“There’s only one thing worse than being assimilated by the Borg,” I said, entering from the kitchen with a cup of tea strong enough to annihilate, never mind assimilate, virtually any race in the known Universe. I plonked it down next to the computer and handed Shana her low-calorie treacle sandwich.
“Oh yes. And what might that be?” Shana said, mistyping something undoubtedly important, but unable to turn down the chance to discover the details of my new insight into the Star Trek mythos.
“What’s worse than being assimilated by the Borg,” I resumed, “is being assimilated by the French Borg,” at which poing I launched into an impromptu impression of how I thought a French Borg might sound. “Hahahaha,” I began, menacingly, and continued with a forceful and ever rising inflection, “Résistance–c’est futile!”
That was the clincher: the triumphant ‘fu-teel’ at the end. That and my thumbnail sketch of the French Borg: a namby-pamby, somewhat effete version of the original Borg, possibly calling themselves les bouffants. They still use those big cumbersome spaceships that look like nothing so much as a Smeg fridge on acid; but the French Borg ships have lots of unnecessary lace trim and lots of pink fripperies, including probably the odd rococo-style ormolu clock festooned with decorative gilding and worth about five hundred quid on any edition of Flog It within the last ten years.
Chances of being assimilated by the French Borg? Très unlikely, mes amis. But trying not to double up in laughter at their appearance? Well, that would indeed be futile, n’est ce pas?
