m'sieur

It answers John Cleese’s oleaginous waiter’s, “good afternoon m’sieur, and ’ow are we today?”

“It’s not the Germans, M’sieur. It’s my sons. They are animals. And they’ll be back soon.”

“C’est impossible, M’sieur. Vous ne pouvez pas rester ici.”

“And then, M’sieur, they will kill you. They will tear you to shreds.”

The following week the Sunday Mirror mocked Dein’s chances of “persuading us that the lanky M’sieur Wenger, despite sounding like Rory Bremner auditioning for ‘Allo ‘Allo, is ‘ow you say fantastique!”.