23 - A Fête Worse than Death

In the course of travelling the world as a stand-up comedian I have had guns pulled on me, faced down violent stag parties, coped with a room full of soldiers fresh off the front line, been chased to my car by angry Nirvana fans, threatened with beatings, stabbings and 'runnings over'. I have landed in Manila in a damaged plane in an electrical storm, overturned a camper van in a mad airport dash in France, had ashtrays thrown at me by angry hecklers, been sexually assaulted by a prostitute from Djibouti, collapsed on stage through intestine failure and been whacked in the nuts by an overzealous security guard in Mumbai. But nothing, nothing prepared me for Maurice's sixth birthday and the dozen French kids that he invited. I have never felt more out of my depth, never been less in control.

Like a grizzled 'Nam veteran, I'm still getting flashbacks.

It's one of those things that you agree to without really thinking about the consequences, but from the moment the invites go out to the end when you survey the wreckage of your home, it's chaos. Firstly, and I really don't understand this, you don't sign off an invite to French people with RSVP. Why the hell not, it's French isn't it? It means Répondez s'il vous plaît, everybody knows that. But no, it's not used in France. Which surely begs the question why it's bloody well used in Britain? Was it a pretentious middle-class whim that just caught on? I don't get it. So there I was in the ridiculous situation of being told to delete RSVP from my beautifully designed party invites because the French, presumably for the first time in history, didn't want to see some of their own language.

No, I said defiantly, I'm leaving it on. Natalie pursed her lips and raised her eyebrows, her default 'Don't say I didn't tell you so'. By the time the eve of the party came around, we had had three responses and one of those was from the mother of an invitee I had accosted in the supermarket, and who had looked shocked and not a little put out when I asked if her son was coming to the party.

'Of course,' she said and looked at me like I was mad.

To my mind it's not just that it's rude, though it most definitely is, but it means that the planning, be it for food quantities, games, goody bags, etc. is nigh on impossible; and I can't work without a plan. That's why they don't sign off with RSVP, because they bloody ignore it! It's like a zebra crossing on a French road, it's a trap for unwary foreigners and laughably redundant.

'I don't know how much food to buy!' I said, completely flummoxed by the clear breach of – double irony here – party invite etiquette.

'Daddy, just buy enough,' Maurice said, with a very Gallic shrug.

It would have helped enormously if the kids had arrived in dribs and drabs, giving us some time to acclimatise to the situation, allowing us to dip our toes gently into calm waters before they become choppy. Here, though, surely by fluke as I doubt seriously whether they could actually organise themselves to that extent, everyone arrived at the same time. Everyone. It was like a sudden invasion – one minute there was quiet and a bit of nervous anticipation and the next minute there were a dozen French six-year-old boys running and screaming about the place. To start with they were very demure and respectful, full of 'Bonjour Monsieur' and the obligatory kiss on the cheek greeting. But the second the formal niceties were over they threw their hats in the air and went absolutely crazy. I like French kids, I like their manners and respect, but there isn't in my opinion any nation in the world that has noisier children. They scream incessantly and it is impossible to determine whether they are enjoying themselves or in abject agony, the noise levels are the same, the intonation identical and it's a total assault on your ears.

Suddenly, we had fifteen kids charging about the place, including our three, who I'm happy to report weren't doing any of the screaming (Thérence was actually, but he'll learn). The four adults – me, Natalie and her parents, who we had roped in for crowd control – looked at each other nervously. We had planned some games, but this unruly mob didn't look like they'd stay still long enough for any kind of diversion, especially one involving 'rules'. As we stood looking at each other, deciding what our first move should be they all raced by, all screaming 'Trampoline! Trampoline!' And we all looked at each other, all wondering the same thing, 'can we >make that last three hours?'

It's a big trampoline, but it really isn't big enough to accommodate fifteen kids. The netting around the side was all that was keeping them in as they crashed noisily off each other, the whole surreal image could best be described as a dwarf riot in a cage-fighting ring. You know when you shake a bottle of Coke and inside you can see the bubbles at the top bouncing violently off each other? It was like that and it's a small wonder there wasn't a serious injury as twenty minutes later, their appetite for physical assault and anarchy unsatisfied, the kids tumbled out looking for the next opportunity to hurt themselves.

'Football! Football!' they screamed and went charging off again.

Now, there are rules with football, but I wasn't going to be naive enough to try and enforce them and from my vantage point as reluctant goalkeeper I could see that it was a brutal affair. They all followed each other like a swarm of locusts, and like locusts they showed no mercy or respect to anything that stood in their path – flower beds, the orchard, the dogs – they all took something of a pounding. Even Junior, surely a fan of mindless violence if ever there was one, took one look at the proceedings and went back into his stable. It was like a cross between the football match in Bedknobs and Broomsticks and an old-firm derby. And even being in goal was dangerous, as they decided that any shots should be taken from as close as possible, firing the ball repeatedly into my genitalia and then trampling all over me as they failed to stop in time.

