by David Sugarman

Each year, I’m as interested as any other language nerd to hear the list of new words incorporated into the Oxford English Dictionary. How many would I use? How many have I never heard of? How many stem from technologies or cultural phenomena that are a no-go zone as far as I’m concerned?

Among this year’s crop, “selfie”, the word of the year, is part of my vocabulary although not my habits; my own TV-watching stops just short of the “binge-watch”; and as for my relationship with “twerking”, dear reader, you will have to use your imagination…

English is a highly fluid and adaptable language. Neologisms come easily; for a long list of reasons, it is the international language in which technological breakthroughs and new fashions and trends are generally first described. Just a little stretching and twisting of linguistic materials, and a term is coined.

Spare a thought, though, for the French. When expanding their vocabulary is concerned, much of the time they have to play catch-up. Naturally enough, France’s young people are constantly creating their own impenetrable argot, as do young people speaking practically every language known to man. But other portions of the population have a harder time pushing their language forward. Defenders of the French language battle valiantly against the rising tide of Anglicisms and have scored a few notable victories over the years (such as in the early 1970s, when “logiciel” was coined as a translation of “software”).

There is a relatively little-known annual event held in Le Havre called Le Festival du Nouveau Mot (scheduled, apparently, to coincide with the first bottles of Beaujolais Nouveau). Since 2002, the Festival has elected its “word of the year”. The list of past winners is not particularly inspiring: the best of a poor bunch in my opinion are “ordinosaure” (a prehistoric computer) and “attachiant” (describing a very annoying person you can’t get rid of). Both terms are portmanteau words (ordinateur + dinosaure and attachant + chiant). Frankly, once you’ve got beyond a smile of recognition, you can hardly say that either of them will change your life.

This year’s “word of the year”, I can breathlessly report, is “plénior”. It’s a combination, it seems, of plénitude, meaning “richness”, with an echo of plaisir, or pleasure, and senior… that good old English adjective that the French misuse as a noun to refer to older people, probably originally a contraction of “senior citizen”. So a “plénior” is someone getting on a bit who lives life to the full. Rather underwhelming as neologisms go. I wonder what the runner-up was…

Meanwhile, as I only live 45 minutes from Le Havre, I will make a point of attending next year’s festival, where I intend to campaign for a word I have just invented, which you will find (subtly translated) as the title of this article: Nouvocabulaire. I am toying with spelling it Nouveaucabulaire: a subliminal nod to the Beaujolais Nouveau on offer can’t do its chances of winning the vote any harm!

Choking On the Millefeuille

by David Sugarman

One of the oddest things about local government in France is that there’s no real difference between the role of the council administering an enormous city or a tiny village. It’s just a question of scale. Once a village is recognised as being a commune as opposed to being a hameau, it has a maire and a conseil municipal. Honestly, that’s what it’s called, even in a rural village of barely a hundred inhabitants. I should know: I’m a member of one such council myself.

The next set of “municipal” elections in France is scheduled for March 23 and 30, 2014, a two-round election. Over the coming months, I intend to devote a few posts to this ongoing saga. I will divide my focus between what’s going on in some of the major cities, where there are highly significant party political implications, and what will be happening where I live, the small corner of Normandy called the Pays de Caux where I have spent almost eighteen years and have been a conseiller municipal for the past thirteen years.

Before embarking on any of this, though, I think some background information about the structure of French local government may come in useful. There are so many layers that the French often refer to it as a millefeuille. That’s one of those delicious but rather messy pâtisseries made up of alternating layers of puff pastry and a creamy filling. Not quite a thousand layers, but who’s counting?

The lowest layer consists of local councils, of which there are in excess of 36,000 in France. In major cities, they resemble any other country’s city councils. But in very small towns and villages, the conseil municipal has somewhat wider powers than the equivalent local authority, which in Britain it would be a town council or parish council. Its tax-raising powers enable it to adjust local taxation to the level of services and amenities it provides. These taxes include property tax, two types of land tax and business tax. It receives state grants and a range of subsidies for specific projects.

