Extracted by || Abdulwahab Alahmari || @wahab_94
WRITTEN AND DIRECTED BY DANY BOON
I'm so glad
That I am here
I'm so glad that you're here
I am so glad that we're all here
We came to laugh, and we will, never fear
I am glad, you are glad
He, she, we, they are all so glad
Everybody, everybody is so glad
I really do like my song
Though the words are dumb
I really do like my song
But now I'll stop
It's too dumb and too long
Hello, Lille!
Beautiful!
Wait...
Thank you!
Thank you. Feels good to see my audience again.
For my 25th-year anniversary.
Twenty-five years.
Thank you!
Feels good to see my "audie" again.
I'll use your pet name.
How you doing?
Yeah!
Me, not so great.
I'm not...
I am fine All is fine
Everything makes me sing
Yeah!
Remember? That's how we met.
Twenty-five years ago, my first routine.
"Depression."
The writing came easy back then.
I was totally depressed.
And people thought it was funny.
And that's a good thing. It helped me get better.
Your laughter fixed me.
Great story. A love story.
Twenty-five years of love.
It went by so fast.
Just like that.
Not the same about my wife.
And it's only been 15 years.
Doesn't go by so fast.
Sorry. I suddenly started rambling about my personal life.
It's the emotion.
Plus, she's not here tonight.
FYI, I can't stand it.
When I get home at night after the show,
not like with you when I step out on stage.
Night and day!
My wife does not applaud.
No encouragement. After 15 years.
Not a single "Bravo."
Unless it's sarcastic. "Bravo. Seen the time, asshole?"
That's my daily life. My stage life is not like my married life.
With you: a dream. Her: a nightmare.
Even if I get in early, who cares?
Nobody cares!
Only my dog gives me a welcome.
He's a mutt.
A rescue animal. I get my dogs in shelters.
It's doing a good deed.
It's important. You save a dog and he knows it.
Gratitude in his eyes. He came this close to the needle.
He keeps his head down.
One wrong move, he goes back!
You can't do that with your wife.
Not in France, anyway.
Not yet.
What nonsense. Sorry.
No matter what time I get home, my dog is there.
He knows it's me. He jumps for joy before I get inside.
So happy to see me.
I should have gotten a rescue wife.
She'd look at me lovingly after 15 years.
Know what? Let me make my entrance again
and you greet me like my wife does when I get in late.
So we can compare the two.
I come out and say, "Hello!"
You say, "Seen the time, asshole?"
For comparison. You do it just like her.
Except don't throw things.
Let's try it.
I feel sorry for your husband.
Not even home yet, hasn't even said hello.
I'm down the block.
"Hey, asshole..."
You leave!
Try again.
Hello!
Seen the time, asshole?
So nice to feel at home.
Nicely done! Bravo!
Wow...
Never seen so much conviction.
Things are rough at home?
Rough for everybody.
Couples are complicated.
And we live longer and longer.
We must wait.
In my case, It's been 15 years. That's rare in showbiz.
Fifteen years of marriage in showbiz,
it's a miracle.
You multiply by seven, just like with dogs.
That's 105. One hundred five years of marriage.
Of course I'm desperate.
That's not true. My wife is amazing.
She's great and I...
just saw her.
Next to my mother.
She really is amazing.
And nice. Being nice is important. People often say so.
They stop me on the street. "Your wife is nice. And beautiful!
And you, too, you're so...
Funny."
Always that little pause. Makes me feel great.
I'm unusual-looking. I have to accept that.
I can't have them pinned now.
I'm too famous.
I'm used to hearing in front, nothing in back.
I can't hear you laugh now.
Nothing.
I did consult a plastic surgeon
when things started to break for me...
The plastic surgeon told me, "No.
I advise against pinning them."
Because it's my personality?
"No, it would bring out your big nose."
Really boosted my confidence.
I'm told my looks improved with age.
With age, my looks have improved or...
Take your time!
How spontaneous!
It's true. I hear it often.
For ugly guys, getting older is a stroke of luck.
When we get older, we become handsome.
Medium-ugly guys, that is.
The ugly-ugly ones, no matter what age, you're ugly.
Medium-ugly...
I've always been medium-ugly.
Then, I hit 50, now I'm handsome.
Everybody tells me so.
It is a rather brief handsome window.
Enjoy it. Get a little older and you're uglier than before.
And incontinent. So...
Hitting on women when ugly and stink of piss...
Although when you have a sense of humor,
you can be very attractive.
It's a powerful weapon of seduction. Being funny.
Unless you stink of piss.
Or else make jokes outside, in a strong headwind.
Too complicated.
Younger, I made beautiful women laugh,
to tears.
Looking at my face, they laughed!
But to start a family?
"Make her laugh, she's half in bed."
At 20, I never could get the other half in.
Incomprehensible.
And I was sure I was very handsome.
Thanks, Mother.
She has always said:
"Isn't he handsome? He's my eldest.
That's Daniel. Such a handsome big old thing.
So handsome!"
Neighbors...
I believed her! She's my mother.
Then a little bird whispered in my Dumbo ear.
I used to swim.
I was a swimmer for 10 years. Certified.
Three times a week! Competition on Sunday.
In 10 years, I never won.
My coach told me, "They hold you back.
You dive well but in the water...
Stop flailing...
You have a handicap.
I'll ask them to give you a head start.
Or wear a bathing cap.
You're already ugly without, so with it..."
He told me that.
Then I cried a swimming pool.
Despite my unusual figure,
I realized that we "medium uglies"
have a handsome angle.
That's why we're medium ugly.
This is my angle.
Not convinced?
Really! Like this, I'm Clark Gable of the North!
Biloute Gable!
Ma, you're right! Look!
Biloute Gable!
I did everything like that.
If I saw a girl on the street, I'd walk like that.
I would flirt sideways.
For my first headshots, I posed like that.
I brought the proof.
There!
Right? Biloute Gable!
At my parents' house.
With a silly Kabyle mop.
That was my first actor headshot.
I went to auditions with that and stood like this.
Hi, I'm reading for the handsome lead.
Me, an ugly straggler.
"A stiff neck?"
"No." "Thank you! Next!"
Next? What's wrong with me?
"That will never fit."
Back then, they shot in 4:3. What saved me was 16:9.
Suddenly, it all fit.
I was never cast from an audition.
Never. I was always told no.
A big producer came to see my show.
In a tiny club.
We were two.
When it was over, he said no.
"No, I can't produce you. Big zero.
You think depression is funny?
And what's that accent?
Oh, Ch'ti. From the North, I see.
Better lose the accent. Too provincial.
Can't work."