Over an hour this brutality lasted, and by the end I was the one battered and bruised with cut knees, broken sunglasses, a suspected broken finger and swollen testicles. Having worked themselves up into a red-faced, sweaty mess they then stripped off and all jumped into the pool, dive-bombing each other and splashing about so much that most of the water seemed to be thrown into the garden. As usual I couldn't get in with them; no sensible adult would have tried as it resembled a shoal of angry, feasting piranhas, but my job, like that of an attendant at a local public swimming baths was to spot trouble and dangerous high jinks and a couple of times I had to grab a flailing six-year-old as they struggled to stay afloat. They would then cough up a litre of pool water, look a bit sheepish for a few seconds and then dive straight back in.

But finally, and thankfully after half an hour or so, they seemed genuinely to have run themselves into the ground. They actually seemed tired, spent even, meaning that the last hour or so of the party would be a relative doddle, with them just lying around without the energy for further noise or exertion. A veritable breeze.

'À table!' Natalie shouted to indicate that food was served and off they trudged, hot and exhausted to the table. I surveyed the spread: Coke, lemonade, fizzy green stuff, chocolate, vile-coloured sweets, jelly, lollipops – basically a smorgasbord of E-numbers. We may as well have injected them with amphetamines. And all that was without the mountain of imported crisps that I'd brought back.

British cuisine is often unfairly marked down, more so for the way things are cooked rather than the ingredients themselves, but from the country that brought the world Fish and Chips, the Sunday Roast, Game Pie and Sausage and Mash, one should add the humble crisp. The French just don't get it! The most exotic flavour they have apart from fromage is peanut. Peanut! Who in their right mind would eat peanut-flavoured crisps? They taste like a jar of peanut butter with added sawdust; add an alcoholic aperitif to the mix and your mouth feels like it's been patioed. And you should see what they've done with Monster Munch. It's similar to what Steve Martin has done to the Pink Panther films, an ugly thing indeed. But because of this culinary blindspot, every few months I drive back to the UK and stock up on crisps and other assorted snack food products that simply don't exist in a country that scoffs at the idea of convenience food in a bag. It's a kind of reverse booze cruise, we call it the 'Junk Food Junket' and I'd done my home nation proud with a selection of Wotsits, Skips, Twiglets and chilli-flavoured crinkle cut.

The next hour was one of the longest of our lives, though gradually the artificial energy burst died down and once again calm, or as near as possible, was restored, just in time for their parents to collect them.

'Thank you, Daddy,' said Maurice, when he found me later slumped drunkenly in the orchard, the sheer hell of the afternoon still etched in my face, 'that was the best party ever!'

I looked at him, tears welling in my eyes, 'I'm really glad you enjoyed it, son. I really am, because there is no way, no way on earth, we are ever doing that again!'

'Ha!' he laughed running off. 'You said that last year!'

Late spring and early summer is fête season in France. It seems that there are more Bank Holidays (jours fériés) than actual work days, which is a good thing, and the fête de l'école is probably the family social event of the year around here; the annual end of school year production by the middle school is held in the cavernous salle des fêtes and is open to the general public as well if they're prepared to buy tickets. It is, to put it mildly, a world away from the school plays that I was ever involved in.

There's no crushing attempt at forcing nine- to ten-year-olds to interpret Molière or, as in my case, Goldoni's A Servant of Two Masters which is a subtle and nuanced piece in the hands of professionals but which was grudgingly 'stropped' through in our all-boys comprehensive and we had even volunteered for the roles. There were no volunteers here, however, as the whole school was roped in and Samuel, who had played the major role the previous year, was largely relegated to the chorus, much to his chagrin. He has, since last year's triumph, set his heart on becoming an actor and therefore being asked to 'fill in' a succession of minor characters was difficult for him but possibly good practice for the potentially lean years to come.

Of course, the danger with insisting that every child play a role (sometimes quite obviously against their will) is that the quality may dip occasionally as some poor kid, feeling pressganged into public performance, may just offer up their lines in much the same way as a hostage might be forced to read a eulogy by their captors. The words are there, but the subtext and the body language just scream 'For the love of God, help me please!'