The next level up consists of groups of communes. In rural areas such as my own, these are called communautés de communes, but in urban zones they have a slightly different form and are called communauté d’agglomération (an agglomération is a conurbation). They exercise powers on a collective basis that were once held by communes on an “each to his own” basis, such as rubbish collection and recycling or promoting business parks, and they are made up of conseillers municipaux delegated by each member commune. The mode of election to these bodies will be radically altered in 2014.

Now a few words about the cantons and the regions. There are 96 départements in metropolitan France (i.e. mainland France plus Corsica), to which are added five overseas départements (run in exactly the same way, but situated in the Caribbean or the Indian Ocean). Each département is divided into a number of cantons, each of which elects councillors to sit on the conseil général (confusingly, the name given to the département-level council). Meanwhile, a région is made up of between two and eight départements, and there are regional councillors elected to sit on the conseil régional. The next round of conseil général and conseil régional elections, in 2015, is due to see very substantial reforms introduced. Not before time, you may say, but not all the proposals seem sensible when viewed from a rural standpoint. More about this in the future.

Meanwhile, if having a conseil municipal, a communauté de communes or d’agglomération, a conseil général and a conseil régional were not enough (and I have spared you the federations of communes that administer water services, electricity, school infrastructures and plenty more), we come to the topmost level of local authority: the préfet, a high-ranking civil servant who represents the French State. There is one préfet per département, as well as one per région. A préfet is the main man (or woman). What s/he says goes! This can, and does, entail countermanding decisions taken by democratically elected councils at any of the other levels (albeit less often today than at one time).

When I was writing about the millefeuille earlier, I saw that this particular pastry is called a Napoleon in some English-speaking countries. Very appropriate! The roots of this system lie in the rigid centralisation brought about by many of Napoleon Bonaparte’s reforms. Although these days there is a high level of autonomy at local level, it is firmly controlled by the State. When you have taken part in as many conseil municipal and communauté de communes meetings as I have, you realise that for all the Liberté, Égalité and Fraternité, the liberty is sometimes illusory!

Mere Formalities

by David Sugarman

If someone French asks you to send something “par mail” don’t hunt around for a postage stamp. Sending something by snail-mail is known as “par courrier” (just to heighten the potential for confusion, this has nothing to do with using a courier on a motorbike: that would be “par coursier”… but I digress). “Par mail” is actually French for “by e-mail.” When e-mailing first got off the ground in the 90s, the term “e-mail” was used in French. But when the hyphen started getting dropped, it looked too much like “émail”, which is French for “enamel”. (I hope you’re following at the back.)

It was time for the muscular intervention of France’s linguistic guardians, the Académie Française (est. 1635). Just the people for the job. First of all, they had to Frenchify the spelling. Thus was born the word “mél”. In the circles in which I move, the birth of this barbarism passed largely unnoticed. It may have evoked too many bad memories of the Spice Girls. So the “immortals” (as the French call their Académiciens) had another think, and came up with “courriel” (i.e. “courrier électronique”… e-mail… geddit?). This has found official acceptance, and is seen on forms and documents, but I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone say it. No, it’s “Envoyez-le-moi par mail.”

So how about the actual content of the e-mail? Well, it will come as no surprise to anyone who knows much about the country where “Yours sincerely” becomes a subtle variation on the theme of “Je vous prie d’agréer, Madame, Monsieur, l’expression de mes sentiments distingués” that things are not simple.

First things first. Starting. My professional e-mails in English generally begin “Hi David”. But that wouldn’t do for the French. Sometimes it’s “Cher Monsieur”, as in a traditional letter; sometimes just a more starchy “Monsieur”; if generated by a computer “Cher David Sugarman” (probably telling me I’ve won €1,000,000). The English “Hi” can become “Salut, David”, but I come across it less often than the English equivalent. Mostly, it’s “Bonjour, David”. What’s wrong with that? Well, I think it’s impersonal. “Bonjour” is what you say when you walk into a crowded bank or baker’s shop.