What good advice!
Good thing I never made a Ch'ti movie! I would be ruined.
Crazy, no?
Anyway...
I kid about it now, but back then,
I wanted to quit, go home.
It was over!
I kept at it.
Doesn't take much.
Bienvenue chez les Ch'tis was almost canceled!
Three weeks before shooting,
everything stopped. Few people know this.
We got a letter from the post office.
I swear it's true.
They got upset over a slightly cheeky scene
about speedy service at the PO.
It made them feel offended.
I spoke to their media liaison on the phone.
"You have no idea what harm you've done! A pack of lies!
It's shameful, slanderous."
If you're so upset, there must be some truth in it.
My mother's phrase.
My post office sketch wasn't so mean.
It was like...
Move with the post office!
The author never went to a PO.
The one place on earth where nothing moves!
Two hours to weigh and stamp a letter!
Or all day.
You go home.
Your wife, "Where were you?"
I got moving.
To the post office. Inside, nothing.
They're the specialists in not-moving lines.
They invented them.
Then every government office copied them.
There is an explanation. At the post office, out of ten counters,
there are always one and a half open.
The others are never open. Backup counters.
They're on a break or they took a day off.
Or the teller machines. That's new.
They don't work but there's a guy in front to
explain how it would work if it worked.
It's...
Hey!
I bet they did that on purpose so I could use it in my sketch.
Teller machines. Anyway, one and a half counters open.
The open one has the line.
Always. No line at the PO? It must be closed.
Lines always in serpentine. Notice that?
A straight line would mix with social security.
So, serpentines.
You get there at 8 a.m.
so you're sure you're the first
before you go to work.
You get there,
already 20 people!
What it this, yesterday's line?
They slept there?
Shit! Twenty people at 8 a.m.
I'll go to work this afternoon.
Post office lines are not very quick.
You move like this.
On their lines,
this is top speed.
Slows down, starts again.
The "Look out! Here's the turn."
The serpentine line at the PO. Back the other way.
Then...
You wind up four inches from where you were 20 minutes ago.
Keep going.
Look out! Second turn!
You do look dumb.
All of a sudden, it goes faster.
Then it stops.
It goes backwards. Who knows why?
No.
I'll get to work tomorrow morning.
It's moving.
Look out! Third turn.
Eight turns in a 10-by-15 area!
Better be patient.
Four hours later, at the counter!
Yay!
You get there, the employee on the other side looks at you
through the glass and says...
Mic's for better comprehension.
I didn't understand. Anyone understood him?
I can see he's talking to me. He's looking at me.
But I can't make it out. It's not French.
Is this a eurozone German-language counter?
What is this?
We don't understand here!
I can see but I don't understand.
I don't speak German.
What are you, deaf?
That's not the right receipt form!
Stop filling it out! What do you want?
Your mail with receipt
or without?
With return receipt or not?
Finally, he blames you.
That's the open counter.
Next to it, the half counter.
A post office invention that hasn't been copied yet.
It looks like the open counter. Same line.
Everything the same
except the employee isn't there for you at all.
He doesn't even look at you.
The employee says things like:
"Nicole, check out my new shoes.
Not bad, right. No, not too tight.
Well, it's not like I walk a lot.
My kids left for vacation.
In the mountains.
Haven't heard from them.
Not even a postcard.
Our fault.
You know...
Excuse me a second.
Yeah? A problem?
Yes, it's open. Take it easy there!
What is it with this line today?
What? What do you want?
To send a package? Oh.
Wrong counter.
What now?
The package counter is in the back.
Read the sign.
It's closed.
Right, the package employee is out today.
Out sick for five years.
Use the teller machine.
It doesn't work. He'll explain why. It's great.
I see.
You waited at my counter four hours.
I see. Calm down.
I'll take care of you. Wrong counter but I'll do it.
Put the package in the turnstile.
Yes, I kept my turnstile. A social right.
Go ahead. In the turnstile.
Careful, it's too big!
You'll block our last turnstile!
In two pieces!
The package. Tear it in half. I'll fix it with tape.
Hurry up!
"12:32. We closed two minutes ago."
I get why they were offended.
Doing it just now, actually...
It's all true!
But it all worked out.
They let me play a postman.
They were very nice.
Really.
They wanted me to take out the scenes with Kad, when...
we deliver the mail and we drink...
pretty hard.
But I said no. I won't take it out.
Your own fault! You call it "rounds".
Indeed.
My postman, when I was little...
Louis was his name.
Some of you might remember Louis.
He came by with no mail.
"No letters, but I'm thirsty!"
He did the whole neighborhood. Hard worker.
Sundays, holidays. He never stopped!
I remember him well for one thing in particular.
One annual event, very important for me.
The day of the phone book.
The millennials are like...
People my age remember. How can you explain it?
Yellow pages, white pages.
The phone book is the ancestor of Google.
A drunken postman.
I pounced on the yellow pages.
I looked up...
Theaters, cafes, clubs,
concert halls.
I dreamed in the yellow pages.
And one day I see
the Maurice Deconinck Cultural Center.
With a phone number.
It was a sign.
A stroke of luck!
My heart is beating like crazy.
I call the center!
Deconinck himself picks up!
In his cultural center.
He wasn't dead!
I say, "I'm a young performer. I just wrote a new number.
Can I audition for next season?"
He says, "You go on tonight!"
Fantastic! My first job!
It was so easy. Fantastic!
So I get on my scooter and go to Rue Jules Lebleu,
to the cultural center.
And I see that.
I checked the address three or four times.
Actually,
it was a bar. But he wanted to do cultural stuff
in his Maurice Deconinck Cultural Center.
I was in a panic.
I say, "I can't perform. There's no stage!"
"What do you call that?"
Foosball.
"Move it over, you can do your show.
Give me a hand, big shot!"
I helped him carry the foosball. We put it on the side.
"You can perform here."
I said, "No, it's too small."
"Hey, Big Star, it's
a soccer field."
Yeah, all right.
This was my chance.
I had to go for it.
It was perform here or nowhere.
That night, I was a little in a panic.
I was getting focused backstage.
Backstage kitchen, between the freezer and the stove.
I was nauseous.
Not from nerves, from grease.
In that kitchen, you did this, you had sticky hands.
I hear her coming from out back, after
taking the garbage out.
Maurice's wife, Odette Deconinck,
curvy Ch'ti of 280 lbs.
She was cooking and eating, too!
With big tits, bobbing back and forth like this.
I was surprised she didn't fall!
Then, I saw her ass act like counterweights!
What a choreography!
A filthy apron with
the menu of the six last months.
I was starving, but I didn't eat.
