So what happened to the Loto then?

Often, immediately prior to the festival dinners, such as the one we have just had to celebrate 14^th July - Bastille Day, we have a bingo session held on the village Square. For some reason they call it ‘loto’ here, which of course means something quite different in Britain, a cause of great confusion to the newly arrived Brit who thinks he/she may be about to become a multi millionaire. Tombola, too, commonly a pseudonym for bingo in Britain is but a humble raffle in these parts.  

  

Sad as it may sound I LOVE bingo. It is fantastic and I always make a point of attending. It’s not the sort of event you get nowadays in the UK where Simon or Jason or Samantha, the ‘presenters’ in some remote, hi-tech studio in Leeds, or wherever, transmit randomly selected numbers electronically down a fibre optic, at which point, ten thousand purple rinsed lovelies, scattered around halls all over the country stare eagerly at a digital light board, poking it furiously every time one of their numbers comes up and even more furiously when it doesn’t, causing a mini tornado from the consequent oscillating of ‘wings’.

  

Oh no! This is for real. We have fifty or so of the village’s doyennes of the ‘Quine’ (the local call for a winning card) together with me and a handful of equally enthusiastic interlopers, keenly eyeing the boards in front of us. Join the queue and pay your money - it usually costs a Euro for a card and this will last the whole session – usually between 12 and 20 ‘quines’, depending on the prizes available. It is important when buying the cards, to take a sufficient quantity of dried maize kernels to cover the numbers – none of your flashy electronics here. However, the real diehards, now sport little plastic counters with ferrous edges, which can be swept up, quickly and easily with the swish of one’s magnetic wand.

 

 

A drink from the bar and we are ready to rumble.

It's all in the action.........

Our Mayor, Jacques Libretti, appears to have secured, for life, the job of Jason or Simon or Samantha and, balls safely bagged in his lap, he gives them a lengthy and rigorous shaking under the table and with a contented smile and to our great relief, eventually produces the first number and away we go, taut with the anticipation of winning a hamper of fruit, a ‘barquette’ of meat or a romantic meal for two (wine included) at the local pizzeria. Not for the faint hearted this stuff.

  

Having been brought up on “Kelly’s eye, two fat ladies and legs eleven,” I was fascinated and delighted to hear that we have a similar argot to announce the appearance of each of the ninety numbered balls from the ‘mayoral sporran’; obscure references to obscure events or characters in history for the most part but all seemingly relevant to those who play as, like when I was a boy, the mention of them incites the players to respond with even more bizarre whoops, whistles, quacks and other suggestive remarks. (Note: In all my playing days here, I have never heard anyone shout “Shake ‘em up Jacques” as they anxiously and interminably wait for that elusive one last number to win. Strange that!)

  

A meeting of minds

It was at one of these that I was introduced to the wonderful ‘Berti’s’ - Sybil, Nigel, Michael, Sam and Issy, collectively an object lesson in how to bring up children and how to get the most out of parents. They own an old village house, which they have been renovating, slowly for the past seven years or so. They had decided to bring the kids to France whilst they were young enough to spend a couple of years here without it affecting their formal British (Scottish) education. I am so pleased they chose Margon as they are the most delightful group of individual characters imaginable.

  

As is my wont, I digress. Back to the ‘loto’. 

This was Sybil and the kids’ first time, having just recently arrived in the village – bingo virgins all. Now, I should explain that the norm is for each game to last only until a player has covered all five numbers on one of the three horizontal, lines on the card – ergo, a ‘quine’. Unlike in the UK, it is not usual to continue to a ‘full house’ for a much larger prize, like a chicken (ready butchered of course), for example. No, this is not the case - except and unless the Mayor indicates it and then invariably only on the last game of the session. So, we arrive at the final game and, unheard by all but the most devoted and regular of local bingotees, Jacques announces a full house and it’s eyes down one last time.  

  

Barely 25 numbers into the game, a wee Scottish voice cries, excitedly, “Oui, oui” to the dismay of every other winged wonder present. “C’est pas possible. Merde alors !” and other exclamations of disaffection and xenophobia before discovering that the lovely Sybil had but the one line covered at which point she visibly showed her wish for the ground to open up and swallow her forever. With some relief and feeling of contentment and a few satisfied smiles, it was eyes down again. I felt so sorry for her and, in true Galahad style, shouted some comforting words to her in a forlorn attempt to ease the shame.  

Neither of us won the chicken but we have become the firmest of friends and long may that continue.

As for this years ‘loto’, would you believe, it wasn’t held and Bastille Day passed without a grain of maize being spilt. I have yet to find out who is responsible for disappointing us fans but be assured, dear reader, I will not rest until it is restored to the festive agenda. Shake ‘em up Jacques!