offence? Grave, grave offence.”

“What word? What are you talking about?”

“Queers.”

“Queers?”

“That was the word that was said. Queers.”

Thrown off balance

Now, I don't mind admitting it – in that moment, I was thrown off balance. It's a word I've never used – or would ever use, I hasten to add.

I started mentally running through the lyrics of some of the songs I like to occasionally sing when called upon to do a turn. Rock on Rockall. St Patrick was a Gentleman. God Bless the Tinkers of Ireland. Come All Ye Bold Geographers.

I was certain that the word didn’t feature in any of them.

“Hello?” the voice on the line said. “Are you still there?”

“Yeah,” I replied, “I’m still here. I’ll tell you what, stay where you are. I’m going to get my solicitor to courier you over a letter.”

That seemed to soften his cough because he hung up almost instantly, allowing me to return to my studies.

"Il n'est pas juste! Cinq millions d'euros, s'il vous plait. You couldn't put a price on what your blatant cheating cost us – but five million quid should just about cover it."

There was a knock on my door. I could see through the spyhole that it was a member of the association staff, so I let him in.

“The manager’s going to make a statement,” he announced importantly.

“About what?” I wondered.

“About the word that was used the other night. Queers.”

“Where’s all this coming from? I can honestly put my hand on my heart and say that I’ve never used that word in my life.”

"You didn't say it, Sir."

“Too right I didn’t say it. There’s a lot of people are going to be getting letters today – that’s a promise.”

“Martin said it.”

“What?”

“It was Martin. He said that him and Roy went to the Super Bowl but he didn’t want people to think they were a couple of queers.”

“Martin said that?”

“It would seem so, Sir.”

Reprieve

I laughed. Not because I found it funny, I hasten to add.

It was the laughter of a man walking up the steps of the scaffold who suddenly wins a reprieve.

The laughter of a man who knows that no matter how badly he messes up in the coming weeks, there’s nothing he can do to top that, short of stealing a Panzer and driving it up the Champs Elysees.

“It wasn’t me!” I said.

“I know,” he replied. “It was Martin.”

“What I mean is, an employee of the association is forced to make an embarrassing apology – and for once, it isn’t me!”

“I’m, er, glad you’re happy, Sir.”

“So do they like American football?” I asked. “The LGBT crowd, I mean.”

“I’ve no idea,” he said. “How’s the French coming along?”

"Stephane Staunton," I said. "Il n'était pas mon idée."

– Paul Howard