The next problem is that you have to keep up a brisk and familiar style. French is not good at that. Any language that encourages formal expressions like “J’ai l’honneur de…”, “Je me permets de…” and “Je vous serais reconnaissant de bien vouloir…” has little room for the direct language that is part and parcel of e-mailing in English. For me, the e-mails I receive in French seem too florid: for my correspondents, those I write are probably too abrupt.

As for the issue of whether to use “tu” or “vous”, it seems a lot less clear-cut in the e-mail environment than in the real world. Here, at least, the French seem to be willing to compromise on the stilted formality that comes with a two-tier form of address. Quite often, people with whom I have a “vouvoiement” relationship use the “tu”-form in an e-mail. Naïvely imagining they must be signaling a desire for a closer, warmer relationship with me, I duly switch to “tu” the next time I speak on the phone to them… only to hear that they immediately use “vous” back to me.

The sign-off, fortunately, is never “Veuillez agréer” etc. At one time, “Sincères salutations” was quite widely used, but business and professional e-mails mostly end with “Cordialement” or “Bien cordialement”, which has pretty much the same weight as the now ubiquitous “Best regards” in English. Some of my correspondents include it in their e-mail signatures. Personally, though, I’m not too impressed when it appears as “Cdt” or “Bien cdt”. I know I was saying that French in courriels should be briefer, but that’s going too far.

It Don’t Matter… Or Does It?

by David Sugarman

When song lyrics started to be printed on LP covers (I know I’m showing my age), a wonderful resource for English language-learning was created. In more recent times, dozens of lyrics websites have sprung up, and I’m sure there’s barely a song of any vintage for which the words can’t be found online. Generations of music fans have been able to grapple with unfamiliar words in a foreign language, ending up by understanding and assimilating vast amounts of English from singing along, picking up the music of the language from the music itself. Numerous French people have told me that their English owes more to The Beatles than to studying or travelling.

The sorry fact is that French popular music has never been particularly popular outside the French-speaking world. This is not to denigrate la chanson française. The giants of the genre have played a colossal part in defining modern French culture. But sadly, the remarkably rich lyrics of Georges Brassens and Jacques Brel, to name but two, are precluded from playing much of a part in the French-learning experience for most foreigners because they don’t have a rock backbeat. Their influence has little impact outside the confines of the domestic market. Maurice Chevalier, Sacha Distel, Charles Aznavour and Céline Dion (who’s actually from Quebec) are some of the rare French singers capable of giving entire performances in English.

In exceptional cases, the star quality of a French singer is such that Brits or Americans are prepared to pay good money to go along and not understand a word. When Edith Piaf sang a song called J’m’en fous pas mal to English-speaking audiences, I hate to think what they thought it meant. (“I really couldn’t give a damn” gets close, by the way, but it’s very idiomatic and includes an element that is not really vulgar but may give the impression of being so…).

Informal speech patterns are a staple ingredient of English song lyrics, of course. “It doesn’t mean a thing if it hasn’t got that swing” doesn’t quite work, somehow! When loose grammar works in lyrics, we accept it easily. Singers are “in character”, it’s their natural expression. Though it can be completely incongruous: is anyone else as irritated as I am by the Malaysian Tourist Board ad on TV in which an Asian woman sings, “It don’t matter how and when”?

It sometimes amazes me that people who have learned much of their English from song lyrics don’t commit more solecisms in their speech of the “I ain’t got no” or “she don’t” variety. By and large, French song lyrics tend not to break grammar rules, although there may be a healthy dollop of slang to negotiate. English people trying to improve their French could do worse than download a few French songs on their iPods and, doing their best Piaf imitation, belt out: “Non, je ne rrregrrrette rrrien…

Welcome To The Blog


by David Sugarman

Hello, and welcome to “By David Sugarman,” a blog in which I give vent to some of my experiences as someone who has lived and worked in France for well over 30 years. Just don’t expect this to be A Year in Normandy or How To Do Up Your Holiday Home And Avoid Paying Capital Gains Tax.

