"Return of The Killer Frogs"
Yet with the breathtaking arrogance that epitomises France's relations with every country except Germany, up whose proverbial orifice the French tongue is extended as far and as quickly as possible, M. Chirac and his odious cohorts, notably the greasy Alain Juppe, have disdainfully rejected as 'hysteria' the reasonable points that nuclear testing is unnecessary and damaging to the environment.
The French are as keen as moutarde to criticise the Brits whenever an opportunity presents itself, often deriding us as 'Bad Europeans' because we resent subsidising their peasant farmers and object to them burning our lorries to cinders. Given that almost every government on the planet has been strongly critical of the tests, can we now refer to the French as 'Bad Humans'? Pourquoi pas? Amazingly, the U.K. was one of the few nations to refrain from criticism, the poor luvvies of the Foreign Office failing yet again to 'put the boot in', presumably in the frighteningly naive belief that a reciprocal gesture might be forthcoming in the future.
Fat chance! Come next year's inter-governmental conference to decide the future direction of the E.U., the French will be up to all their old tricks, toadying to the Krauts and sneering at our pleas to retain a vestige of control over our economy and national security. Doubtless no mention will be made of the near-universal condemnation heaped upon France over the last couple of weeks, or the salient point broached that we provided tacit support. The British delegation, now that the appallingly wet Mr. Hurd has been replaced by the unpleasantly moist Mr. Rifkind, might make a brief show of standing up for our interests, but it will soon sit down again. As usual, we will be out-manoeuvred or simply ignored, and the French will gloat.
However, it is just possible to understand M. Chirac's stubborn insistence that 'the tests must go on!'. After all, the armed forces at his disposal, should the Third World War start tomorrow, are only just capable of arresting a boatload of Greenpeace hippies; and the sight of heavily-equipped French riot squads in Tahiti put to precipitant flight by a group of bare-chested Polynesians was unedifying in the extreme. It is not surprising that it is rumoured that the only 'advance' a Frenchman understands is one directed towards a mademoiselle.
I sometimes think that hatred of the English is an addiction to the French, fuelled by the pathetic inability of their soccer or rugger teams to beat us in internationals (and I deliberately exclude the Third Place Play-off in South Africa as that was purposeless, if not pointless (sic)). Since the demise of 'Jeux Sans Frontieres', in which the French excelled at running up slippery ramps while dressed in huge latex dog costumes and the Brits always came last (or second-last above Luxembourg), there has been scant opportunity for them to display any sort of sporting prowess.
Culturally, too, they feel threatened as never before. The ever-increasing use of the English language (our 'biggest export') causes panic in Paris! Laws are introduced in an attempt to ban words such as 'le weekend' and 'le mobile phone'. Now they are attempting, again through the E.U. (quelle surprise!), to introduce a limit on the number of American films we can watch! Instead we will have an enforced quota of 'European' films for our delectation: a move guaranteed to send sales of sleeping tablets plummeting.
So, as the arguments rage on, and boycotts of French products gain momentum, save your sympathy: this is the country that inflicted upon us Sacha Distel!
My esteemed colleague on 'The Column Nobody Reads' recently (4th September) described a bizarre sex survey (from France!!) into the incidence of heart failure during adulterous sexual activity. I, too, came across a most peculiar anomaly during a quick flick through a discarded tabloid on the Tube.
In a survey entitled 'Are you a Dream Lover?' (why not a 'Real Lover'?), a list of the 'Top Ten Fantasy Females' nominated by the male readership included, among the predictable Pam, Liz Hurley and Cindy C., the name 'Virginia Bottomley'!
Several minutes passed before I was convinced that I was not hallucinating. I simply could not imagine the sort of lad buying the paper in question being able to spell 'Virginia Bottomley', let alone fantasise about her. Did Telegraph readers, I wondered dazedly, lust after Divine Brown? Then another thought struck me.
Perhaps they simply wanted to do to Mrs. Bottomley what Mrs. Bottomley had spent years doing to the N.H.S.!
Nominations for æ***t of the WeekÆ to: WASP@londonmall.co.uk
In our search for the vanished stars of yesteryear, we pose this crucial question:
Whatever happened to Ted Rogers (and Dusty Bin)?
Last week's most plausible suggestion, relating to the disappearance of Chesney Hawkes: "...taken by aliens".
Suggestions to: WASP@londonmall.co.uk
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