Monsieur Shouty-Pants: A Cautionary Tale

(I’m half French, and the following takes place in Paris when I’m flying back from a family event. My flight is cancelled, and the inevitable queue of disgruntled passengers is starting to build around the customer service desk. I am standing behind an American chap who is in full how-dare-you-cancel-my-flight, do-you-not-know-who-I-am mode, made worse by the fact that he is shouting in English and the representative is clearly French. He eventually storms off, I suspect without the ticket he needs. The representative shakes her head and gives a shrug as I approach.)

Me: “Quel gentilhomme charmant!” *What a charming fellow!*

Representative: “Ah, je ne m’en fous pas!” *I don’t give a f***!*

(She then realises what she’s said and turns bright red.)

Me: *in hysterics* “Ah, oui, moi je n’ai pas envie de le f***** non plus!” *I wouldn’t want to f*** him either!*

(She made sure I got on the next flight. I didn’t manage to get an upgrade, but I suspect I got home much more quickly than Monsieur Shouty-Pants.)