De-bunking deliciously bed-rumpled Frenchmen

My friend sent me this quote from an article by Jacqueline Maley in the Sydney Morning Herald today:

"There are certain truths every woman knows intellectually but which she does not really learn until she experiences them first-hand.

Skinny jeans look good only on someone whose body shape resembles a whippet's. Pretty much everything tastes better deep-fried. Yellow is a very unforgiving colour.

But the most difficult truth, the truth most sweetly painful to learn, is the one about Frenchmen, that no matter how handsome, no matter how nonchalantly unshaven and deliciously bed-rumpled they are, they should be resisted, for they will always break a lady's heart."

On closer inspection, the article is a tongue-in-cheek look at the way Australians supposedly wholeheartedly support their entertainment exports in their foreign romances, particularly when things go awry.

The Australian population apparently rioted when Tom Cruise dumped Nicole Kidman if we are to believe the Australian press and, as it was too painful to think that he could possibly have left our golden girl for a talented European, in the end we just blamed it on him having his brain transplanted by Scientologists.

The SMH article goes on to say that bed-bogged Olivier Martinez's alleged cheatings on Kylie Minogue are "nothing less than an international incident. Sanctions should be opposed and products boycotted".

Of course the idea often implied in the press that Oliver Martinez's reported infidelity is somehow linked to his being French (and therefore oversexed, unfaithful and snapping off hearts) is the stuff that looney tunes is made from. It reeks of the scurrilous pamphleteers of Marie Antoinette's day, depicting her as the wanton and unfaithful Austrian. Infidelity is foreign. But no, Olivier Martinez is just part of the universal struggle against monogamy that men and women of all nationalites are engaged in.

However, spurred on by the image of a "deliciously bed-rumpled" Frenchman, I rummaged around in the old files in my computer attic and found some old posts, half-eaten by dust mites, which I boxed away when I moved my old blog late one night. They recount some incidents in my relationship with a Frenchman. But needless to say, I was largely disappointed. In place of bedroom eyes I had well-scrubbed ears. The posts depict no heavy odour of love. There are no savage descriptions of charming and ultimately heart-crashing amour. I've posted them below.