Max Anderson accepts the challenge to learn French using the super-vite Michel Thomas technique. But how will he survive in France? Will Stephen Bleach and Mark Hodson fare better using different crash-course methods?
Prêt à parler: Can you learn a new language in eight hours?
Between the ages of 11 and 13, I mastered a number of skills in French classes. Unfortunately, none of them was to do with French. Give me an elastic band and a chewed bus ticket and I can part your hair at 20 paces - but of the language, I learnt nothing. Nada, niente, and whatever it is they say in France.
So when I was handed "French with Michel Thomas", a CD language course, I had to laugh. Not least because Monsieur Thomas, smiling generously from the packaging, is wearing the most ghastly wig, not unlike a big coiled dog turd. Mr T is also language teacher to the stars - Woody Allen, Mel Gibson, Bill Murray and Barbra Streisand among them - who stump up £10k for three days' tête-à-tête with the language guru. They attest breathlessly to the brilliance of his method; Emma Thompson called it the most extraordinary experience of her life.
But there's something else to make me smile: the course, pressed onto eight CDs, promises to leave me "speaking with confidence" in just eight hours (and all for a rather more reasonable £60).
What's so special about the Thomas technique? Well, all the stuff that had us reaching urgently for bus-ticket-and- elastic-band distraction (namely verb tables, recitation and textbooks) is absent.
In its place is the redoubtable M Thomas, a Gallic pal who chats as reasonably as Roosevelt by the fireside, using simple mnemonics to retain basic verbs and rules, and the logic of our native language to coach us into sentence construction.
But here's the USP: the course promises no books, no writing and - get this - "no remembering".
These language courses, launched in May last year, are meeting with some critical success: reader-posted reviews of the course on the Amazon website are effusive. But will it do what it says on the packaging, just to the right of Thomas's steaming silver syrup? Could you be speaking confident French in just eight hours? How will it compare to other techniques? Moreover, when you swap your CD Walkman for a real live foreign person, will you be discoursing like Alain Delon - or stammering like Porky Pig?
We decided to put the Thomas technique to the test along with two other distinctly different language-teaching methods: Stephen Bleach used one-to-one tuition to learn Spanish, while Mark Hodson grappled with internet instruction to learn Italian. As Thomas aims to provide the rudiments of a language within eight hours, we asked the two other writers to spend the same amount of time on their technique.
After this, we were dropped into our chosen countries, and sent forth.
The test
We were each allocated a guide, who was to present five easy tourist tasks - hitherto kept secret from us - to perform within a day, using only our newly acquired language skills:
to buy plasters from a chemist
to visit a local tourist attraction, with the guide speaking only in the local
language; the student has to recount what he has learnt
to check the local football results
to order a meal in a restaurant, explaining that the student is allergic to
the gluten contained in bread and pasta
to explain the mission to a barman, and then tell him a joke.
We were allowed a Lonely Planet phrasebook each, but the conditions were that we could not speak English at any time, we were not to mime requests and we could not ask our guide for help. The guides would give us marks out of 10.
Here's how we faire-d.
French
The course: I'm hating this. Loathing it. Appalled by it.
I'm learning French. Worse than learning it - and here's where my jaw really drops (bus-ticket pulp plopping into my lap) - I'm enjoying it.
True to Michel Thomas's word, there's no writing, no swotting and, to some extent, "no remembering". I listen to the discs over two weeks, and am rarely practising or recalling between sessions, such is the gentle logic behind the teaching. In fact, there's only one primary rule: the recordings are of Thomas interacting with two students, one British, one American, and it's imperative that you become the third student. So - he asks, you pause, you answer, you unpause, they answer.
I find it all astonishingly simple, rather like having a kindly uncle explaining maths, instead of the maths teacher at school who just gabbles ahead. Most usefully of all, the mistakes of the other two students (and one of them has the learning capacity of a house brick) are often my mistakes, and Thomas's corrections are wholly instructive.
By disc four, I dare to engage the imp-erious genius of The Sunday Times' sub-editors, in French. They scoff roundly at my efforts, adding airily that I have the easiest of the three languages to learn - "But the most difficult country in which to speak it," yawns the chief sub. "The French can be horribly dismissive."
By disc eight, I feel ready. I have some basic vocab and grammar, and some audacious Franglais. And dismissive locals? They can go mange mes petits pantalons.
The cost: the CD set costs £60 and is available from most bookshops.
The timeframe: "eight hours".
Putting it into practice: the people of the medieval town of Albi can be summed up in three French words:
affable, agréable, civil. They are also rather amused by the task we've been set.
