A little while ago I watched a baton-waving, whistle blowing agent de police accost a motorist who had parked where he shouldn’t, demanding that he depart immediament.
I waited to see the inevitable arm waving indignation of a wronged French citoyen not about to permit his rights, won at the foot of Madame Guillotiner, to be trampled on in such a cavalier fashion, sacrebleu.
But It never happened. Instead, with a little token muttering and scowling the driver got back in his car and drove away.
Then I noticed the car bore English number plates.
That’s the difference between us
The French are very firm on their rights as citoyens. To the point of ignoring any signs, directions or instructions they don’t agree with. And setting light to them if necessary.
Whereas the English mutter “I don’t like to make a fuss, but really … ”
That’s why a handful of eleventh century Norman bullies could come over and, after giving our king one in the eye, ride around shouting orders. And all our forefathers did was look up, tug a forelock and mutter “I didn’t understand a word of that but he seems harmless enough” and got on with knurdling the parsnips.
That’s why, in 1381 when thousands of peasants marched into London all set to start our revolution 400 years before the French, a fourteen year old king was able stop them in their tracks with the words “that’s alright lads, I hear what you say. Leave it to me.” And they all said “Oh alright then, so long as you’ve got the message.” And then went back home.
And that’s why we won the Battle of Waterloo, despite facing a far more experienced, somewhat better equipped army, led by a general second only to Macedonian Alex.
Keeping the peace
We refused to give ground because our sergeant had told us not to and we didn’t want to upset him. On account of him being a right nasty booger if you crossed him.
And besides, running away is such a continental thing to do.
So finally Frenchie got fed up and decided to let us keep the cochonnerie field – it was in Belguim for merde sake – and went off to his onion soup and snail sandwiches.
Leaving our lot to be yelled at for getting our facings all bloody. And the German gang to cavort about looking fierce and pretending they hadn’t arrived too late to make any difference.
Or, acting the American as I tend to call it.