Dirt under her fingernails.
Hair slicked back with fry oil!
She got all dressed up for the artist!
She sits down across from me.
One cheek on the chair and on the ground!
"Hey, the artist, how you feeling? Good? We like artists here."
Yes, madam. I'm fine.
"You got stage fright!"
I couldn't look her way. I saw her panties.
She had never heard of waxing.
That image! I'm traumatized for life!
Luckily, Maurice saves me! He comes out...
"Hey, the comic, the audience is here!
Shake a leg! And make them laugh!
If they don't laugh, you don't get paid!"
All right.
"What will you do?"
I start with a sketch about depression. It's new.
I sing... I am fine, all is fine
To feel better.
"That's funny?"
I didn't do it well, but on the soccer field, it's funny.
"Why not just do the hot dog sketch?"
The hot dog sketch?
"You don't know it?
You're a comic and you don't know that one!
Two slices of bread. You want a hot dog?"
Sorry, M. Deconinck.
I'll start with depression because I'm really in the mood.
If it doesn't work, I'll do...
the hot dog.
"I'll toast a bun!"
No, don't bother. No thanks.
"You don't catch cold."
"Let's go, shake a leg! Make them laugh!"
Okay. Let's go!
For the first time,
I go onstage.
My first audience was four people.
Four drunks leaning on the bar.
Drunken barflies.
No one told them this was a cultural center.
They were singing.
Any Ch'ti that pisses
Holds the sausage in his fist
That's sort of in keeping with the hot dog.
And I was there:
I am fine, all is fine
I am...
They didn't hear me, didn't know it started.
They kept singing.
They didn't see me.
Maurice, behind, was going,
"Come on, biloute! Bring it!"
I had to shut them up.
Among my props, I had a starter pistol. I figured I'd fire twice,
then I can start my career.
It worked!
All four turned toward me.
Just then, Maurice's dog,
a German shepherd trained to kill,
Rex Deconinck.
He'd been dozing in the beer.
He hears the shots.
He starts attacking me.
"Rex, don't eat the comic! He's only fooling!"
The barflies...
I thought I'll be paid.
Maurice comes over, tears the dog off
with my knee.
Bleeding, I go to the backstage kitchen. An interval.
Odette kindly makes me a mayonnaise bandage with her dirty nails!
I was on broad-spectrum antibiotics for two years!
Maurice comes back. "I put the dog in the station wagon.
Get back out there! Shake a leg!"
Okay, let's go!
I go back out and I start over from the top.
I am fine, all is fine
I am...
They didn't laugh or look at me.
No more singing, nothing.
They were drinking.
One of the four, in the middle of the show,
who turned to me and went:
"Where's the dog? He quit?"
That's often how it is for artists starting out.
You learn the ropes.
You carry that with you always
and you realize what a chance
to have you all with me tonight.
Thanks.
I did street theater.
I was a mime artist.
Even in night clubs, for a living.
Thank you.
Nice of you to applaud. Back then,
it was more like, "Hey robot, you shit bolts?"
Very encouraging.
In that club, where I was doing the mime artist,
I met Jean-Pierre from my body-building sketch.
Twenty-five years ago, I did Jean-Pierre: "I got too much muscle.
I mean it... Too much muscle!
I got too much muscle!
I can't get through the door.
I can't do anything.
Comb my hair, scratch, pick my nose!
Too much muscle!
I can think, that's all.
A muscle, too!
Thinkicize!"
Jean-Pierre's real name was Fred Maertens.
I changed it so he wouldn't deck me.
From Armentières like me.
He pumped iron all day long.
At night, he worked as a bouncer
at the Macumba.
He was amazing.
With those big, curved muscles,
the neck of a bull, tight clothing.
Muscled people often wear diving suits, with no oxygen tank.
Fred Maertens had big curvy things.
Big veins, big arteries,
blue on a red background, skintight around the muscles!
Push it any further, an eye will pop out!
Amazing. Stand next to Fred Maertens,
you heard the blood coursing through his muscles.
Boom, boom!
Here, just a trickle.
Principle of communicating vessels.
All the blood for the muscles. Only a trickle
to feed the brain.
But he was scary. Outside the nightclub...
He looked so concentrated, guarding the club.
But often he was on screen saver.
Like a computer.
Not enough power for the hard drive.
He must have been seeing balls of color or goldfishes.
Luckily, he wore his diving suit.
To start him up, like moving the mouse,
you just shake him, and a little flow gets up there.
Off he goes like nothing ever happened.
He took his bouncer job
very seriously.
A watchdog!
He bought himself an earpiece.
Like the Americans.
With the curly wire. Regularly, he was...
Really!
Always on alert.
He never heard a thing. The wire was hanging loose.
But no one made fun of him.
He never took it out. Proud of it.
He wore it to sleep. "Might be an emergency call.
I sleep with it!"
He took it out every four months
when it was full of earwax.
Like this.
So, I guess you know the taste.
Disgusting!
I told him:
"Quit licking your earpiece clean. It's disgusting."
"Why?
It looks like honey. Why not?
Ear honey is like nose boogers.
It looks like caramel so everybody eat them."
But you don't eat dog poo!
"You went to college."
-A little. -"Watch it or I'll deck you."
Sorry, Fred. I didn't mean to mock you.
Yeah...
After two years, he stopped licking his earpiece.
He took a walkie-talkie.
The day he got it!
"Fred Maertens here."
So proud. "I'm in position. Over."
At the entrance.
Over!
Charlot...
Charlot, Tanguy.
Tanguy, Charlot!
Fred Maertens!
Channel 1!
Channel 2!
Channel 3!
Channel 4!
Channel 5!
Channel 6!
Channel 7!
Channel 8!
Channel 1!
Channel 2!
Hello? Hello?
C'est le volume !
I made a mistake. I turned the volume knob.
Fred Maertens here, do you read me?"
But...
He yelled into it, but no one ever answered.
He had the "walkie", not the "talkie".
He only bought one.
The vendor explained.
"You need two. You need two walkie-talkies."
"It's only me. All I need is one."
He insisted. He drew a drawing for him.
And he got decked!
He shouldn't have upset him.
I'm describing him as...
a babache, a boubourse.
A little stupid.
Not at all like that.
Bouncers and security guys with earpieces...
Some of them are great. The earpiece is plugged in.
They're all over.
They're not all... Walk me out, as a precaution.
But...
Fred was a special case.
When Fred Maertens was a kid, I would see him at school.
A very small forehead.
Low headroom. Like a sloping ceiling.
One inch of forehead.
Then, at puberty, no forehead at all!
