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 www.nouvelangle.fr). 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.