The lying fucker who hangs around Clausen bars like a disease is actually coming clean, according to him.
Jean-Paul Bichelot told everyone within hearing distance that he was a descendant of Luxembourgish nobility, and that his family owns all of the stately homes in the country.
A Scandinavian couple were nice enough to engage Bichelot, before he covered them in saliva.
He said, “Alright, I don’t have a Maserati anymore, and my job testing PlayStation 6s does not give me 90 days of paid vacation a year, but I am the fourteenth nephew of the Grand Duke. You can visit one of our castles for a private visit whenever you want.”
This is where it ended since he was thrown out for refilling his wine in the toilets.
A Royal spokesperson commented, “Oh please, there’s hundreds of harmless fame-seeking bullshitters here.
But then there’s this clown. We’re actually looking for a suitable vendour right now to have him killed.”
Grashley Scott thinks everyone in his bank adores him. He even thinks the Regulatory bods worship the ground he walks on.
“People are busy here, but they appreciate that I reimagine their Team Missions every few months. It never gets dull around here.”
“He’s as dull as it gets,” an anonymous Accountant proffered. “With his ever changing Alphabet Point Plans. Here are three free ones for you Grashley: dull, deluded dickhead.”
A CSSF contact revealed, “He keeps inventing acronyms and showing them off. Like we don’t have enough of those fucking things!”
“When I’m not re-invigorating the daily work of my colleagues, I’m bringing in ostentatious gifts for their birthdays and anniversaries which I painstakingly scout the internet for. The gifts are easy; finding the personal information can get tricky, but I am more than determined enough. My evenings are generally free.”
“I also give generously to charities but prefer not to mention it every day.”
“It nearly stops all the voices,” he added thoughtfully. “This morning they said to push someone in front of the tram.”
NB: Not the common act of dumping of trash by a Route Nationale; the act of giving a gratuity.]
Tipping – one of the strongest unspoken forces that eats away at the fabric of Luxembourg society like a plague.
Ok not really - but it’s a mess. Americans happily round off a tip on a €7-8 pint. More dyed-in-the-wool Europeans will count their change and complain even though they know full well what they’re getting charged beforehand.
Do-gooder Grashley Scott explains the conundrum, “I wrestled a guy from Iowa to the ground once after he made a beeline to the waiter with a €10 bill. Goes without saying that I gave him a lecture about not rewarding overpaid, smug and downright lazy cunts.”
“On the other hand, last week I saw a morbidly obese local fish through a mountain of shrapnel in his fat palm, only to pluck out a miserly 20 cent coin for a bargirl. Why didn’t he just shit on his barstool?”
A plucky bartender candidly observed, “In this part of the world anything more than 5 cents is considered a tip. Do your worst.”
One of the rotten bastards who smirks at you when dropping your kids off at school has spoken.
In passing. Yes the wanker didn’t even stop.
See, back home in Normandy this gent impresses friends and family with boasts of skills in Luxembourgish, German and English.
OFFICIAL VERDICT: BULLSHIT on all three accounts.
Consequently, when more than one person are speaking any of these three the inferiority complex kicks in, like it did at a recent public school Open Day.
Parent Johan from Sweden offered, “After some official presentations we found that most of us spoke English as a common language. Which is when this particular gentlemen suddenly got animated. From over my shoulder he said, ‘Yeah but I know how this school works and you don’t. I know what’s on the menu every day and that's that.’
“When he strode out we also got ‘I can understand at least two in five of the songs on the radio so make a fuck you mother bitches.’”