Canute-like, the word police are at it again. A veritable battery of laws, decrees and directives aimed at preventing the allegedly ailing language of Molière from drowning in a tide of vulgar and inelegant English is not, it seems, enough for one Alfred Gilder.

Gilder, who besides sitting on the government's Commission de Terminologie is also (I promise) deputy head of roads at Paris town hall, has just published En vrai français dans le texte, a list of 8,000 unwanted anglicisms he would like to see replaced with gallicisms of his own coinage.

These include such imminent threats to Frenchdom as start-up, email, stock-option, golden boy, debriefing, bodybuilding, happy few, brainstorming, trading and show business. French consumers should no longer partake of le shopping , and Hollywood should definitely not be run by un star-system .

Although by no means the first of such ventures, it is plainly ridiculous. First, Gilder seems to have forgotten that nearly 1,000 years ago some 12,000 French words successfully invaded the English language in the wake of William the Conqueror, and no Brit ever kicked up a fuss.

Second, language cannot be controlled by lists of what is and is not permissible. If officially approved words make it into common usage, it is because they work, not because they are officially approved. No self-respecting Frenchman would dream of asking for a " chien chaud ".

But Gilder's bid is mainly absurd because, as the novelist Victor Hugo said, the word is a living thing. In fact, according to the linguists, French as she is spoke is now changing more rapidly than at any time since the early 1800s - and imported anglicisms have precious little to do with it.

The people responsible are not, of course, the academicians. They are the banlieusards , young second-generation immigrants from beaten-up suburbs whose flexible approach to French began as a kind of secret street code but has been adopted, inevitably, by admen, TV presenters and, increasingly, the man or woman in the rue .

So here, to spite Gilder and just in time for your next Eurostar outing, is a brief guide to the kind of French you didn't learn in school. Its most distinctive feature is a linguistic sleight of hand known as verlan , from l'envers (reverse, or upside down). As the name cunningly suggests, this consists of inverting the syllables of any word that lends itself to such treatment.

So the new French for femme (woman) is meuf . Flic (cop) becomes keulf , fete (party) becomes teuf , fou (mad) becomes ouf , mère (mother) reum , père (father) reup , soeur (sister) reusse , and frère (brother) reufré . Similarly, métro (the tube) becomes trome , voiture (car) becomes turvoi , baskets (trainers) become sketbas , disque (record or CD) skeud , cher (expensive) reuch and chaud (hot, but could mean anything from cool to tricky) auch .

To make matters more interesting, verlan can be extended to cover whole phrases. N'importe quoi , for example, as in " La fete, mec, c'était n'importe quoi " (The party was rubbish, mate) becomes portnaouaque , as in " La teuf, keum, c'était portnouaque ." Verlan can also be applied to foreign words: if your meuf won't do as she's told, she's an itchbi .

But there are other things you need to know. Some words that look like they might be verlan are not. Kisdé , for example, means the police and is a contraction of " flics qui se déguisent ", cops in plainclothes. And sometimes verlan itself is abbreviated - guez , for instance, means penis and is a contraction of guezmer , which is itself verlan for merguez (a type of spicy sausage).

You'll be lost, too, without the cultural references. A kissman , for example, is a notably cool guy - the kind, in short, whose turvoi is as auch as his meuf . It derives from a now-defunct Paris disco called Kiss, the haunt of a generation of sharp young keums . Similarly, a nuigrave is a cigarette, from the government health warning on every packet: " Nuit gravement à la santé ".

And as if all this was not far enough removed from Mme Fletcher and her fourth-year French classes, words that have been verlanised can, once in vulgar common usage, be reverlanised. This is known as veul , the most common example being reubeu , which is verlan for beur , itself verlan for arabe (arab). Azmeuk , equally, is verlan for ça comme , verlan for comme ça , giving " Vaza? Azmeuk ."

So there you are. The word for all this, in case you were wondering, is tchatche . Don't be a joibourg - it use, kissman .

Norman wisdom

Here's a useful survey if ever I saw one: 65% of the inhabitants of Normandy, currently divided into Haut-Normandie and Bas-Normandie, would like to see their region unified. For the new regional capital, 33% of Haut-Normands and 40% of Bas-Normands would like to see an equal division of responsibilities between Rouen, currently capital of Haut-Normandie, and Caen, currently capital of Bas-Normandie.

Unfortunately, however, 38% of Haut-Normands would like the new capital to be Rouen, and 38% of Bas-Normands would like it to be Caen. And 15% of all Normands are opposed to any unification whatsoever, while 32% think things should not be changed just for the sake of it.

Nevertheless, a resounding 85% are quite convinced that Normandy will be "a dynamic and vital region for the 21st century". So now you know.

*"Dear Mr Public Prosecutor," says the letter. "We, hookers of Lyon of good standing, who have fought for years to escape the yoke of our pimps, who pay all our taxes, and who ensure that prostitution in this fine city is discreet, would like to draw your attention to the following points."

Upset by a sudden influx of young rivals from eastern Europe, the prostitutes of Lyon have complained to the authorities: not only are the 50-80 newcomers "very young and very pretty", but many come from former Yugoslavia and are consequently pocketing an allowance of £170 a month as political refugees. "We are confident," ends the letter, "that you will consider this unfair competition."

What do you get when you cross Sartre with Bacharach?

Next month sees the release of an intriguing new production by the enfant terrible of, um, French letters. What's intriguing about it is that Michel Houellebecq, the cult author of Whatever and Elementary Particles, is launching not another novel but a CD.

Titled Vacance, the record features the writer intoning, Leonard Cohen-like, extracts from his two collections of poetry, Rester Vivant (Stay Alive) and Renaissance, set to some somnambulent, semi- psychedelic music composed by his friend and producer, Bertrand Burgalat.

"In the musical genre we might describe as 'depressed fortysomething', he could well steal a chunk of market share from the likes of Alain Souchon," says Burgalat, who calls the album's unique style Soft Rap. The rather more unkind verdict of the French press was "Sartre on speed meets Bacharach on acid".

The poems, needless to say, reflect much the same themes as the novels, namely love, disaffection, psychosis, philosophy, solitude, self-mutilation and sex (not necessarily in that order). The idea of performing them to music was Burgalat's; Houellebecq was apparently convinced after a successful appearance with the band Tricatel Beach Machine at last summer's Festival de la Route du Rock in Saint-Malo.

"I was frankly knocked out by the result," says Burgalat, who may not be the most objective of judges. "Michel's poems expressed everything I would have liked to say. He's a kind of medium. He sees things we ourselves don't even suspect."

A sample? "Nous marchons dans la ville/Nous croisons des regards/Et ceci définit/Notre présence humaine" (We walk through town/We exchange glances/And that defines/Our human existence." Cool, eh? Like, meaningful, in a rather French kind of way.

If, astoundingly, Vacance takes off, the producer has a similar project in the pipeline with another of France's in-vogue writers, Maurice G Dantec. "Great things could come of this," he insists. "Let's face it, these guys already lead the lives of rock stars. Why shouldn't they do the work that goes with it?"