5th November:

Gunpowder, treason and plot, apparently.

Watching Eddie Izzard on the telly last night reminded me of just how marvellously expressive the English language is. It contains richly textured words like ‘unctuous’, ‘nubbin’ and ‘pustule’. Having the occasion to use all of these words within the same sentence, however, would suggest that specialist medical intervention would be the order of the day.

Apparently our country remains in the grip of an epidemic of expatriation, with thousands of disgruntled Britons casting off the shackles of their daily inner-city soggy commute and going off to live somewhere generally much nicer instead, before having their new lives tragically cut short due to melanoma. Still, quality not quantity, eh?

On the face of it, a new life in, say, France looks appealing. The same population as the UK but double the land-mass means that many parts of France still retain that genuinely rural feel that people seem to hanker for. That is until the wind changes and you get a blast of the goose farm and foie-gras factory in the next village.

This influx of Britishers is not all bad for our French cousins non plus. Many of these ex-pats are desperate to immerse themselves in the full-on French experience and this has resulted in several villages and towns reviving long-dead traditions, festivals and fetes. Village meetings have never been better-attended. Jam-making classes are sold-out. Abandoned farm houses are being renovated. The indigenous natives are taking a long, hard look at themselves in the mirror and asking what it means to be French. No bad thing.

There is a sinister breed lurking amongst the newcomers, however, and the village of Eyemet near Bergerac has just seen the opening of its first “English Supermarket”, complete with Union flag in the window (I am of Scottish persuasion so don’t even start me on this one). Years ago I went on a driving holiday to Majorca was appalled at the number of bars, restaurants and shops bearing teutonically-tinged signage. Not even just food shops, for that matter. There were also clothes shops, tobacconists and jewellers in which the daily greeting was less 'buenos dias' and more 'guten tag'.

It’s great to go and live abroad because you want to change your life. It’s even better to go to a country that you have some kind of historical or emotional link with (invasions don’t count). Either way, learning the language and throwing yourself into the local community with gusto are essentials. Going to live in a country just because you think it’s a good business opportunity and there is money to be made from the ex-pat community? You’re just a parasite, frankly.