I spent almost 15 years in Paris and the suburbs and have now been in Normandy for around 18 years. In that time, as a translator and writer (and before that a trainer) I have dealt with way over 50 companies and communications agencies, many of them household names (if you’re interested, there’s a list on I have also been a local councillor since 2001 (it’s actually a bit less grand than it sounds). I’ve been immersed in French media and culture. So I have things to say about French society. Yes, I’m an Englishman, but I’m also proud to hold joint French nationality. So I am happy to identify with a lot of what goes on here. But not everything! As this blog progresses, I expect it will be the latter category that preoccupies me. That’s human nature for you!

Because I work with the French language practically every day of my life, I will have plenty of things to say about that, too. Don’t be put off if you don’t speak French, I’ll be making the language posts as accessible as possible.

So please come along here whenever you feel the urge, like and share anything that takes your fancy and make comments anywhere you think you have something interesting to add. I look forward to reading your contributions.

All the best,



by David Sugarman

When I was studying French at university, the language classes included weekly translation exercises. They had very little to do with the commercial and corporate translation that has been my stock-in-trade for many a long year. They were almost invariably extracts from literature: novels, biographies, travel books and so on. One week, there would be a chunk of Proust to translate into English, the next week a chunk of Virginia Woolf to translate into French.

Yes, one wasn’t just translating from the foreign language into one’s own, but also from one’s own language into the foreign one. This is a practice of which, in professional terms, I am highly critical. I always insist that a translator should only ever translate into his or her mother tongue (and in my view very few people are sufficiently bilingual to be able to swing either way, as it were). But at university, we were expected to translate into French.

We were struggling to master all the grammatical subtleties of the language, so I would guess our written French left something to be desired. Try as one might to get all the genders right, to make all the adjectives agree and to conjugate all the irregular verbs correctly, the result could be decidedly iffy. One of my tutors had a very good marking system. A red “Gr” in the margin meant a grammatical slip, and you were given the benefit of the doubt; if it was a “Grr” it meant a serious grammatical error that you shouldn’t be making at university level; and woe betide you if it reached the proportions of a “Grrr!”

We all make silly mistakes when we write in our own language, never mind a foreign one. When I speak, my brain has practically completed the sentence as I open my mouth to begin voicing it, or at least has a good idea in what direction the sentence is going. But because it takes longer to write or type than to speak, I often start a sentence without quite knowing how I am going to finish it. This is just one cause of writing errors. My fingers having a mind of their own is another one: they get so used to certain key combinations that they double-guess my brain a lot of the time.

I don’t know why, but, for me at any rate, e-mails are the worst problem. It’s amazing how often I fail to notice my mistakes until it’s just too late. I’ve just clicked on “Send” and in the nano-seconds before the e-mail vanishes from my screen I see them, large, clear, practically with an arrow pointing at them. How can they have escaped me before? Thank goodness my old tutor at university isn’t there to scrawl a great big red “Grrr!” in the margins of my e-mails!

That’s My Interpretation

by David Sugarman

As someone who has made a living out of translation for more than 25 years ago, I have quite a high regard for interpreters. Let me explain. As a translator, I can spend half an hour, more sometimes, researching a single word. I can change my mind time and again fiddling with the order of words in a sentence. I can stop for a coffee whenever I want.

Not so an interpreter. No repetition, hesitation or deviation. No phoning a friend. No chance to say, “I’m sorry, I haven’t a clue.” No leafing through dusty tomes, no googling. And certainly no question of strolling around the office for five minutes, looking out of the window, going to spend a penny or surreptitiously checking your Facebook page while waiting for inspiration to alight on your shoulder.