His eyebrows blended with his hair.
But, careful.
A great memory for faces. The mental side of his job.
He needed to remember regulars, let them in.
If he never saw you, he said no.
He had a really sharp eye.
He was like...
"Never saw you."
Don't argue. You'll never get in!
I don't know you!
You won't get in.
Don't talk when I'm on the radio!
You, listen up!
Either...
you don't go in or you stay outside
Weren't expecting that!
Don't argue! I'll deck you!"
"Fred, it's me. I own the club."
"Oh, I didn't recognize you."
"I noticed that."
"What is it? Problem inside? Trouble?
-Should I go in?" -"No!"
"What?"
"Let some people in. It's Saturday night, it's empty."
He never recognized anyone.
When he worked, no one got in.
Even his mother, who came to pick him up at dawn,
he didn't know her.
"Madam, you can't park here. Move!
Illegally parked car, security. Over.
No! You can't park there.
Yeah, same car as my mom.
So?
You're dressed like my mom. So?
I could dress like my mom, too.
Yeah, you talk like my mother...
My first name...
Mama!"
That Fred Maertens!
I heard from him. He moved up.
He's guarding automatic doors.
Great thing, he'll never die of an aneurysm.
Can't have a cerebral hemorrhage. Not enough blood flow.
If Fred Maertens has an aneurysm...
intelligent!
Great memories of the North!
But that's all over now.
Because the French government eliminated it.
They eliminated Nord-Pas-de-Calais and Picardie.
I'm shocked!
So I wrote a sad song.
They changed the name but not the weather.
Michel Sardou wrote a song
about the sale of the cruise ship "France."
I wrote about the late Nord-Pas-de-Calais and Picardie.
"Never Again Call Me Biloute."
When I think of all Ch'timis
And all my cousins from Picardie
When I think of the place where I was born
Called also the "flat land"
Never again call me
Biloute
France has left me
In the dust
Never again call me Biloute
To you this final wish
I entrust
Nord-Pas-de-Calais and Picardie are gone!
The place I was born!
The ground I "g'bring up" on!
Where I learned to speak "the" French so good!
It's gone!
It's a disaster!
Now it's called "Hauts-de-France."
Upper France!
We're now the "uppities"
of the "Upper France."
What nonsense!
You can't say "Ch'ti" or "Ch'timi" from the "Ch'Nord" anymore.
I'm no longer a biloute.
I'm a quien face "Uppity."
A quien face "Uppity." Sorry, a dog face "Uppity."
Imagine in my film, Michel Galabru,
instead of saying, "It's the North!"
had said, "It's Upper France."
Such nonsense!
Anyway...
Hey...
We can't say "Hein?" anymore. Over.
"Come again?"
Come again!
I went north when it changed names
to visit my mom. I couldn't find her.
She didn't move but they changed all the names!
I took Highway A1.
There's nothing left.
No Picardie, No Pas-de-Calais!
Just one big sign on the highway
that says, "Upper France"
in that tight-ass handwriting.
Then...
I was on the highway.
I sped along in my carrette.
"I drove my car very fast."
I got to a place I didn't know.
I wash crying buckets.
"My tears filled a receptacle."
Then I saw someone I didn't know.
I said, hey Biloute!
My lord!
Pardon me,
I'm an "Uppity" from "Upper France"
and I'm seeking my native land.
How terribly unfortunate for me,
I've lost my way.
"Yes, well..."
Yes, no.
"You're mistaken dis fieu."
Have I ascended a hair too far?
Is this not Belgium here?
"No, it isn't called Belgium anymore."
Good heavens, you too?
How is your lovely Belgium now called?
Please tell me.
"Oh, we never waffled.
After the French initiative, our government acted as well.
Now we're called
"The Kingdom Above Upper France Below."
Kingdom Above Upper France Below.
Very pretty, but it isn't written anywhere.
"Too long for the sign."
I understand.
But pardon me, whither be Upper France?
"You want Upper?
Upper is down below."
The Upper is below?
"Yes and be careful,
the Netherlands are even higher."
So, I went lower to find the Upper.
I got even more lost.
I had to call my mother. Mom where are you?
Where do you live? I can't find you.
"No idea, don't ask mi!
I never moved but they changed all the names! I'm lost!
Who at the government invented such a name,
Upper France?
Which board of Parisian eggheads invented that?
Probably Fred Maertens' cousins!
Some babaches!
Those imbeciles changed the name of every region.
Not just the North. All of France.
There is worse. Champagne became "Grand East".
For New Year's?
Yeah...
What about New Year's?
Let's open a bottle of Grand East!
Happy New Year! Grand East!
What nonsense!
The government didn't think it through
when they simplified the map of France.
Let me show you the new names so you don't get lost.
Even the GPS can't find you.
So, here you have the Upper France.
That's here. All that is the Upper France.
And at the bottom, it's now called
"Bottom France".
In the middle, it's no longer "Île-de-France."
It's...
"Middle France".
It's the...
Write it down instead of laughing.
That's the new GPS.
Take a picture!
"Middle France" and then...
Brittany, Normandy, they simplified. It's called
"The Side of France".
The other side is... "The Other Side."
UPPER FRANCE
Much simplified!
What a great idea they had!
Whatever they smoked, I want some.
And Brittany, it will change.
Look.
It spills over into the ocean. A little untidy.
Look.
They're cutting Brittany off.
They're sinking it.
To have something cleaner.
Any Bretons in here?
You'll be underwater.
Big change from alcohol.
Not those clichés!
Sorry.
No...
Bretons don't drink.
Like us, Ch'tis, we don't drink either.
Put a cherry in our liver, it stays red. Strange...
As you see, just one beach all the way down.
The Touquet Beach, Emmanuel's beach.
Corsica is changing, too. Any Corsicans in here?
Only four, so who cares?
Oh, I didn't see the masks!
Sorry.
Calm down. Maybe they're armed.
Corsicans
don't feel French enough.
So, what do they do?
The French government
is moving Corsica Closer to the Côte d'Azur.
So, you'll feel more French. Look.
Here we are!
They already started.
You didn't see but they started.
Inch by inch, with nuclear submarines,
discreetly, at night.
And during nap time, between 11 a.m. and 7 p.m.
No but...
And the mountains. That's over!
Look. The government has passed a law.
They've chopped all the mountains off.
The Alps, the Pyrenees, the Ardennes.
Nothing left!
Cross-country skiing, now.
To simplify things. The culture of the simplification.
The dumbing down!
For equal opportunity, I guess.
What is it with the government?
They're simplifying everything.
Even the French language.
Conjugation, preterit, subjunctive... So long!
