My Father the Francophone
I could only have been about ten years old. It was a family holiday, which meant we were going to get to our destination with the minimum expenditure possible. The destination was the South of France, and so this meant everybody bundling into the car at some ungodly hour, driving down to Dover, parking the car on a (cheap) ferry and driving from Calais down to the South.

After a couple of hours' driving, my father pulled into a layby and parked the car so he and my mother could have a nap before continuing to drive. Given the time of the morning, the car parking space was completely deserted, so rather than try to navigate into a gap between two of the white lines, my father just stopped the car lazily across three or four bays and went to sleep.

Unfortunately, whilst he slept, the car park began to fill up. My sister and I, being too young to require sleep to the same extent, could only sit and watch as cars pulled into the bays either side of us. By the time my parents awoke, we were boxed in.

My mother, as the member of the family who could speak French, went out to talk to the couple parked in front of us, explaining how they had got into this predicament and would they mind dreadfully moving their car so we could get out?

My mother returned, clearly affronted.
"What did they say?" my father asked, walrus moustache quivering in anticipation of indignation,
"They said that we were parked badly and they were having their coffee," my mother replied.
I didn't hear what my father muttered under his breath, but I could tell that this interchange had soured his mood somewhat. He flung the driver-side door open and looked around angrily for the snooty couple who'd been so rude to his wife, as said wife muttered "Don't..." before sighing resignedly.

The couple presumably caught sight of what must have resembled a livid, East-Midlands-version of Robert Winston clambering out of the car before this vision yelled at them,
"MONSIEUR! SHIFTEZ LE CAR!"

His French might have made no sense in comparison to my mother's, but at least they got the message and moved the car...
(LongJohnBaldry, Tue 30 Nov 2010, 13:47, 2 replies)

Are all dads clones?
My dad did something rather similar at a French petrol station en route to Calais. There was a huge queue due to some strike or the other and while he was waiting in the line to pay he got a bit frustrated with the contentedly milling around Frenchman. He yelled "JE SUIS UN BATEAU"", walked along the magically appearing open space between him and the cash register, paid and left. Turns out he was trying to say "I AM LATE FOR THE BOAT"", what he said means "I AM A BOAT!"
(ElectricSexPants would like to be the Sultan of something, Tue 30 Nov 2010, 14:17, closed)

Haha!
This made me giggle like a mong. There must be something about dads trying their best to speak French but failing at the same time as being very earnest about their intentions and therefore just coming across as some wandering nutter - it would certainly explain why the natives got out of the way in both cases!
(LongJohnBaldry, Tue 30 Nov 2010, 18:05, closed)