Peer Gynt? Do it on the radio . . .

I didn't have a pic to hand so I thought I'd write something about the radio, just to make you think that I planned it that way . . .

Actually I've discovered that Radio 4 is alive and kicking in France. Yes, I know you can get all those nice Beeb chaps and chapettes on the net. What I really meant to say is that France has its own version of Bay Bay Say Raddio Quatre, called France Culture.

It really is a dead ringer for Radio 4 or as Larousse online puts it; un sosie. So there you have it, your new French word for today: dead ringer = un sosie. I had to write it into the blog to avoid forgetting the blasted word instantly.

Do you find yourself staring at French words that you know damn well you've looked up; you just can't remember what they mean? I do. I suppose it's what comes of trying to build up a gigantic French vocab at a time when my brain cells are expiring quicker than my ability to put things in them.

As usual I digress. The important thing about France Culture is that you have a regular collection of exactly the kind terribly clever people talking about terribly clever subjects in a terribly refined and civilised manner that you would find on Radio 4.

But this means that you already know what they're talking about, which of course is sometimes more than they do. And thus, already being familiar with the subjects, you can understand a lot of very clever French and feel thoroughly pleased with yourself. Especially as it all gets easier with practice.

Of course, FC does have a few touches of its own. To be a regular broadcaster, it seems that you have to be a fifty-something blerk with a fruity voice de bon timbre, rather like Rumpole armed with a bottle of Château Thames Embankment, and defending Asterix for carrying sanglier-breaking implements.

This obviously involves smoking about 50,000 fags because the taut and intelo discourse does break down remarkably often for the All-France Coughing Championships.

And being radical intellectuals doesn't stop them going in for the odd bout of old-fashioned reactionary macho stuff. They couldn't wait to rip into a particularly ardent young feminist the other morning.

She did rather dig herself into un trou (noun masc) while trying to argue inherent sexism in the French language. This is a viable argument in English where we assign masculine, feminine and neuter genders according to some semblance of reality. But in a language where boats are masculine and tables feminine on some entirely arbitrary grammatical basis, the idea really doesn't hold water.

I note that my online dictionary has a list of thirteen words for various girly bits, twelve of which are masculine, and one for "balls" which is feminine, so maybe the French are just plain confused . . .

Mind you, FC also ran a nice piece on how the Stuart kings managed to get themselves deposed twice, which is a lot more real English history than you get to hear in England these days, so it doesn't do to get on the old grands chevaux too often.

Apparently "high horse" translates directly, which brings me back to my favourite subject of idiom. I heard a lovely one the other day: "Et mon cul est un poulet?" Or "And my arse is a chicken?" It really does mean "Are you kidding me?" so no, I'm not.

STOP PRESS: le piano préhistorique du café est parti.That's to say, it's gorn: A nation mourns, or to be accurate, it doesn't.