Last year's spectacle was a sprightly production about the people of the world; there were good songs, some nice set pieces and the 'message' about getting on with different people was clear and not too heavy. This year, however, was a more ambitious project. A new departure from the traditions of message and parable; this year they decided to dramatise their school trip. Like I say, it was ambitious. The trip to Île d'Oléron for five days in March had already left its mark with Samuel's virus but this was an opportunity to show those who hadn't gone, us parents in other words, what exactly had taken place. The fact that the vast majority of 'us parents' were relieved not to have been there at all and had in fact enjoyed a few days of relative peace and quiet wasn't considered, as here were the full five days in minute detail.

I remember my school trips and can only say that I would have been horrified if any of them had been dramatised for public consumption. Some of the more ambitious trips our boys' school organised were taken in conjunction with a local mixed school, which made the whole thing far more of a learning experience than most parents realised; but this was obviously a sanitised version of Samuel's break. Though, just exactly what details they left out was difficult to imagine as after two hours of bum-numbing performance the whole thing felt longer than the trip itself, and Thérence decided to add extra entertainment for those sitting around us by pretending to have his own burping competition. Almost two hours of detail about what they ate, the coach journey there and who had vomited on it and a list of every species living in the sea just off the West coast of France was enlivened massively by a strange vignette where the headmistress had apparently broken her nose by walking into a wall. It would be cruel to suggest that the damage may have been self-inflicted after a few days away in the company of a hundred or so schoolchildren, but it was news to us anyway and a brave acknowledgement that not everything had gone completely to plan.

The whole thing culminated in a harmonised version of Trenet's 'La Mer' which was very well received, though the encore that followed felt a bit forced as the audience by this point was decidedly fidgety and ready for a drink and refreshments. Of course, this being France, 'refreshments' meant a five-course meal with a full bar. The parents had prepared the amuse-bouches to go with the aperitifs and I personally had contributed mini croques monsieurs and some smoked salmon and watercress pinwheels, both of which I was very proud of and so while Samuel was asking me to deconstruct his performance I may, unforgivably, have been distracted trying to see how my food was going down with the locals instead.

Samuel was pleased with how it had gone and was obviously relieved that the whole thing, the months of rehearsals and the pressure, was now finally over and they could all get on with their lives. The evening had, in fact, barely begun and the first course of the meal wasn't served until half-nine as the band started late and as always with these things, there was a raffle to be endured and speeches and congratulations and so on. This was to be the headmistress's last year, possibly as a result of the nose incident, and there were many heartfelt congratulations on a job well done, all of which pushed the meal back further and further but that simply doesn't matter here.

There was no-one stomping their feet restlessly saying it was too late to be keeping kids up (I may have done once or twice actually) and as dessert arrived at a quarter to midnight, the whole thing resembled more a successful French wedding rather than a school play as children ran around everywhere and old women danced together to the jaunty strains of old-time musette. Loud, animated discussions were taking place at every table as the bar did a roaring trade and Samuel, playing one of his most important roles to date, was able to go to the bar for me and keep me well-stocked with French-language improving wine. I know! Sending a child to the bar for you! One can only imagine the drama some people would make out of that.

We were one of the first groups to leave, at around one in the morning, and we only did so then because we needed to check on the zoo at home, but it was a great evening. We had been in the area a few years by now and had been told by some that being 'accepted' around here could be very difficult, it's a very close-knit, rural community. Large families all living in the same area inevitably means that 'outsiders', while not being ignored exactly, find it difficult to integrate and that, socially at least, people tend to stick with their own. We had found it quite the opposite. We have good friends who we can rely on and the community, largely via the schools and seeing other parents, has welcomed us warmly to the point where we are a fixture and that feels good. It means also that I feel less guilty about leaving Natalie and the boys when I go to work on long trips. I know that they're not alone.

Having said that, I would still much rather be at home obviously which is why when the summer holiday rolls around and Natalie and the boys want to go somewhere else, I'd rather stay put in my own house for once. There are people who would pay thousands to have what we have just for a couple of weeks' holiday so I don't see the point in us paying thousands to find something else that we already have. A holiday for me would be at home, a holiday for them is away from home.

I thought about this as I sat on the private beach of our campsite just outside of Biarritz. There's something about sitting on a deserted beach surrounded by dead jellyfish that makes you take stock. I once swore revenge on the entire jellyfish species for stinging me in Tunisia, but these flaccid, dehydrated beasts couldn't do any harm to anyone now and in a way I felt a kind of affinity with them; spineless creatures who had ended up in a place they didn't want to be.