In short, it’s a totally different skill from translating, and one I’m perfectly happy to confess that I don’t possess. From my vantage point, it seems more difficult than the one I do possess, but that’s probably just my inferiority complex chiming in. Interpreters and translators try to do different things: interpreters focus on the moment, while a translator’s work is intended to last.

Matters relating to interpreting have caused me a bit of grief a time or two in the past. Round about 1990, it cost us a good customer, a very high-profile market research company specialising in car clinics (displays of new models or prototypes which hundreds of potential purchasers inspect and comment on, generating vast quantities of material to be translated). On one occasion, our customer was organising a focus group in Paris for a British car manufacturer and asked us to provide the foreign visitors with what’s known in the trade as “whispered” interpreting. “Sorry,” we said, “we don’t do interpreting.” “But you know all about the cars and you’re used to translating what people say about them,” said our soon-to-be-ex-customer. We were adamant and – in those days, at least – so very non-commercial. “No, interpreting and translating are quite different things. We can try to find an interpreter for you, though…” The by-now-firmly-ex-customer was unimpressed, and we never heard the sound of his voice again.

A year or two later, another customer, a small Paris-based communications agency, was organising a two-day international conference in Barcelona for senior managers of Elf. This time, the customer didn’t demur when we said we couldn’t do it ourselves, but could lay on specialists. So we set about recruiting teams of interpreters – probably three or four languages and two people per language. The customer asked me to fly out to Barcelona to liaise with the interpreters when they arrived. Which I did… but they didn’t. An hour or so before the event began, the customer, whose placid and laid-back attitude I had until then admired, turned on me: precisely what did I intend to do about it? Frankly, I thought my best course of action at that point was to do a runner. Let’s just say there was no one more relieved than me when a couple of taxis drew up. Flight delays and problems getting their equipment through customs, I think. Elf’s senior managers remained unaware of how close they had come to having simultaneous interpretation supplied by me in three languages, only one of which I speak.

Fortunately, many years passed with no more nasty moments of this type. (Of other types, yes, but that’s not the subject here.) But ten years or so ago, I had one more brush with my inadequacies in this field. I heard that the former England cricket captain Adam Hollioake was planning to walk, sail and cycle from Edinburgh to Tangiers to raise money for charity. The route would bring him through Dieppe, which is close to where I live. I called the organisers and asked if I could help, and they said why not organise a civic reception for Adam and his team. Why not, indeed? So I made a few phone calls, pulled the odd string, and sure enough, the event duly took place the evening after they arrived, attended by the mayor of Dieppe and various other local dignitaries. Came the time for speeches. Adam Hollioake spoke briefly, explaining why he had committed to this fund-raising venture, and I stood there and translated into French. Then the mayor spoke, saying that Dieppe was proud to be associated with the venture, and I translated it into English. So far, so good. But then, somehow, a sort of public dialogue broke out between the two speakers. After two minutes, my circuits got muddled and I found myself translating the French into French and the English into English. Not my greatest moment as a linguist!

A Funny Accent

by David Sugarman

Let me get this straight right from the start: I speak French with an English accent. Now, I’m not sure that this is inherently much worse than speaking French with a Parisian or Corsican or Belgian accent, or for that matter speaking English with a Cockney or Geordie or New York accent.

In the UK – and I would guess pretty much all English-speaking countries – it’s perfectly common to come across people speaking adequate, fluent, proficient, accomplished, even bilingual English in an accent that bears traces of their original mother tongue. But for the French, this is a bit of a novelty.

I quite often come across two reactions from people, both of which drive me spare. One is from people that I’ve barely had time to meet and greet, telling me that I have an English accent. In case I hadn’t noticed. They could just have usefully pointed out that I have two eyes. Oddly, it’s quite often hairdressers that feel it is part of their remit to tell me that I’m English. Perhaps it’s how they gauge how big a tip to expect.

The other thing is when I have got some way into my dealings with them, they take it upon themselves to tell me how good my French is. Next time they’re on a bus, they’ll probably nip up front and tell the driver he’s driving well. For heaven’s sake, it’s what he does. He takes it for granted that he can do it well, he’s not looking for praise. I’ve lived in France for 30 years. I speak French. Get over it!