Hyphens, accents, cedillas, who needs them?
They're simplifying words. Next year,
the dictionary will only be 15 pages long.
They're simplifying words.
For instance: a pen, a Bic, a four-color,
a pencil, a felt pen... No!
Now it's all one name. A "write-with."
Now we're all the same. We say, "write-with."
A chair,
a stool, a couch, a bench... No! A "sit-on."
Clothing. Pants, jacket, shirt...
No! A "not-naked."
Naked or not-naked. They're simplifying everything.
Since people got upset about the region changes,
they're going to simplify the notion of where you are.
Soon there will be no town names. No one will get lost.
Where will you be? Take a look.
What's it called?
Here!
They have the principle
that no French citizen may be here and there at the same time.
From now on, wherever a Frenchman happens to be:
here!
It's called "here".
Get used to it. Need to call to meet. Where are you?
Here!
Me, too, but I don't see you.
-Not the same here! -Only one here now!
-I swear I'm here. -No, you're there.
Get out! There doesn't exist.
If I leave I won't be here
and I'll get nowhere because only here exists!
Get used to it!
Effective soon! There is...
Can't say, "There is." We'll say, "Here is."
There's no there here.
From here on... Simplifying starting next year.
Can't say, "next year" either. It's after.
Any future event is "after."
Today is "now." The past, formerly, long ago, that's "before."
That's all "before" now.
Careful. "Before" is "past", but "before long" is "after."
I lost some of you.
I will...
Next time, I'll make note cards.
They're applying that everywhere.
Governments from all over the world!
Wherever you are, soon you'll be
"here"!
World governments, like human rights,
they're applying French simplification.
Wherever in the world, where will you be?
Here!
Wonderful!
Well...
Thanks to the culture of simplification,
the French government
just unwittingly eradicated global racism.
No more elsewhere, everyone is from here!
No more foreigners, no more racism.
Finally!
Simpler may not be better.
But humanity could honor its name,
be more humane,
more open to others, live and let live.
A little generosity and kindness, it would be great.
As to fighting racism,
the government is just copying Mickey Mouse.
Back in the '60s,
Mickey Mouse invented an anti-racist ride,
a world with dolls.
It's a Small World.
Mickey is a great character.
Kind, altruistic, generous,
intelligent, cultured.
Not just because he has big ears.
Mickey is great. Too bad
Americans voted for Donald.
That's...
They thought they voted for Scrooge, and they wound up with Goofy.
Anyway,
Mickey invented this ride.
At Euro Disney, an amazing ride.
An ode to tolerance.
A world trip in 15 minutes!
You see every country.
The customs, the costumes in just 15 minutes.
It is long!
It says, "The happiest crew that ever sailed."
They put you in a warehouse.
They cram you into a little plastic boat
floating in bleach-stinking water.
You sit with your family, your belongings up.
Your butt is soaking in bleach.
You don't say a word. The worst
is that little song.
You've been there.
You're victims. Sue them!
That little song, over and over,
coming from dolls
with stupid Playmobil faces.
The song is called Na na na na na!
It's not over!
Set in our brains, that shitty tune!
It's a song to help us realize how humanity is good,
how easy it would be
to have a better world.
Just the opposite.
Suddenly, you love no one.
Sitting in this boat,
your ass freezing!
You don't love anyone!
You become a racist!
Against your family!
Crazy!
You want to escape, but you can't.
How many countries are there?
When does this nightmare end?
When that song penetrates your cerebral cortex
and takes root deep in your medulla oblongata,
you ask this question:
Why did we line up 50 minutes for this shitty ride?
That song makes you regret you weren't born deaf.
Once it's in your head, it's all over.
Fifteen minutes on that ride,
and it's in there for life.
Worse than a virus,
a tattoo. It will never leave you.
Even with Alzheimer's, you'll remember that song.
You forgot all your life, family, everything, but you'll go:
You're in luck.
I'm going to sing you that song.
The French version, don't worry.
A lovely cloud will bring my guitar.
And I'll sing...
"A lovely cloud will bring my guitar."
Fabrice...
"A lovely cloud will bring my guitar."
What is it? The magic of music hall!
What happened?
Come on, Fabrice!
Did you eat all the cotton candy?
Damn!
Fabrice, no!
What...
You stick out!
Can you see me?
You can see I can see you?
So, everybody can see you.
Are you Fred Maertens' brother?
He got all the muscles.
He never laughs. Never.
I never made him laugh. No matter what.
I don't know if he has teeth.
Look at you! You look like a mechanic
about to put snow tires on.
Or else
you're showing Pampers to the audience?
To show there's lots of cotton in it?
It's absorbent!
No teeth!
There's not enough cotton.
It's okay not to laugh, but add some cotton.
Thanks anyway.
Walk normally. They saw you.
Fabrice! Fabrice Maertens!
The words will make you better.
Deep in the North Pole
Or at the Equator
There's a laughing Jean
And a weeping Jean
Totally meaningless.
Mickey should have made an effort.
From the midday sun
To the midnight sun
Everyone's okay with the "midnight sun"?
I always tan at midnight.
I need more sunscreen. It's beating down now!
From the midday sun
To the midnight sun
Life's the same
For everyone
It's a small world
After all
Compared to the sky
We're so small
Like tiny ants
That swarm and crawl
It's a lovely world
After all
I know, it's hard. Hang on, now!
Lucky you're not sitting in bleach.
There is just one moon
And a golden sun
And a beautiful smile
Spreads friendship to everyone
I'd like to stop on that line.
"A beautiful smile spreads friendship".
There, it's spread.
I stop singing.
It's nonsense.
Let me sing about the real world.
It's a world of war
A world of shit
Where everybody hates
And everybody is bitter
It's a world of bastards
A world of assholes
We will all
Kill each other
There it is!
Hey!
There it is.
It's an ugly world After all
Yeah!
That was the flash of an atomic bomb.
From North Korea.
Dangerous.
My mom saw a report on TV.
"He is a babache, the guy from North Korea.
Totally crazy that...
King Kong."
Thanks, Mom.
The chorus with me. "It's an ugly world after all."
It's an ugly world
After all
No! Give us a real "Yeah!"
When the bomb hits, go, "Yeah!"
On the flash.
It's an ugly world
After all
Yeah!
It's an ugly world
After all
Yeah!
It's an ugly world after all
It's an ugly, ugly world
After all
Where are you?
Such a great disguise.
Fabrice...
Cloud, have you not seen Fabrice?
And he answers.
No, you really made an effort. That's fantastic.
Now we can...
hardly see you.
Maybe a tiny bit. You found another Pampers.