We'd been to this campsite before and it's a luxury, four-star affair with, like I said, a private beach, nice restaurant, good shop, friendly, welcoming atmosphere, etc. – but it's still a campsite. The first time we came we brought a large tent and it seemed like it took most of the holiday to get the bloody thing up, then our blow-up bed developed a slow puncture so that by the time the thing had completely deflated, about five in the morning, you'd wake up with a mouth full of grit. Samuel got bronchitis. I swore then never to sleep in another tent; so we had come back the following year in a caravan. Now, I can see the attraction of a caravan (sort of) but it's a stressful business. There's this stereotypical image of a driver towing a caravan and being completely oblivious to the traffic behind him, the beeping horns, headlights flashing and so on. Well I can tell you from experience that it's not ignorance, it's fear. Towing a caravan is incredibly hard work and an intense seven-hour drive while the kids argue relentlessly and your wife tells you constantly that 'you're going too fast' is no way to start a holiday.

Just positioning the thing on a campsite was difficult enough. The emplacement given to us was on a slight slope, but a slight slope in a caravan seems like a vertical incline and as I unhooked the thing from the car it began to roll down the 'hill' dragging me with it.

'Natalie! Put the chocks behind the wheels!' I shouted as I tried to stop the thing from crushing next door's tent.

'I think we should move nearer the hedge,' she suggested, completely unaware that I was losing control, in all senses.

'It'll be nearer the bloody sea in a minute, put the chocks in. NOW!'

'Well, there's no need…'

'NOW!' I screamed. It was an angry start to the holiday, and it somewhat set the tone.

The plan was that the two eldest, Samuel and Maurice, would sleep in a tent and Natalie, Thérence and me would be 'indoors'. I was utterly naive to think things actually might pan out that way though. It wasn't the boys' fault, there were violent storms almost every night so the tent wasn't really an option. We all slept in the tiny caravan which was resting precariously at an angle and which was not designed to sleep five. The evenings when we were trapped in by the weather developed their own theme, games like 'How Many Times Daddy Would Bang his Head', which the boys thought was great fun. Natalie was, as always, calmness and serenity personified. I hated it.

I tried to be positive, I really did, I tried to like it but I'm just not a camper. The filth, the lack of space, the damp, it all got to me. And there's this mantra that families on campsites keep repeating, 'It's good for the kids. It's good for the kids.' So is sensible footwear, so are cereal bars and non-alcoholic drinks, but I want nothing to do with them either. It won't wash with me that kind of delusion, I cannot for the life of me see how a family being holed up together in a damp tent or caravan is in any way enjoyable, and this 'sardine' approach to family living seems to me to be a tacit admission that, in most cases, there is no more sex to be had in the relationship. I mean, where are you going to go?

'Get the kids to bed, love, I'll meet you in the chemical toilet Waste Disposal Cubicle for a quick feel up... five minutes OK?'

It may be good for the kids, but it can put marriages under almost intolerable pressure. In the four years we've been going to campsites we've seen some huge marital rows, after some of which you just can't see how the marriage could ever continue.

And I don't care how 'luxurious' it's supposed to be, the word 'luxury' shouldn't be used anywhere near a place that has communal toilet facilities. The men's toilets in the morning were a cross between the farting scene in Blazing Saddles and a refugee camp – though, to be fair, so is Stansted Airport on a Sunday morning and so is the Comedy Store dressing room before the late show on a Saturday night. But still, this is my holiday and I've paid for this?

'Clean Living Under Difficult Circumstances' is a very loose definition of what it is to be a mod, and campsites test that to its very limits. To maintain standards while everyone around you has clearly decided to stop fighting the elements and just give up on personal hygiene and sartorial basics takes some doing, but is thoroughly worth the effort because everyone on a campsite is smug about something. The retired couples are smug about their massive caravans and satellite dishes so they can watch Countdown from the South-West coast of France, the surfers are smug just carrying a board around the place with their wetsuits unbuttoned to their waist, the youth are smug about being young, and it goes on. Camping, caravanning, motor-homing is big business and the level of equipment and technology is staggering. On the night we arrived, while I struggled to prevent our caravan from falling off the precipice, a man opposite was manoeuvring his monster of a caravan with a remote control! He looked at me when he'd finished: I was covered in sweat, my trousers covered in grease, my Fred Perry shirt still stoically done up to the top and he with not a mark on him, just a patronising smirk on his very slappable face.

'It's still only a caravan, mate,' I muttered under my breath.

There's a limit to how many twenty-something skateboarders, white blokes with dreadlocks, youths pretending that baguettes are an amusing male-genital doppelganger, screaming kids, days with sand in your pants discomfort, hurricane winds and nights sleeping at an angle near a cliff top that I can put up with, and Natalie caught me snorting in derision as the tallest, blondest, fittest family I had ever seen erected the world's most complicated tent in just under two minutes.

'Isn't it tiring being you?' she asked.

And despite my obvious discomfort on the fraught journey back she was already planning the following year's camping trip. Already she had invited her parents and her sister, her brother-in-law and their children to spend time with 'us' at very same campsite.