Samantha Brick

Well, why not? Let's contribute to her blatant self-publicity. After all, she lives about an hour up the road from Château Fingers, is, like my wife, married to a troglodyte and publishes in the English-speaking French press, just like I do from time to time, so we're connected by more than just self-delusion.

Samantha Brick is not bad-looking. In fact, she looks like the kind of girl I used to see down the pub of a Friday evening, retching in the gutter whilst waiting for a taxi home. I'm not not being malicious, just truthful about English urban life in the seventies and eighties. Juicy, pert titties abound in French cities, but in rural Lot they probably do not, hence my compatriot's apparently high opinion of her appearance. Bottle-blonde Tracys and Sharons do not abound in Saint-Cirq-Lapopie the way they do in Coventry city centre, so our Sam is probably not lying when she says she's the object of continual male attention. In fact, the whole episode reminds me of the time I was watching Howard Stern in the USA and this girl came on, claiming she was better-looking than Pamela Anderson. She was quite blatantly not and came in for what we could politely call a bit of ribbing from the shock jock show host. In the end, I wasn't sure what the point of the exercise was. The girl didn't get her point across, she remained plainer than Pamela and had to hear a lot of abuse to boot. Why do women do this to themselves?

All became clear a few days later. Our Sam may not be a great journalist, but people are now looking for her work in the press, which I'm damned sure they weren't before last week. Well played, Ms Brick, and kudos to you for having the courage to flaunt yourself with a surname like that, too…

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