Around the border between Luxembourg and France and around Luxembourg city, there’s an area where many towns and villages have names that, embarrassingly, end on ‘-ange’: Algrange, Aubange, Bereldange, Bertrande, Bertrange, Boulange, Differdange, Entrange, Escherange, Evrange, Florange, Frisange, Guenange, Havange, Hayange, Helmsange, Hesperange, Leudelange, Lommerange, Luttange, Mondercange, Nilvange, Oetrange, Ottange, Pétange, Rédange, Rumelange, Russange, Schifflange, Schuttrange, Sélange, Talange, Tétange, Tressange, Uckange, Volmerange, Volmerange-les-Mines, Walferdange, Wickrange, Wormeldange; and, most of all, Dudelange.
The embarrassing thing about these place names is because the sound of -ange, most outspokenly in Dudelange, produces such strong associations with a Velvet Frederic (Frederik Fluweel) named Didier: supposedly a slightly conceited fop with a penchant for stuffing a handkerchief up his sleeve and astonishingly limp handshakes, who speaks in a very dawdling manner:
Didier huffed indignantly.
“Why should I?” he dawdled with his droning voice, while he took his handkerchief out of the sleeve of his velvet blouse and patted his nose. “There’s Frédéric, Roderick and Percy Kelly-Pelly, have you asked them?”
With a few jerky movements he straightened his attire. He turned around at the doorstep and droned: “I don’t know! Why don’t you go to Dudelange yourself to find out?”
Tightening his bow tie, he then toddled out of the door, his nose in the air.
— Ethel Porridge, The Luxuriant Dude from Dudelange
Of course, I could be completely wrong and the region could actually be bristling with rugged skullmetal-fans and jumping jeu-des-boules hooligans.