The night before the challenge, Philippe Saint-Jean, the patron of the Hôtel Chiffre, and his wife, take great pleasure in schooling me over dinner (this is probably against the rules, but, hey, that's life, as they say in France). I talk cod French for four hours; my conjugation is as tortured as the narrow, zigzagging streets of the ancient town, but it's no less an adventure.
Next morning, I step out with my guide, Stephan Bosc, French representative for Inntravel. Task one is a doddle; the shopkeeper doesn't bat un oeil when I ask for plasters. For this, I can thank the Thomas coaching, tailored as it is to travellers who want to buy, go, order, eat and drink.
But it also gives the student keystones for conversation: the verbs to like, to want, to learn, to have, to be - and to know. So, we get the soccer task out of the way and it's also a doddle, once I've looked up the word for "team".
Inevitably, then, I get cocky.
In the fabulous Albi cathedral, whose painted vaulted ceiling is bigger than the Sistine Chapel, the priest raises an eyebrow when I compliment him on his magnificent organ - though probably because I call him "mister", not "father". Stephan and I examine a 14th-century mural in which Jesus exalts saints, on his right, and dispatches sinners - on his left - into damnation. This prompts my remarking, in French, how left-handers are condemned for being in cahoots with the devil; how they're equated with clumsiness (left is gauche in French); and how the left hand is consigned to intimate toilet attendance in much of Asia.
So, am I some silver-tongued prodigy? Not at all. But thanks to the course, I know that most English words ending -ion are the same in French. So: exaltation; damnation; ablution.
Encouraged by this virtuosity, Stephan decides that for task two, we will visit the Toulouse-Lautrec museum; but instead of listening to his explanation of the Albigensian painter's most famous works, I will listen to, and interpret, an electronic hand-held guide.
Ulp. The narration comes out like water from a fire hose, and it's all I can do to pluck stray words to flub up my English reports. (Is that bus ticket I can taste?) Two hours of this exhaust me, and when we return to the hotel, my brain is now the stuff of Thomas's wig. Telling the receptionist I can't eat gluten for task four should be easy - but I stall for whole minutes. And for task five, my joke, I lamely relay one that translates as: "My dog is a smelly nose not. How he smells? He is smells sad."
It's the way I tell 'em.
The conclusion: Would I recommend the Thomas method? For novices and French-class dropouts alike, most definitely. It can give you insight, confidence and, ultimately, a fighting chance. Alors, Monsieur Thomas, bravo! Mais vous devez acheter une nouvelle perruque.
The guide's verdict: "Max understood everything that was said to him perfectly, but took a while to compose his answers. Overall, I was very impressed - although he was a bit familiar with the use of "tu". 6/10
Learning in eight hours - Spanish
The student: Stephen Bleach.
Language ability: the only Spanish I know is "Yo no soy marinero, soy capitan," which means "I am not a sailor, I'm a captain." It's the catchy but puzzling refrain from the Ritchie Valens song La Bamba: I read the translation in Smash Hits in 1987, and for some reason it stuck. However, since I'm going by plane, I doubt I'll find an occasion to say it.
The course: I went for eight hours of personal tuition at the international language school Berlitz. The method is total immersion: no English during lessons. Maybe this produces better results in the long term, but with the clock ticking, time was wasted with gesticulating attempts to sort my salir (to leave) from my ir (to go): if my mucho simpatico teacher hadn't been willing to bend the rules, we'd still be waving our hands around now. I suspected that the one phrase that stuck in my mind - "El boligrafo esta debajo la mesa" ("The pen is under the table") - would be of limited use. And so it proved.
The cost: the total bill, including my course book, came to £380.25 - which I thought was a bit on the grande side.
The timeframe: Berlitz's claims are relatively modest. "It should take 40 lessons to reach our level one," says Josephine Henderson, director of the London school. (I had just 10.) "At level one, the student should be able to manage brief exchanges in common situations."
Putting it into practice: Bubion is an impossibly pretty, whitewashed Andalusian village, perched high in the Alpujarras valleys. It sees its share of tourists in summer - craft shops and cutesy bars abound - but on a chill February morning, it's just a few Spanish weekenders: apart from Victor, my guide, nobody speaks English.
Of the tasks, buying plasters seems the least intimidating. Entering el farmacia, I confidently approach the owner, and am immediately tongue-tied. I don't know the word for blisters, or plasters, or even foot. Fortunately, Victor had commented earlier on my walking boots, so, with just two minutes' pause for thought, I grind out the sentence: "Yo soy malo con mi bota, por favor," painfully aware that this means: "I am evil with my boot, please."