You can still see the...
adhesive tapes.
You remind me of someone.
I loved your...
You're a great composer.
Bravo, Wolfgang.
Musical champion.
Okay.
Thanks anyway.
Careful with my guitar.
Thank you, Fabrice Maertens.
What kind of world will we leave to our children? It's terrible.
One look at the young people, we think:
"We're leaving our world to them?"
Sorry, but today's young people...
Look at that!
Look! "Ooh!" They have zero vocabulary.
Look at them!
Use a different vowel: A, E, I, O, U.
We'll do consonants tomorrow!
Seriously!
What does that mean?
You don't read. Constantly
on screens, social networks.
You don't read or write anymore. I can prove it.
A WhatsApp chat between two millennials.
"Yo.
-Who r u? -Me.
-Me hu? -Me me.
Dats u?
-what r u up 2? -nuttin
-And u? -nuttin
watcha got 2nite?
nuttin
what u doing 2nite?
nuttin 2
-Gr8 tawk 2moro - luv u
me2"
And...
At that point, they lose me.
There it is.
And they're sure they've made no spelling errors.
Not so smart now, right?
You young people don't read anymore.
French literature is among the greatest in the world.
And you never open a book.
What a pity! How sad!
To prevent annihilation
of culture,
of thought,
you must read!
You must read!
I don't want to piss you off.
I just want to share my passion as an old guy.
If I can convince one person here tonight,
one single "Ooh" among us,
I'll be very happy.
You're young, you open a book, no pictures,
you just stare at words, you're just so bored.
You try to move the words with your fingers. Nothing.
To make them bigger or smaller. Doesn't work.
You double-click.
Nothing happens.
Even underlined words are not a web link.
Do I need to recharge this thing?
No, it's a book. There is no battery.
An old-fashioned book.
Words are stamps.
Stamps!
Little stamps all over the place.
These stamps make sentences that tell a story.
A love story.
By one of France's greatest authors.
Harlequin.
Harlequin...
Yeah...
Thank you, old people.
Harlequin is a champion of love.
The greatest author of love books.
Marivaux, it's crap.
Harlequin writes most of the love books.
Do you realize? He has all the words.
He has them at his house, on little stamps.
He stamps them all over! He keeps stamping like a madman.
Stamping, stamping...
When you read Mr. Harlequin's stamping,
you see love, live love.
Harlequin stamped like a madman so we can escape.
Let's do it! Let's do it well!
Let's escape!
Hang on, you'll escape.
At random.
"Steve hopped in
to his...
red Ferrari.
Steve hopped into his red Ferrari.
He'd fall...
He's fallen in love... with Sandy, the beautiful Sandy,
Sandy, the...
Sandy the va-naz..."
What the hell is that stamp?
No.
"Sandy the sulfurous."
Ah, "Sandy the sulfurous."
It's her last name.
No.
Not capitalized.
Right, "sulfurous"
from the verb "to sulfurerate."
A regular verb.
Sometimes Harlequin stamps nonsense.
"But...
But...
But Steve had to leave Sandy."
The part where he leaves her.
"...had to leave Sandy.
He climbed into his Ferrari
and drove away with a bang
as only Steve could do
while the proud Sandy
puffed up her gorgeous
bosom."
If you want to see, buy it.
"Steve couldn't see Sandy was weeping."
He was driving.
You leave!
"Steve couldn't see Sandy was weeping." She was weeping
but he couldn't see.
She was weeping
but he couldn't see.
She was weeping
but he couldn't see.
She was weeping.
Shit, I read the same line three times
Sorry.
"Suddenly..."
Suspense!
"Suddenly..."
What's that stamp again?
Fra... "Suddenly..."
Frala...
Rala...
"Suddenly, a fridge..."
Suddenly, a fridge...
I don't know why, but there's a fridge.
"...a little fridge with...
with a zipper fly.
With a zipper fly."
They really have those.
It must...
They keep the cool in better.
A fridge with a zipper fly? Can't be.
Wait. Oh, sorry!
"Suddenly, a..."
Exciting, right?
Reading is extraordinary.
It takes a little effort at the start.
I had trouble reading
at first. It wasn't as fluid as today.
You leave!
I had made a mistake
in reading.
It took me six months to read...
Damn, I'm missing one.
It took me six months to read the first chapter.
I understood only bits and pieces because I made a mistake.
An enormous mistake. Want to know which one?
I read one into the next page.
Makes the story hard to follow.
Yeah!
Don't.
Don't, "Ooh".
You read a line and you stop in the fold.
No indications. No instruction manual.
Not even at school. No one told me,
"Hey, stop at the fold.
Don't cross through the page. You read a line
and stop in the fold.
And you keep going. And at the bottom of the page,
right after the number, which you shouldn't read...
The number is not part of the story.
Don't read it. After that,
you jump the binding."
It's technical. Let me show you.
See, I'm stuck in the fold.
Look out! Number!
I don't read it. I jump.
Do that or you can't read.
No, no, no!
With a book! She's doing it with nothing!
You can hurt yourself!
You need a book or you'll get a strabismus.
A "sbrab"... A "sbrab"... You'll go cross-eyed.
Now that everyone is ready,
now that you have the right technique,
I'm reading you the best passage.
Hang on, you're all going to:
The "escapitude".
Oh, yeah. This. This is very important.
This is a mark-your-book.
Totally important, otherwise each time you start at the beginning.
Without that, it's boring.
My mark-your-book is a leaf. You can use anything but food.
When I started, I was using a slice of ham.
Greasy. Even without the rind, it's super-greasy.
And, by accident, I ate a book.
Hang on, best part.
"Sandy
is in the nudie now."
Best part...
"And she is stroking
Steve's Ferrari
with her large bosom.
Steve, of course, is nudie, too
and stroking his wee-wee on Sandy."
That is so well stamped!
Mr. Harlequin, champion of love!
"Both of their nudie bodies..."
"Both of their nudie bodies wriggle
on the Ferrari
which is also red."
Yes, Harlequin writes dialogue, too.
"'I love you'
said Sandy
to the Ferrari."
I never understood.
"Which..." No period.
It's not a question.
"...to the Ferrari
which reflected Steve's face."
I get it. She's talking to his reflection in the Ferrari.
Mr. Harlequin, you're a poet!
"Steve answered..."
One twenty-one
Oh, no. I read the number.
Oh, no.
Sorry.
A beginner's mistake!
I read the number.
I'll put my finger on the number.
Sorry.
Sorry... Shit, where was I?
A mark-your-line, too?
Oh, dear...
Here it is.
"Oh, Sandy..."
My goodness!
I always put it there.
