WHAT do you call a Frenchman in sandals? Felipe Feloppe.
Unable to say no to a free holiday for the 25th year running, I spent the last two weeks with my parents, sister and aunt in a caravan in the Vendee region of France. It rained everyday and I smoked 10 finger-length Vasco de Gama cigars and one Cuban. But didn't inhale.
Arriving at our campsite in St-Hilaire-de-Riez, a small village 250 miles south-west of Calais on the Atlantic coast, we were greeted, as is the custom, by our campsite courier. This particular courier was called Sophie, or Front-of-house Sophie, as I preferred.
She walked us to our caravan, told us the weather in the Vendee was as reliable as the horoscopes and that she would bring over our Calor gas canister for the barbecue when she had a spare second.
They are a funny breed, the campsite couriers. Through my 15 years of dealing with them, I've noticed they are generally English (60/40 north south mix) or Dutch, aged between 18-26, capable of successful chit-chat with minors and hell-bent on having more fun than any of the holidaymakers on the campsite.
"Hi, just wondering when the next column is due? ..."
"Why do a frenchmans trousers never fit? Cause they..."
"I'm so pleased you're spreading the best joke ever..."
"Dear Sean, Your column is the wittiest read this ..."
"Excellent column - I look forward to reading this ..."