My Spanish might be rubbish, but I'm paid on the assumption that I have some facility with English: even so, I don't know the right word to describe the shopkeeper's expression. There was amusement in it, and puzzlement, and even (I thought) a trace of fear.
I retreat to the Lonely Planet phrasebook. This is a bit of a find: it's already taught me to say "I'm feeling drunk", "My friend has taken an overdose", "Do you believe in UFOs?", "I really like your bum" and "Will you marry me?", along with an impressive list of swear words. Unfortunately, there's nothing between "plant" and "plastic", but after protracted consultation I'm ready to try again: this time it's: "Yo quiero una vendaje donde el bota," or "I want a bandage where the boot."
The chemist must have telepathy ("el telepatia") and plasters are produced. Success. However, it's all downhill from here.
Victor takes me to what looks like a fascinating little museum in the neighbouring village of Capileira. Looks like, because I have no idea what the curator is on about. I come away knowing that "La casa esta muy antigua" ("The house is very old," which I'd worked out for myself) and that a sled-like thing was used to pull goats across mountains ... though I suspect confusion here.
I try to strike up a football conversation at lunch, but strike out. Nobody's interested, and the local paper tells me why: Real Betis, Andalusia's biggest club, are adrift in the Second Division, and have just lost 2-1. I'm intruding on a local grief.
The joke is, frankly, disastrous. I'm useless at them anyway, and the only one I can remember concerns an old man watching his young bride undress on their wedding night. This might not be so bad, but an exhausted Victor has passed the task of minding the foreign simpleton to two charming but innocent female students from the local mountain-guiding school. We stop at a cafe: the bored barman is not up for conversation, so with a growing sense of desperation, I try it on my guides. I manage "Hombre antiguo ... esposa joven" and, without the word for undressing, try to mime it. At this point, both girls turn pink and show extraordinary interest in their coffee.
Shaken by my utter failure, and suffering from increasing paranoia - word must now be about that there is a sad English pervert on the loose - I wimp out totally on the gluten question. I have no wish to draw any attention to myself. Stuffing down bread with my succulent local trout in a restaurant that evening, I study the phrasebook - which again turns up trumps: "Solo declarare en presencia de me abogada" means: "I will only make a statement in the presence of my lawyer."
The conclusion: a little language can be a dangerous thing. Perhaps my colleagues will prosper with only eight hours behind them: I didn't. I'd go to the Alpujarras again - a stunning landscape, great food and tolerant people. I'd give Berlitz a miss, though. Its rigorous method may suit the serious student, but for a quick fix, forget it. Spend the money on staying a few extra days: necessity concentrates the mind, and you'll learn twice as much as you would at home. Just don't try any jokes.
The guide's verdict: "Stephen communicated well and seemed to understand most things without much of a problem. Considering he'd only done eight hours, he was very good." 5/10
Learning in eight hours - Italian
The student: Mark Hodson.
Language ability: at school, I was dumped out of Latin after a year, then scraped an O-level in French. Like many Brits abroad, I quietly hope that all foreigners will speak English. However, I do have one advantage. About eight years ago, I spent a winter backpacking around Central America, where I learnt passable Spanish.
I've heard that Italian and Spanish share many similarities. In fact, I'm banking on it.
The course: going online is not the easiest option. First, it takes me a good hour to decide on the best website: I plump for BBC Online ( www.bbc.co.uk/education/languages/index.shtml), which promises "everything from the odd phrase to a complete beginner's course" in French, German, Italian and Spanish.
The site uses Real Media, a piece of software that you can download for free onto your computer and use to play short video and audio clips. The idea is that you click on a section, such as Eating Out, and listen to a conversation while reading the Italian transcript or English translation. This works rather well and, while it's not exactly fun, it quickly gets you used to the sound of spoken Italian.
Cost and timeframe: the big plus about learning online is that - providing your phone calls are unmetered - it's free. The big minus is that you have little structure, no feedback and nobody to motivate you. I drift about the site, clicking on sections in no particular order, unsure whether to learn grammar, vocab or phrases. Time is wasted waiting for pages and clips to download. After eight hours, I feel I've learnt a lot, but I also feel tired and - starved of feedback - less confident than when I started.
Putting it into practice: I've come to Bologna, a city of medieval towers, classical porticos, education, culture and fine food. With me is bilingual Bridget, a Brit.
