One of the nicest and best things ever said about any group was "Lazy, fat, beer-sodden, pseudo-French Belgian bastards in Hasselt". This was John Cleese on Twitter after a performance. Hasselt, as you may know, is thirty three miles directly south of the town where I spent my youth. And this description is one hundred percent spot-on. Though too charitable.
I couldn't have said it better myself.
But why on earth was he there? Hasselt and its environs are the European equivalent of Iowa and Alabama combined. Perfectly frightful.
There. Is. Nothing. Worthwhile. There.
John Cleese later changed his tweet to "pseudo-Dutch", which is somewhat more accurate, though the lord only knows where that ghastly patois they speak actually came from, because although I am natively fluent in Dutch and Kempisch, I cannot understand a word the Hasseltian savages say, for heavens' sake learn how to communicate properly, you odious rancid drunken provincials.
"Miserable Fat Belgian Bastards"
Dutch, even in many of its goofier regional dialects, is perfectly intelligible. Lyrical, and even eloquent. Truly the language of poetry. Kempisch (which is a close relative) can be sharp, biting, and witty. Antwerp Flemish has a distinct charm. Mellifluous.
Hasseltian?
Ga'verdamme.
Pseudo-German.
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