Tag: expat life

Fireworks, and the Party in My Pants

Posted on Posted in Family Life, France, ReportageTagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , 4 Comments

The calm had descended on the family and the Great Shutter Disaster of 2025 had been long forgotten and etched into the annals of family history. Tonight would be about fireworks, food (surprise, surprise), and the party in my pants.  Not that kind of party — this was France, not Netflix. But I did end up with a surprise performance later that night…

Bal des Pompiers: Fireworks, Firemen, and Fashion Crimes

We were all relatively refreshed after lunch and snoozes.  The plan was to head to Saint Cado to watch the traditional fireworks display, and who doesn’t enjoy looking at lights in the sky? Think Guy Fawkes meets French revolution, except we don’t burn anybody, and we celebrate with explosions, merriment, dancing, and firemen.

Tonight would be the “bal des pompiers” which I must remind you has nothing to do with firemen’s balls… Well, maybe towards the end of the dance, but that is none of my business. You could see a cross section of French society: the young teens trying to outdress each other, parents with children trying to keep an eye on aforementioned children, parents of a similar age to me looking at the young teens trying to think how anybody could let them out dressed like that, other older parents looking for food, and quite a lot of us looking for booze.

Organisation Française: A Joyful Mess

The organisation was very French, un joyeux bordel, and yet there were signs of some very organised organisers taking orders, firemen cooking various dishes, and others serving and selling the booze.

We drove down and Marina et al followed in their car. We saw the high-vis jackets telling people where to go to park. We were told to go to Car Park 3, because of la dame in the front seat of my car. La Dame was none other than my mother-in-law who was already in a good mood, flattered to be referred to with such deep respect.

A French Family Comedy in Real Time

We saw Louka, Jessica’s other boy, in a queue for something, and as the evening wore on there would be sightings of more offspring like in a French family comedy film.  Gisèle noticed a friend and her son, and this was the perfect opportunity to sit down, as my darling wife’s bad back was playing up.  All of a sudden we saw the Marina party, and they joined us.  

The Soundtrack to a Slightly Tipsy Night

The music from the French DJ was blaring out across the square, which is usually such a quiet place.  Not Bob Sinclair or David Guetta, but Bob Sincliair C5, and David Guet-Apens.  French hits from Claude François, whose songs are guaranteed to get French into a frenzy and doing specific dances.  Even after 30 years of living here there are still songs about the Phare d’Alexandrie, and barracudas that still traumatise me.  “They” seemed to be loving it and really getting into the “mood!”  There is a law against the shooting of crappy DJ’s.  A pity, really.

Moules Frites and Other Mistakes

Raymond and Vincent were sent away to get food.  There were so many lines of people to follow but I eventually caught up to the boys.  We were in the line for Moules Frites, which is a pretty good line to be in.  Little did I know…  but more about that later. I bought Moules Frites — fortunately nothing to do with the bathing costume of a similar name that modesty forbids me from mentioning.  But those who know will find it funny.  With the Moules Frites you had a piece of bread and either an apple tart, which had nothing to do with young teenagers dressed inappropriately, or Far Breton, which unlike the one from Alexandrie, had prûnes…  But more about that later.

Brownie Points and Last Frites

I turned up with my trays of Moules Frites, for my wife, her mother, and myself.  I was later told by my mother in law that she wasn’t really hungry and that I really shouldn’t have, as she was eating the last moule and the last frite, and that yes, she would have the apple tart.  Classic lose-lose situation.  

I had won brownie points galore when I got back with some cold beers for my wife and I.  Well, one does aime to please. 

Fireworks and Finding the Car

At just after 11.10pm the fireworks started.  We all oohed and ahhed at the appropriate times, and when it was all over played at find that car.  I’m not usually very good at that game but tonight I was on fire (more about that later), and we eventually made it home.  Bliss.

The Party in My Pants

It was up to bed for me for a good night’s sleep.  But, yes, little did I know, I was to be awoken in the middle of the night with a stomach ache.  The party in my pants was under way.  I let out a botty burp, which wasn’t the best idea of the night, and dashed to the loo.  I sat down and had my own personal fireworks display down below.  Explosions and oohing and ahhing..  I managed to clean myself up and discarded my underwear, which bore the brunt of the opening salvo…  An hour later, I had a repeat performance.  This was fast becoming a night to forget — or at least to flush from memory.  

The Seafood God Has Spoken

The seafood god had sought vengeance, and it was my turn to pay.  The French have a healthy respect for the seafood god, as his attacks are notorious, and the scars are worn as badges of honour.  Lesson learnt.  More respect and an extra pair of undies.  A true rite of passage.  I just wasn’t very fond of him having that right to my passage…

Ian James Myers: A Candid Exploration of Life, Humor, and Cultural Observations

Posted on Posted in Portrait, ReportageTagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , 9 Comments

I did something daft the other week. I fed ChatGPT a stack of my own blog posts and asked it to tell me who I am. Not in a therapy sense, more out of curiosity: what does a machine make of a couple of years of rambling about cameras, French bureaucracy and my own bad moods. What came back was three paragraphs of the kind of praise you’d get from a wedding speech written by someone who’s never actually met the groom.

Apparently I’m “a unique blend of wit, introspection, and cultural curiosity.” Apparently my writing “invites readers into my world” and “reflects the complexities of my mind.” It called my grouchiness “self-professed” and said my life has been “anything but conventional.” All true enough, in the way a horoscope is true enough. None of it sounded like me. It read like someone had skimmed a summary of a man and never sat in a room with him.

So here’s the real version, since you lot deserve better than a chatbot’s book report.

I’m 52. I grew up in the UK and I’ve lived in the Vendée since 2019, before that near Nantes, so I’ve had a good long stretch of being the Englishman who doesn’t quite get it, and the Englishman who gets it a bit too well. French bureaucracy still makes me want to put my head through a wall. French bread has ruined every other bread on earth for me. Both things are true at once, and that’s more or less what living here has taught me.

I moan about birthdays. I moan about getting older, my knees, and the French obsession with paperwork in triplicate. I’ve written about mental health here more than once, not because I’ve got it figured out but because pretending I have would be a worse lie than just admitting I don’t. If a post of mine has ever made you feel less alone in whatever you’re carrying, that matters more to me than any of it sounding polished.

I’m grouchy. I’ll own that one, no “self-professed” required. But I’m also genuinely grateful for the people who turn up here, comment, tell me I’m wrong about something, or just read quietly and never say a word. Thousands of you have clicked through over the years and I still don’t fully understand why, but I’m glad you do.

What the AI got right, in its clumsy way, is that I don’t hide much. The bad days, the arguments with myself over whether a photo’s any good, the culture-shock gripes, they’re all here on the blog because that’s more interesting to me than a highlight reel would be. What it got wrong is the tone. I’m not a beacon of anything. I’m a bloke with a camera and a horn and a house in the Vendée, still working out what I think about most things, still willing to say so out loud.

Was it eye-opening, having a machine mark my homework? Not really. Was it funny? Yes, in places. Am I letting ChatGPT write about me again? Probably not, or at least not without editing out every third adjective first. If you know me, or you’ve been reading a while, tell me in the comments whether any of it sounded like me. Be honest, that’s what the comments are there for.