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This is the idea - I did a dummy run for what I hope will develop into a fully-fledged book. This is the article I wrote about my experiences and which appeared in the magazine Destination France. I also wrote to several people to ask for their support - if you click on some of the buttons at the end of this piece, you can access what I wrote and what they replied ... when they could be arsed. 1066 - The Busker's Revenge Overweight, middle-aged, no talent; I really shouldn’t be doing this. But here I am in the middle of Caen, my instrument case propped open and seeded with a handful of euros. A hopeful sign declares “merci” in a dozen languages, printed in fancy fonts and even laminated to keep the rain from ruining it. Taped to the back of my ukulele is a list of the songs that I thought I knew when I left home. I twiddle the pegs in the vain hope that the uke will end up vaguely in tune. Casting a look around to make sure I’m not about to be arrested, I launch into the repertoire that means payback time for our Norman neighbours. Payback? For what? Well, you see, in 1066, William the Conqueror, tired with being called William the Bastard and feeling the need for a posher nickname, invaded England, shot an arrow into the reigning monarch’s eye and within the space of around 25 years had carved England into separate playpens for his Barons to hunt pheasant, wild boar and the Anglo-Saxon natives. Streuth. I wish they’d taught me all that at school. A date like 1066 would stick in the mind. So it’s about time someone stood up against the Norman yoke and I feel it is my civic duty so to do. They say revenge is a dish best eaten cold At 900+ years, even the warmest helping of Tergoule will be tepid by now. So, the plan is to follow in William’s footsteps, armed with a ukulele, and to see if I can grab back some petty cash for our side of the channel. The Normans may still own most of the shire counties, but they can never tame our spirits. Back in Caen, I slice into that well-known French song “I’m a Believer”. Don’t you remember Les Singes? - ever so popular, back when the dirt on Chirac was just soup-stains on his kipper tie. As I hack into the first chord, a small flock of mixed birds takes cawing flight. Innocent bystanders look on in slack-jawed amazement as I segue into that Jacques Brel classic “Ne me quitte pas” in the style of George Formby. For the longest three minutes of a life that I’m rapidly thinking of ending using a spare uke string to self-garrotte, no-one seems to pay the slightest attention. Then, breaking free of the ebb-and-flow, a small child stoops towards my case. Yes! The first contribution. Après ça, le deluge. Alas no, the child picks up a two euro piece and runs off in triumph. Her rattled mother, apologises profusely, levers the coin from the child’s hand and chucks it back in. You’d think she might add a few more to make up for the trauma. Never mind, at least in France parents make their kids put it back, on the mean streets of Britain they’d have cuffed them for not scooping the pot. Caen is a good location for revenge. William the Conqueror’s former seat of power, it’s a town overlooked by the Ducal Palace and boasting two Abbeys that William and wife Mathilda built to appease the Pope who wasn’t too keen on the marriage. Apparently she wasn’t to begin with either. However, William wooed her gently by dragging her round the room by her pigtails until she said “yes” they lived happily ever after, although Mathilda had a small spot on her scalp where the hair never grew back. Mathilda is buried in the Abbaye aux Dames. William died in 1087 and is buried across town at the Abbaye-aux-Hommes. By then he’d changed from a slim, vicious firebrand into a porky, vicious ball of spite, his body a mass of abscesses and over-indulgence. Apparently, William’s coffin was so heavy, the pall-bearers dropped it and his bulky body wouldn’t fit back in. Sitting on the lid to jam him in, his abscesses burst and stank out the Abbaye-aux-Hommes. He is supposedly still buried there today, but at least they’ve got rid of the smell. Although Caen may be my first busk on this mini-tour, I’ve tried other venues. First came Honfleur, picked for the tourist trade. It seemed a good place to have an anonymous practice session, but the temperature was a heat-stroke-inducing 37° Centigrade (98°F). Even a half-litre of rapidly warming water couldn’t clear my throat. All that emerged was a rasping squawk like an asthmatic budgie being introduced to an angle-grinder. Later an inspection revealed that mouth, throat and uvula were covered in tiny white ulcers. In