Monkey Hanger

Sometimes, believe it or not, I open my big fat mouth and start talking without thinking?

When the, very French, President of the R&D organization asked me where I came from, I told him I was born in Hartlepool. I might have gotten away with it, had I not compounded things by telling him that this was where they hung the monkey. As soon as I said it, I knew it was a mistake. But it was too late.

"Ils ont pendu un singe? Mais, pourquoi?"

A very good question. Why indeed?

And so it was, that I found myself telling the story of a French man-of-war shipwrecked off the coast of Hartlepool during the Napoleonic war. The sole survivor was the ship's monkey - clinging to a wrecked timber. Unfortunately, the monkey was washed up on the beach at Hartlepool.

Now, the good people of Hartlepool knew they were at war with France, but they had never met a Frenchman before. They questioned the monkey, but the monkey gibbered unintelligibly in what they thought must be French. The monkey was accused of espionage, tried as a spy, found guilty and summarily executed by hanging.

Since that day, the good people of Hartlepool have never quite lived this down, and are still called 'Monkey-Hangers'.

To my relief, Jean-Pierre burst out laughing. He shook his head at this wonderful example of the isolationist, parochial behaviour of the British. (Jean-Pierre is no longer with us, but God only knows what he would have made of Brexit.)

Later, I overheard him repeating the story to Didier. I didn't quite catch Didier's response but their body language screamed 'idiots'.

Still, they had the last laugh: they left me to pick up the tab at the restaurant that night.