THE French and passion have been inextricably linked in literature, politics, interpersonal relations, and sport for many years.
Eric Cantona’s karate kick into the crowd while playing for Manchester United, Zinedine Zidane’s headbutt in the World Cup final, French rugby players headbutting walls before ripping one of Buck Shelford’s nuts off in 1986 at the Battle of Nantes, any of the looney antics in the Tour de France, and of course that game in 2007 where passion beat robotic efficiency.
The Big Nipper and I found out on our trip to France that all this also translates to a usually laid back general population as well.
Having breakfast one day at our accommodation in Perpignan, one of our fellow guests leaned over and pointed at the Nipper’s All Black jersey.
“Les Tous Noirs?” he enquired. “C’est bon.”
Our conversation continued in my fractured French and his broken English until I mentioned that my old mate Seremaia Bai had played for his Clermont-Auvergne team which had won the 2009 Top 14 French rugby championship.
Here things got passionate. He and his wife denied Bai had ever played for Clermont, started carrying on with arm-waving and so on, and clammed up.  Our host later told me they saw Bai as a traitor because he had left Clermont to play for Castres (where he plays with former Hurricane and All Black Chris Masoe).  Never mind the fact he was going to struggle to crack a 2010 Clermont midfield stacked with the likes of Tasesa Lavea, Marius Joubert, Gavin Williams, and Brock James.  They just had wiped all memory of his four seasons in yellow and blue. Passionate?  Maybe, to the point of nuttiness.
The rugby meme continued at the post-wedding celebrations we attended on the Sunday. The parents of the bride lived next door to a complete rugby headcase. This man, despite never having been to New Zealand, was a crazed Otago fan and recorded their games religiously from Canal +’s sports channel.
His house was an Otago shrine. I asked him whether he supported Perpignan with a similar fervor and he simply said, “non” and carried on waxing philosophical about how Otago had been robbed against not only Wellington, but also North Harbour in recent ITM Cup games.
Taking a different tack, I told him I had former All Black Simon Culhane’s old number 10 Invercargill club jersey in my suitcase and would be happy to give it to him.
“He did not play for Otago,” he said.
“He played for the Otago Highlanders,” I said.
“Pah.  I have (Samiu) Vahafalou’s Highlander jersey.  Why would I want one from someone who is not from Otago?”
Not wanting to make the vein in the middle of his forehead bulge any more, I let it slide that Vahafalou had only immigrated to New Zealand nine years before making his Highlanders debut.
Rugby was not the only passionate area.  On the Champs-Elysee in Paris, I herded the Nipper into a sports shop in the hope of finding a rugby jersey for him. The shop was entirely devoted to the Paris-St Germain football team.
All I can say is never articulate your thoughts on Paris-St Germain out loud when most of the Frogs in the shop are a) dedicated fans, and b) good English speakers.  The verbal serve in return wasn’t of a jocular nature.
Given their passionate views on sport, the Nipper was surprised that they had rolled over so easily in WWII.  Perhaps had a ball been involved and not bullets, it might have been a different story.