Jane Birkin and Charlotte Rampling, two British actresses of practically the same age, are both idolised in France. Rampling’s Englishness is undetectable in French, while Birkin’s heavily accented French does nothing to disguise her original nationality. But they are both highly articulate in French, especially Birkin defending an array of worthwhile causes. Never mind the accent, hear the words.

But oddness in other people’s accents is always in the ear of the listener. At the age of 3 or 4, my daughter, brought up in France by two British parents, was having her first real experience of playing on her own with an English kid. Her friend suddenly called out: “Hey, mum, Chloe’s got a funny accent!” But it’s hard to convey in writing the effect of this. Suffice it to say that her playmate’s dad was from Hull, his mum was from Newcastle, and each and every vowel he uttered was a diphthong betraying the influences of both parents. A funny accent, indeed!


by David Sugarman

Quite early in the foreign language-learning process, we discover that dogs and cats, cows and sheep, ducks and pigs and the vast majority of Noah’s Ark “speak” differently from one language to another. There’s even a Wikipedia page devoted to the subject of cross-linguistic onomatopoeia, from bees to snakes. Thoroughly recommended as a way of idling away the odd five minutes, especially as alongside the animal sounds there are also human noises including burping, eating and farting in dozens of languages!

This post is not going to list the most bizarre of the animal sounds, despite the inherent entertainment value that this offers, but focus on a linguistic, social and cultural conundrum posed by just one of these animal translations, and a well-known one at that. As you probably know, the English cock’s crowing of “cock-a-doodle-do” is rendered as “cocorico” in French. If anyone is coming across this information for the first time, let me say that it’s the way you say it. If declaimed with sufficient gusto, both of these apparently different calls just about pass muster. I have no confirmation of this from a reliable avian source, mind you.

In Roman times, it was pointed out by Suetonius that the name for Gaul, “Gallus”, is a homonym of “gallus”, the Latin word for a cock. I hasten to add that this is not a scene from The Life of Brian. Perhaps I should have said “rooster”. Let’s stick with that. Anyway, it’s perhaps apocryphal that this is the origin of the French nation’s identification with the rooster as a symbol of its sporting prowess, but there’s no doubting the potency of the symbol for the French. You only have to see how many live roosters French rugby fans smuggle into stadiums for international matches to realise.

Every French sporting win is celebrated with rousing cries of “Cocorico!” As such, the word has entered slightly more widespread use, to signal any victorious performance by French nationals. It may be a French company winning a major contract, a French-born Nobel Prize winner or a French film scooping the Oscars. It is used throughout the media, introducing an item on the evening news, for instance. So how would you translate it into English? It connotes a high degree of patriotic fervour, not to say chauvinism, but I’m hard pushed to do better than, “Yet another victory for France!”

Also in a sporting context, the French call just about every national team “Les Bleus”, a reference to their blue strips, and the cry of “Allez les Bleus !” is ubiquitous in sports arenas, whenever – and at whatever – France is playing. The translator can be very literal, and opt for “Come on, the Blues!” or some such, but it’s not very inspiring. Perhaps one could take inspiration from the utterly mindless football chant, the imaginative and understated words of which are “Eng-ger-land, Eng-ger-land, Eng-ger-land,” and try “F-ran-ce, F-ran-ce, F-ran-ce.”

Talking of the mindless chants used by sports crowds, there’s one that is so popular with the French that it also breaks out on every election night. Before the results are announced, supporters from every party – the good, the bad and the electorally downright ugly – gather in front of their party’s headquarters and chorus “On va gagner !” (“We’re going to win!”). As soon as the results forecast is announced, supporters of the losing parties start crying and vanish into the night, while the winners make a slick change to the words of their chant, “On va gagner !” morphing seamlessly into “On a gagné !” (“We’ve won!”). Thus far, I have not been required to render either of these in convincing English.