The first task, in the farmacia, is a breeze. I know the Italian for "Have you got?" (C'e?) so it's just a question of inserting the word for plasters. Bridget tells me: cerotti. The chemist is businesslike: starched coat, starched face. "Tre mil," she says. I peel off the notes and move on.
No chitchat.
Next, Bologna's most famous site, its two leaning towers. I climb up and down the tallest, the 318ft Torre degli Asinelli, which leaves me breathless and dizzy. As I pant, Bridget spills out its history, in Italian.
My turn. I manage to tell her that the tower is tall (alto), old (antico) and offers a lovely view (vista bellissima), but that's it. Most of Bridget's words go over my head. I smile stupidly.
Then comes the dread task. It would be embarrassing enough anywhere trying to explain that you're allergic to gluten, but it's so much worse in Italy, where that's just about all they eat. Anyway, here goes. We're in a bar, drinking macchiatos, and I call over the waitress and take a deep breath.
"I . . . er . . . I don't eat bread. Or cereal." She looks alarmed. "I'm . . . er . . . allergic to bread. No eat." There's a long, painful pause. "What is there to eat?"
She calls over a colleague who is achingly beautiful, the sort of girl who can leave the most garrulous man lost for words. I repeat myself and both girls give me a pitying look. It all ends with shrugs and helpless grins. I flee in shame, Bridget in tow.
We find somewhere else to eat lunch, and I collar the waiter. I know a few words - calcio (football), squadra (team), giocare (to play) - and I think I'm making a pretty good fist of it. Then he breaks it to me: "I'm from Morocco."
There is only one thing to do, and that is to persevere. He tells me his favourite Italian team is AC Milan, and he doesn't know exactly how they're doing. Some fan. Still, we understand each other.
That evening in the hotel bar, I'm nursing a drink, trying to tell the barman what I'm doing here. He looks sympathetic and seems to understand, as hotel barmen do the world over. Eventually, he grasps what I'm on about and starts picking up items to test me. What's this in Italian? A glass. And this? It's a knife. I'm clueless.
And so, on to the joke. I suppose you could say I cheat here, because I cling to the notion that there are few things funnier in any language than a foreigner saying a rude word out of context. It's a universal. So I ask Bridget's Italian boyfriend, Massimo, to give me a fruity insult. "Testa di cazzo," he tells me: dickhead.
So, we're in the bar doing our quiz and the barman picks up a fork, and I stop, hold a finger aloft and mime the fact that I know this one. After a short pause, I haul out the words: "Testa di cazzo!"
As jokes go, it's pathetic, but we all roll about laughing, barman included.
Mission accomplished.
The conclusion: the course gave me enough Italian words to string together a few basic questions, but my comprehension was poor and I rarely understood the responses. This made conversation tricky. Although the internet is not ideal for learning a language, it's not a bad place to start.
The guide's verdict: "Mark's language was pretty clumsy, but he got his message across eventually. He confused Spanish and Italian quite often, but generally did well. I would have given him a higher mark, but I did help him out a bit." 3/10
Or you could try learning when you get there...
One week: Stephen Emery stayed in an 18th-century farmhouse outside Florence:
'Having lessons on a gorgeous patio overlooking the Arno was incredible - I
went from speaking nothing to being able to order my meal in Italian on the
final night'.
Stephen travelled with Cactus - for more information about the course he took...
One month: Sarah Bird studied at the Institut Francais de Touraine, Tours:
'The discipline of classroom work was great, but even better, I found that if
you wanted to make friends with others on the course, you simply had to speak
French'
Three months: Jez Lazell studied at the International Christian University, Tokyo: 'With 100 students from around the world, inevitably we'd party after hours in English - it wasn't until I got a job cleaning dishes in a bar that I really learnt any Japanese'
Lost for words? Some techniques for learning
Michel Thomas (020 7873 6000) offers French, German, Italian and Spanish. The eight-hour courses cost £60; there is also an introductory two-hour course for £14.99.
Linguaphone (0800 282417) has instruction in more than 30 languages: its All Talk courses include 16 cassettes or CDs, and the company advises spending half an hour a day over 12-15 weeks to become proficient. The course costs £89.90.
BBC Get By In ... (0870 600 7080) covers 10 languages and gives a quick hit of phrases (and replies) in your new language. Includes a cassette and book. Cost: £9.99.
Hugo Language Courses (020 7836 5411) cover a range of languages, and are aimed at more advanced students. The three-month courses cost £26.38.
For more information, log on to www.cactuslanguage.com or call 01273 725200.