Makes you want to try?
I make fun of young people but I behave like them.
I'm a fifty-teen.
The new generation of 50.
The "fifty-teen." Fifty,
who live like teens.
It's a real name.
A 50-year-old who doesn't give a toss.
Second adolescence.
It's wonderful.
You party hard.
Music too loud.
You don't mention your tinnitus.
You eat, drink, go out,
go to bed at dawn
but, at the office, you're tired.
I'm a fifty-teen.
Despite my old age,
I'm on social networks!
I got all the apps
on my phone, my smartphone.
Pages of them. I download it all.
After a while, I forgot I could make a call.
And I will "like" you.
I "like" the "Oohs", too.
I "like" as a madman, all day long. I'm connected 24/7.
I got a FB page,
Twitt-her, Twitt-him, Twitt-us and Twitt-them.
Amstramgram, Telegram, Diagram, Seminogram...
Snapchat, Snapdog, Snapbitch!
I got it all.
All on my phone. And I think it's nonsense.
Sorry but when I was 20,
we had no smartphones. Our only app was our brain.
And it seems young people today use it less and less.
A real old-fart remark.
When you're 50, you must have these kinds of remarks.
You must!
But...
Scientists makes elaborate studies
to determine
if mobile phone waves affect neurons.
Years of research in labs, no results!
Just walk down the street, idiots!
Yes, it's harmful.
It's crazy. Young people are like this:
Constantly connected. Hypnotized by the screen.
They don't even see anything.
They don't move anymore. Only their thumbs work.
Want to depress your son? Cut his thumbs off.
"Why?
What will I do with my life?"
Good! You used your phone too much.
A little radical but you deserve it.
Young people today are connected to the entire world.
They communicate with the whole world
but not where they are. How sad it is!
Another old-fart remark.
And old fart with teens.
I have teen children.
Raising them well?
It's an ordeal.
Everything I say or do sucks.
I'm both old and stupid or vice versa.
As kids, they were adorable.
They'd run to me yelling:
"Daddy, hug!
I love you, daddy!"
Then, one morning, it was...
Who is that?
Honey, who is that who just walks in the house?
How did that get into our house?
He has the keys! How is that?
Why? That's our kid!
Our teen? I didn't recognize him.
That hairy thing that stinks of sweat is ours?
We brought that into the world?
Let's give him back!
There must be a complaint office.
Did you notice the stench?
Terrible. But, careful,
they don't go from "I love you" to "Grr" in one day.
There are warning signs.
It starts early.
Outside, they start to be ashamed of us.
"Let go of my hand!"
But to cross-- Go ahead, get run over!
And everyone knows this one.
You're nice. You drive them to school.
You park in front.
"Drive, goddamn it!
They'll see me with you!
Drop me off at the corner!"
Okay. Okay. Okay.
Wow!
I'm not the only one.
You go to pick them up later.
Darling, I'm here!
It's Daddy! Surprise!
"Fuck, move! My friends are here!
Get lost! I don't know him.
It's not my dad!"
Okay. Okay.
I could wait for you at another school!
Or drive somebody else's kids!
Who say, "Thank you."
So, you have to drop them off and pick them up
but in secret!
And...
No kiss, no gesture.
Nothing. See you later. Don't worry.
Nobody will see me.
I'll park in the woods with some camouflage
and I'll wear a trench, collar up,
hidden in this bush.
If I'm not there, you'll find me at the Vice squad.
You'll come pick me up. A good reason to be ashamed.
Terrible.
Clothing is another warning sign.
Torn jeans.
What happened? Are you hurt?
"My father! What a loser!"
I thought it was nice.
We're on eggshells with teens.
It's terrifying. At home, I'm like:
it's Daddy.
You can't deny it.
Sorry to disturb you in the fridge.
Teens are often in the fridge. To empty it.
Don't eat it all now. We just filled it.
With your mother.
Go to the bathroom?
Why?
A petition in the building to get you washed.
Your mother and I signed it.
I'm just saying.
I didn't mean to disturb you.
Your mother sent me.
Dads are always braver than moms.
No, because...
We're eating in ten minutes, according to your mom.
Stop stuffing your face!
You gave me the finger?
Sorry, it was two fingers. I didn't notice.
Great. I'll tell your mother.
If I had given my parents the finger, in my time,
I'd be dead today.
Even this one or this one.
The finger to my parents, and I'd get five in the face.
Today's young people respect nothing and no one!
Third old-fart remark.
I have two teenagers, 15 and 17. They're furious with me.
They're pissed off, rebelling, like many young people.
Mine are much less "Occupy" and much more "Tired."
They're so aggressive with me.
They hate me and I'm doing everything for their future.
But they hate me.
At times, I'm afraid.
I thought about an exorcist.
Excuse me.
Your teen with greasy hair,
acne, bad breath, hair all over, stinky feet
who goes:
You might have your doubts.
He's possessed, honey. I swear.
Get the crucifix
and the garlic.
He just got home from clubbing.
Come one. Give me the crucifix.
You go first.
You open the door. I'll remain behind with the crucifix.
Don't be afraid.
Yeah, he's in there. Can't you smell him?
Open his door.
Don't open it.
Go!
That odor! It stings your eyes!
This mess!
How will we find him?
That way. The odor.
There he is.
He's sleeping.
"How are you, honey?
Had a nice evening?"
"Get out of my room, motherfucker!
This is my room!
You have no business in here!"
"Get the hell out of my room!
I'm being traumatized!
I'll be permanently traumatized!
Get the fuck out!"
Son, if you can hear me from within this satanic body,
clean up your room!
Give me the holy water.
Quick, the holy water!
She fainted from the odor.
Shit!
Come, the stench is too strong!
It didn't work.
Except the holy water for the acne.
My teens don't help us at home.
They do clean the floors but without realizing it.
We put two sponges on their shoes.
The house is spotless.
Yeah...
It's clean in three days.
Try it. If you have wood floors. Use pads with some product.
We brought them to a child psychiatrist.
They were too hostile.
The child shrink told us:
"With this level of hostility, there's nothing I can do.
Too aggressive. Take them to the Bouglione circus."
An appointment.
With Bouglione's feline trainer.
He confirmed it.
"From 15, speak to them in German.
Here, to train wild animals,
tigers, lions, Siberian bears,
the language that gets results is German.
Same for teens.
For them to obey,
you have to yell in German.
Never turn your back.
Never turn your back on a teen, even a trained one.
Always dangerous.
By the way, you must change their diet. What do they eat?
Well, teen food. Burgers, chips, French fries,
cakes, ice cream.
"Forget that!
give them 20 pounds of raw meat per day."
