All I gotta say is that if you ever find yourself at Jean-Jacques' place late on a Saturday night, don't be shocked if all the people you know and respect start singing the French equivalents to dirty rugby songs.
I never in my mind imagined that I would see the majority of the town council, swilling homemade wine while singing about various and sundry body parts. Mon dieu! Who knew these 'respectable' people could be so fun!
Amen for the fact that I hadn't forgotten the 'clean' version of Alouette so I could at least participate to an extent.
It was a bit embarrassing when they asked me to share an American song and all I could come up with was, Thank God, I'm a Country Boy. Seems I have (thankfully) forgotten all the words to Father Abraham and the others I'll deny I ever sang.
The honour of the evening was reserved for Hubster. Nothing like a rounding rendition of God Save the Queen with a heavily sauced French accent to make you feel truly accepted in your adopted country.
Till rugby season, at least!