case you need it, the French for mouth ulcer is aphte. My second attempt was also aborted. Dives-sur-Mer is where William set sail for Blighty to reclaim the throne he felt was his. The invasion fleet, composed of 500 boats, 12,000 soldiers from Normandy and beyond, horses, camp-followers and even their own chefs, sailed from Dives, was driven ashore further up the coast and eventually landed in Pevensey with enough time to prepare for the Battle of Hastings itself. There’s not a lot at Dives. The narrow cobbled area of the “Centre Guillaume le Conquérant”, turned from a coaching inn into a series of arts and crafts workshops, looked ideal on paper, but I bottled out when I saw how cramped it was. Even I couldn’t be so cruel as to inflict aural damage in such an enclosed space, no matter how much of Hampshire is in French hands. Failure number three was at Falaise, where William was born to Robert the Devil, aka Robert the Magnificent (this business of having a nasty nickname and one to be proud of was obviously hereditary), and Robert’s favourite concubine, Arlette the Fur-trader’s daughter. The best doorway in town was nabbed by a man giving out religious tracts, so I headed for the Château. Up behind the Mairie with its statue of William on horse rampant, there is a gateway that leads through to the castle. Unfortunately, instead of being the honeypot one would hope for, it turned out to be all but deserted. Perhaps potential tourists, hearing the mix of twanging and caterwauling, were taking an alternative route, such as Germany, or were checking the small-print of the Geneva Convention before venturing closer. I plinked and plonked for twenty minutes with not a soul passing, although someone in the town-hall closed a couple of rear windows to protect an innocent wedding party from the worst of the effects of Chuck Berry à la Banjolele. Of course, the moment I packed away all my kit, two busloads of tourists scampered past me downhill, but by the time I’d unpacked again, they’d disappeared, leaving only a trail of dust and one forlorn ear-plug. Thence, to Caen, where ulcer-free, summer temperatures falling to less than body heat and with the space between two flying buttresses making a handy sounding-board, I knocked on heaven’s door, leant on a lamp-post, buttoned up my overcoat, rocked the jailhouse and tiptoed through the tulips until I had gathered the mighty profit of €3.70. Of course, by then I needed a restorative coffee and croissant, which came to €4.15. As I nursed my café-au-lait and my ego, I pondered where it had all gone wrong. Should I have sung “five feet two” in metric? (155 centimetres, I reckon.) Or is it them? The Normans may have invented Flaubert and Monet and Camembert, but they’ve a lot to learn about Anglophone popular song. They should cherish busking, after all, they invented it. In the days of the Roman occupation of Gaul, each village had its own bard. I know this for a fact as I’ve read many of the Astérix books and he’s called Assurancetourix in French and Cacofonix in English. As Astérix is entirely real, then this is an indisputable fact. On the other hand, perhaps the Normans know that busking is something that you do when you’re young and slim and can remember the words and the chords. When you’re of an age when a fashion decision is “should I wear the trousers above or below the beer-gut?”, should you really be out there dreaming a little dream of anyone, let alone me? So it was, that perplexed and despondent, I hit my final destination, Bayeux, home of the famous tapestry, which isn’t a tapestry, but an Arras, just like the one that Polonius was stabbed behind in Hamlet, but longer and with fewer bloodstains. The fantasy version of its creation is that Queen Mathilda and her entourage sewed it whilst William was out conquering. The alternative version holds that it was made in England by nuns at Canterbury Cathedral as a way of repressing their carnal desires. This is to be my curtain call. If I didn’t make any money here, my career in revenge-busking was finished. Miracle of miracles. A gaggle of British ladies of a certain age arrived just as I was playing “When I’m Cleaning Windows”. Thanks, ladies, seven euros is big money for me. Do I regret not having more success? Well … you see, I also took some time to visit some French friends and introduced them to the game of cricket, which they now love and play in their back garden. Anglicising a few Normans? You can’t say my trip was wasted, now, can you? “Non, je ne regrette rien.” Just see how much support I got and be thankful you've got a proper job ...
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