-For both? -"No! Each!"
Forty pounds!
"Minimum.
Do they drink enough?"
-Soda... -"Forget that!
Give them two bowls of water.
One in the cage-- Yeah, the bedroom.
--and another in the backyard. For when you let them out to piss.
Do your teens piss enough?
Four or five liters per day?"
I can't say.
But very little in the toilet, mostly all around.
"Normal. Don't clean.
They're marking their territory."
Never saw it that way.
We'll stop cleaning. It stinks, but anyway...
"Are they interested in females?"
Much more than homework.
"Stay out of it. If there's noise in the cage, keep away."
We're not going back in there. Too-strong smell.
We followed the lion trainer's instructions.
When they're at home, we hug the walls.
At meal times, we don't call them!
We go to the bedroom door. We throw the raw meat.
We use the neighbor's toilet. Ours reeks!
But I have trouble with German.
I studied Spanish and Ch'timi at school.
When I say:
It doesn't work. Neither does Ferm eut' gif.
I learned some basic German.
It works!
I swear, they obey.
It's crazy. Like night and day.
The lion trainer called.
I said, "Thank you so much!
We were so worried about their future.
I feel so much better.
They're much calmer, more obedient.
I even make them jump onto stools.
Without a whip. Only with German."
"Wonderful! Already?"
And that's not all!
When I let them out
to piss in the yard,
last week, I made them jump through a flaming hoop!
-"Incredible!" - And that's not all!
I can put my head into the older one's mouth.
"That's crazy!"
I became a great animal trainer.
The pupil beats the master.
Look at that!
Where are the two teens?
Still sleeping. It's noon.
Impossible! Everybody up!
What's the...?
Get up!
Get dressed!
Underpants! I can see your balls!
Your brother's still sleeping!
Get up, you nasty thing!
Get over here! Easy!
Easy!
Underpants!
Not the disgusting one on the floor!
In the laundry. Clean ones.
No clean ones? Wear it inside out.
Put that phone down.
Go help your mother!
Easy!
Come here.
Get out here. Come here.
Up on the chair! That's it! Easy.
Show Daddy your paws.
Your paws!
Open your mouth!
Shut your mouth but open it.
Easy! Great!
Here it is.
I only do this sketch every other night.
I'm too old.
Just let me catch my breath.
Is this uphill here?
It's all right.
Damn.
I've thrown my L4-L5 out.
I leaned over too far too quick.
Sorry.
Talk with your neighbors.
Just don't take any pictures.
I'll rest my back on that "sit-on."
I'll be back.
Come on, you can do it.
That's it, it's gone.
One too many shows.
Sorry.
My blood pressure. I'm feeling dizzy.
Michel Drucker's present.
He owns the company.
I went all show without a pee break. Miracle!
Guess not!
Almost.
I'll have to cut two sketches.
Sixty over 20. Better.
Sixty over 20, it's good.
I was at zero before starting.
You have to accept the fact that you're aging.
You know I...
I drink and it starts to flow.
All my valves are decayed.
The hardest thing is not being able to do what you did at 20.
I did things...
Without thinking about it. Not so often this gesture.
But now I can't do it. I just did it
but I'll pay for it.
I'll wake up with joint pain because of that.
According to my doctor:
"At 50, if you wake up and nothing hurts, you're dead."
Well...
I was sitting down too long.
From Maurice Deconinck's dog.
That's the other one.
They both hurt anyway.
Gonna rain tomorrow.
My knees can predict the weather. It's going to rain.
All the time. I'm from the north.
But for my age, I'm slim. Right?
Yeah!
I wear a girdle.
I have a girdle from here to here.
It leans on my prostate so...
And I wear support stocking.
I wore them on a plane. Can't take them off.
It's good for blood flow.
It's for flying or old people. And an undershirt.
When I'm naked, you can't see my skin.
I sleep with everything on. I take off my wig,
and my teeth.
I drink a broth.
I put my teeth in the bowl.
I put on my diaper and to bed!
Fabrice is wearing my diaper
on his head.
Give it back.
Not easy to get old. You have to accept it.
Only one left now!
I sat down too quickly.
I wasn't doing much with both.
Barely scratched them.
An old-fart thing, too.
Dirty jokes.
I can't play the piano as I used to.
Before, I was...
I can't play like that anymore.
One for the money Two for the show
Three to get ready Now go, cat, go
One, two, one. Hey
On for-- Two, three.
Can't remember.
No memory, it's terrible.
There is one piece...
I could make it groove before.
I can't.
It goes too fast. At this tempo.
No crooner. I'm catching my breath.
Crack your necks!
Thank you.
That's nice of you. I can't remember it all.
The only one I can still play...
Forgot where it's from.
And the title.
I just remember the smell of bleach.
Just a little reminder so you leave with that song
planted directly in your cerebral cortex.
The show is almost over.
I'd like to...
Lots of young people, how wonderful!
You know, when I wrote this show,
I was recalling...
because it's about my career,
I recall that important moment
when I felt
the desire, the wish, the passion, the dream
of being here.
It's a wonderful memory
but also a sad one.
It was a difficult period.
I had a difficult childhood. Not unhappy, but difficult.
At that time,
my mom would hug me so that I would hug her back.
I got the idea, some day-- I was 8. --to make her laugh.
I tried everything.
Miraculously, it worked. All of a sudden,
my mom's booming laugh filled the room with joy.
Without knowing it, my mom showed me
the way to my future,
the reason I'm here, the reason I breathe,
my reason to live since I was eight.
To make you laugh. Thanks, Mom.
Thank you.
I'm telling...
I'm really moved tonight
because she's here in the room.
Here it is.
Thank you, Mom!
A song for my mother. A beautiful Spanish love song.
So, no more laughing.
Really. Last time.
Next to last!
What?
One high note and you laugh?
I'll start again.
I'm not hungry.
So far so good.
I did it already.
My fingers just go here.
I move up a step here back to the starting point.
It's not over!
So disgusting!
It's not me, it's Spanish.
Oh!
All over the place.
Never face a Spaniard. Some terrible consonants.
Never. Or with a raincoat.
There's a big one dripping.
Every time...
I better remove the consonants.
All at the end?
"Oh, ou ow i?"
"O ice!"
Thank you! Thank you all!
From the bottom of my heart!
Thanks to everyone
who worked on the show.
To Fabrice the cloud!
Where is he?
Come out and take a bow!
Look.
He finished his cloud!
Beautiful.
We can't see him.
No, right there.
That's good.
Fabrice, the cloud!
Thank you, Fabrice.
Thank you!
Thank you! I love you!