The French Disconnection

I don’t often defend the good name of a woman I have never met, but felt compelled to do so when a tourist referred to Cécilia Sarkozy as a “snooty bitch”. The fellow was miffed that she was divorcing the French president rather than rejoicing in the role of first lady. I expressed my dissent in forceful terms:

“Sir, I disagree! It is greatly to the lady's credit that her heart is not swayed by such shallow temptations! A virtuous woman cannot be seduced by the trinkets of high office or the baubles of unmerited acclaim!”

The man assumed the demeanour of one whose nipples had just been tweaked by a sumo wrestler and trotted off silently, picking his teeth with a pencil.

I do hope Cécilia won’t betray my faith in her by speaking ill of Sarko. It must be very tempting for a recently divorced woman to dish the dirt on her ex. Even sweet-faced Nicole Kidman said she was looking forward to wearing high heels after splitting with Cruisey. I am sure that many unscrupulous publishers would pay Cécilia a fortune to reveal Sarko’s bedroom secrets – of how his nostrils flared like a racehorse when he saw her in satin underwear; of how he gnashed his teeth like a basset hound when he climaxed. Such a memoir would doubtless sell well, but at what cost to her dignity, to say nothing of the dignity and grandeur of France?

Being French, she won’t have to worry about the gutter press poking its warty nose into her post-Sarko dalliances. For all we know, some enterprising young beau might already be squiring her. Whatever you say about the French, give them credit for their mature attitude to sex. You can learn a lot from the love scenes in their movies. Unlike in Anglophone films, the music never starts playing when the couple are horizontal – instead, you get a full range of naturalistic sound effects along with fascinating snippets of dialogue. One could easily write a book titled “Interesting things said by the French during coitus”.

The sad thing about the break-up is its effect on Sarko, who’s been looking rather glum, even for a Frenchman. Just when he should be triumphantly bestriding the globe like a modern-day Asterix the Gaul, TV interviewers are rubbing salt into his wounds by asking him about his marriage. Perhaps the King of Swaziland might be persuaded to loan him a couple of his own wives to warm-up the king-size bed in the Élysée Palace. Sarko could certainly afford to entertain them in style, and their presence might inspire Hugh Hefner to send him a free collection of adult toys from the Playboy Mansion. Such are the perks of being president of France – a lavish salary, a rent-free palace and an unlimited supply of gratuities from foreign potentates.

My ape intuition tells me that we won’t see Sarko on top form until he’s done some serious arse-kicking. Top of the list of gadflies to be swatted are the disgustingly carnivorous farmers of France, notorious for belligerently asserting their right to butcher anything that moves in the countryside. The next time these horse-eating villains obstruct the highways with their tractors, Sarko should be waiting for them with bulldozers, helicopters and vats of putrid offal to drop on their stubborn heads. A great cheer will resound through Europe when these ill-mannered bumpkins are laid waste by the force de frappe, allowing Sarko to claim his rightful position at the continent’s Action Man.

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