YMCA

It is all the Great G******’s fault.

The école privée that our daughters attend in the Vendée village of Le Langon, like many écoles privées in France, always has to work hard to make ends meet. The term “privée” is a bit misleading. These are church schools whose teacher’s salaries are paid by the state and who receive grants from the commune in which they are located for basic educational materials, but beyond that, all funds must be provided by the church and by the parents.

The école privée St Joseph is a pretty, old fashioned village school, with some 40 students and two teachers. The governing board (of which my dear wife is member) work tirelessly to raise the cash needed to keep the school running. They are in no way hindered by our priest and assorted grandmothers of youngsters at the school who could teach Vito Corleone a thing or two about the art of extortion.

The big money spinning events of the year for the school are the summer fête (the “kermese,” of which more anon) and the annual dîner-danse. For many years, the dîner-danse had followed the same format: kick-off at 8.30pm, big drinks to start with, five-course blow-out accompanied by yet more firewater, followed by dancing until the small hours of Sunday morning. Children included, mind, and all for a very competitive €15 per head. The problem came with the dancing.

The generations of French now in their fifties, sixties and seventies can (without exception, as far as I can see) dance like divas. For some years I had watched in an admiring haze as pump-handled couples glide over the floor as though floating on air. On one occasion, the mother of one the girl’s school chums was incautious enough to ask me to dance a straightforward waltz with her. Observers later told me it looked rather less like dancing and rather more as though we were both desperately trying to avoid indecently assaulting one another. As the number of enthusiastic (competent?) dancers had diminished, so calls had grown for a change in format.

So, last year the idea was mooted of a “dîner-spectacle.” A act would be booked to entertain the troops, who would then be in a position to then devote more of the evening to the gentle art of conversation and the injudicious purchase of wine at 200% mark-up (all in a good cause!). After some discussion, a magician, the Great G****** (name obscured for reasons that will become clear) was engaged at a cost of several hundred euros.

Some bright spark (me) suggested that it would be a good idea to place the children’s tables near the front, all the better to view the Great G****** at work. This, as it transpired, was not at all a good idea.

It strikes me highly likely that should the Great G****** be so indiscrete as to show his face in this village again then he would be extremely lucky to escape with only a light tarring & feathering. I strongly suspect that certain elderly ladies even now keep a pot of asphalt bubbling on the range and an old eiderdown conveniently to hand in case he once more heaves into view.

As he mounted the stage, it occurred to me that he may have over imbibed somewhat in the cause of combating any nervousness he felt. After a one-sided struggle with the microphone (which the microphone won) he dispensed with it entirely and elected to shout. Two things quickly became apparent: firstly that the Great G****** had learned the whole of his magical repertoire from the back of cereal packets; secondly, that he hadn’t just “somewhat over imbibed” but was, in fact (to borrow a phrase), completely rodent-buttocked.

To the crashing of props was quickly added the heckling of the rowdies from class CE1 (seven and eight year olds). Though fairly mild in nature (“Here, Mister, you got a bogey up your nose!” That sort of thing.), it enraged the Great G****** and caused him to start hurling obscenities back. He was quickly hustled from the stage to a smattering of applause from those who hadn’t been paying attention.

Unfortunately, the Great G****** had been paid in advanced (possibly this sort of event was not an uncommon occurrence in his career and he had planned accordingly), so the school’s coffers have looked a little less full than usual for the past year. And that was the end for the idea of a “professional” entertainer.

Nevertheless, the idea of a dîner-spectacle survives. This year, to quote the flyer I have in front of me, it will be “entertained by the parents of the pupils of the school.” After all, we’re so cheap we’re free. Indeed, the publicity blurb continues “laughter is guaranteed.” The question in my mind is: laughing with or laughing at?

The programme this year will consist of:

• Songs by various parents;
• A “skit” performed the mothers
• A dance performed by the fathers

Being asked to sing, I do not mind. I have been described in the past as having a “pleasant if slightly warbling baritone voice, somewhat marred by tone deafness and an inability to in any way follow rhythm” which more or less qualifies me for pop stardom, or would were I not too old to join a boy band. Still, since I am singing in French, the audience will probably just assume that my accent is to blame.

Although the details of the “skit” are shrouded in secrecy, I have been able to divine that it involves several of the mothers dressing up as school girls, at least two of whom will be pregnant. Hopefully, this will not give rise to any unpleasant incidents of nature mimicking art.

However, along with some other benighted souls, I am being asked (asked?) to dance, a rather different kettle of fish. Specifically we are being asked to dance the Village People classic “YMCA.” We have been unable to get our hands on a video of this number and have been forced to make up our own moves, and they are hot! hot! hot!

Thus far, our only audience has been Tigrou, the school rabbit. Despite his lack of input, we think that things are coming along. The headmistress appeared suddenly just after we had finished rehearsal last Tuesday evening, and I think she was rather hoping to catch us in the act. She was wearing a vaguely haunted mien, but then she has seen what we are capable of in the past.

This could turn out to be the most embarrassing evening of my life – and that’s against some pretty stiff competition – but at least I have a good costume. With a hat. And it has been my experience that people often see the costume and not the person inside it.

I just wish it came with sun glasses…