Flavour of the Month
We were all a bit racist during the war. We were allowed to say stuff you’d never be allowed to say these days. We hated the Germans, of course, but we didn’t like the French much either. To be fair, they didn’t think we were the flavour of the month; they accused us of running away at Dunkirk. That was a bit of a cheek, as they’d only been involved in two wars in recent history and they’d run away in both.
My Aunty Flo, a cantankerous old sow, who had been to France as a girl, said they lost the war because they have no proper standards. She used to rant on about the state of their toilets. ‘Nothing more than a hole in the ground.’ She didn’t like the fact that they drank wine and ate soft cheese, either. Mum used to argue with her and say that our toilets aren’t much better, being stuck at the bottom of a garden in a draughty, brick, outhouse, with a six-inch gap under the door and a flushing mechanism that had been used since Roman times. We had never eaten soft cheese, most of the stuff we got had an inch-thick, rind on it that was tougher than steel. Fritz used to say it was so hard, we should use cheese rind to make tank armour. Continue reading