Fools And Horses French Quotes

probably horse doo had a name in french also, but that didn't mean god intended for you to eat it.

The great experiment. In democracy. The equality of rabble. In not much more than a generation they have come back to CLASS. As the French have done. What a tragic thing, that Revolution. Bloody George was a bloody fool. But no matter. The experiment doesn't work. Give them fifty years, and all that equality rot is gone. Here they have the same love of the land and of tradition, of the right form, of breeding, in their horses, their women. Of course slavery is a bit embarrassing, but that, of course, will go. But the point is they do it all exactly as we do in Europe. And the North does not. THAT'S what the war is really about. The North has those huge bloody cities and a thousand religions, and the only aristocracy is the aristocracy of wealth. The Northerner doesn't give a damn for tradition, or breeding, or the Old Country. He hates the Old Country. Odd. You very rarely hear a Southerner refer to "the Old Country". In that painted way a German does. Or an Italian. Well, of course, the South IS the Old Country. They haven't left Europe. They've merely transplanted it. And THAT'S what the war is about.

In the late afternoon the group assembled for cocktails. Without consorting about it they'd all dressed up, and the women's perfumes fought for supremacy in the living room. The sun set, candles were lit; Mme Reynard found an English dictionary among the cookbooks and proposed they play the game called Dictionary, whereby a player assigns an incorrect definition to an unknown word in hopes of fooling the other players. She claimed the secateur was the sabateur's assistant. Malcom that costalgia was a shared reminiscence, Susan that a remotion was a lateral promotion, Frances that polonaise was an outmoded British condiment fabricated from a horse's bone marrow, Madeline that a puncheon was a contentious luncheon, and Joan that a syrt was a Syrian breath mint. Julius, whose English was not fully matured, said that unbearing was the act of "removing a bear from a peopled premises.

They got their own name in French,” she reminded Miss Beryl, stealthily exchanging her soiled cloth napkin for a fresh one at an adjacent table. “Escargot.” There’s also a word in English, Miss Beryl had pointed out. Snail. Probably horse doo had a name in French also, but that didn’t mean God intended for you to eat it.

Mrs. Gruber admitted this was true, but went on to explain that it wasn’t so much the snail itself that had attracted her as the name. “They got their own name in French,” she reminded Miss Beryl, stealthily exchanging her soiled cloth napkin for a fresh one at an adjacent table. “Escargot.” There’s also a word in English, Miss Beryl had pointed out. Snail. Probably horse doo had a name in French also, but that didn’t mean God intended for you to eat it.

Albert slid quietly from his horse and walked across a small clearing, and before Graeme knew what was happening, picked him up and threw him arse over toes into the cool water. As the very stunned — and soon Albert would realize, quite angry — Graeme got his bearings and stood up, coughing and sputtering, Albert turned back to his horse. At that point, a swarthy looking man, wearing a ridiculous looking tunic and an even more ridiculous pair of trews, jumped from behind two large boulders with his weapon drawn. “Prepare to die, peasant,” he shouted in French. Albert raised a curious brow as he unsheathed his broadsword. The falchion the Frenchman had pointed at him was no match for his broadsword. “Who the bloody hell are ye?” “I am Remi Francois Claremont LeFavre,” Remi answered with a slight bow and flourish. “Brother to the man you just threw into the lake and whose honor you have besmirched by your actions. Again, peasant, I tell you to prepare to die.” Albert rolled his eyes and re-sheathed his sword. “Is this fool with ye?” Albert asked Graeme.