|GISCARD LE SURVIVANT / SEBASTIEN - 1920 - FRANCE
What you're going to read is my biography. It's authentic, I swear by the back exhaust pipe of my cousin Anaclet's Juva 4.
I'm born in the middle of the 1920's on the Ice sea. At this time people listened especially Maurice Chevalier, nay Louis Armstrong's trumpet for the fashionablest but for my part, I had soonest eyes only for the piano with braces and eigthies buttons. I frequented many schools, many forms and between them, great reputed : the ante-first form (called "seventh" at time) in Saint-Amand-Roche-Savine.
It was guided by Mrs. Germont which we, black dressed children, nicknamed "the despot"... It gives me a cold back just to think about this. She forbad us to pinch some apples at the neighbour"s orchard, a neighbourd called Grabougnac.
Someday, I had just about had enough of that, I pushed off and said "Cheerio, goodnight all !" and I became Treasury Inspector.
In the 1950's, interested in the fashionable movements, I found the C.N.I.P. (Circle of Intrinsically Poor Nudists). Indeed, much before that became fashionable, I've been fascinated by the India and what wasn't my surprise when, leafing throught a Match specimen, I noticed that people of this subcontinent were not only impoverished but lived totally naked. What a daring !
I wanted straight away make this fashionable in France but I don't believe fifty years later we can label it great success. Most certainly, that allowed me to be elected deputy of the Cap d'Agde but my no-wearing of suit forbad me unfortunately the admission into the temple of national representation. Exasperated by so much ostracism, I brusquely decided to try my luck on Golf Drouot's springboard.
Much good may it to me for De Gaulle himself, in the theatre like every evening and who had noticed me when I took up all the hit songs of the Shadows or Gene Vincent, had come to see me at the exit and, whithout humming and hawing, put forward me for the office of Phynancial Stick's Great Holder.
As in a daydreaming, I coudn't believe it and had to catch my left big toe (like we make in chi-kong) to realize it was true, that I did'nt dream and that I was awake. In a certain sense, I had a feeling that I made a daydreaming. When I woke up the next day, I went and went on a binge in Delambre Street and fell definitely in the middle of my fourth bottle of white vine. I remember dancing at one time the mached-potatoes on the roff of a Simca 1000 and then nothing...
What a time even so when you think of it !
My Great Holder office thwarted my first naturist vocations so I roughly dropped these and prefered to dedicate me to eat some mustardish watercress soup at the time of summit meetings with the distinguishedest people of the Parisian and Clermontese gotha. You have to know in fact that the desire stung me for a while to return in the coal merchant land of my childhood. That's what I did on several occcasions at the time of weekends which, though orgiastic, were very well provided with good fare.
I went down with Mike Jobert and Mike Crépeau, my chums of those days, at the steering wheel of an overdone Aronde Monaco that we stole at the Vanves' Gate in a fiesta evening. We pulled up on the way in Montargis at Little Huguette's house, Mike's acquaintance who kept a transport café on the road to Orléans.
However at table we roared with laughter, we had the excuse at least taking good times. What a time it was certainly !
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