The head of the bouffant-haired, triple-gauged, château-owning branch of humanity's most bewildering species (that would be the French judiciary, you cretinous reader) has finally cornered the oldest female detainee in the land. A woman of such advanced years she makes the Turin Shroud look like a fresh laundry load. She is on trial. For what? Who cares. The real story, the story that has our gin-addled British experts spewing their G&Ts across the Channel, is the state of European justice itself.
Yes, my chattering, Brexit-weary countrymen, our continental cousins have a system so arcane, so labyrinthine, that it makes our own cherished farce look like model of clarity. Let us call her Madame X. She is 92. She has been held in pretrial detention for what feels like geological era. The charges? Something about wartime collaboration or a disputed baguette, details are hazy. But the point, the glorious, absurd point, is that she is being tried at all.
Our experts, those beacons of impartiality who appear on rolling news with the same regularity as the Greenwich Time Signal, are in uproar. 'This is an outrage,' they splutter, adjusting their monocles. 'The European justice system is a travesty! They've concocted a legal brew so potent it could sedate a horse!' And they are right, of course. But they miss the larger, more spectacular absurdity.
For in France, the legal process is a performance art, a grand opera where the defendant is the unwitting soprano. The prosecution, a chorus of beret-wearing baritones, sings of crimes so old they are practically archaeological finds. The defence, a lone mime artist, gesticulates wildly but produces no sound. The judge, an imperious figure in a robe that could double as a circus tent, slams a gavel made from an ancient baguette. And the jury? A collection of randomly selected citizens who look like they'd rather be at the beach.
Meanwhile, in the UK, we pride ourselves on a system that is swift, efficient, and utterly merciless. We don't drag out trials for nonagenarians. We fast-track them through a conveyor belt of justice, where they are processed, packaged, and dispatched to a suitable penal institution (preferably one with good WiFi and a view of a car park) within a fortnight. Our experts snort at the French manner. They sniff at the delays. They demand explanations.
But here is the truth, you unwashed masses, the truth that no one dares utter: the French have perfected the art of legal theatre. They understand that justice is not a product to be delivered in a neat package, but a spectacle to be savoured. Their trials are epic poems, their verdicts the final stanza. And Madame X, the oldest female detainee, is simply the latest star in this ongoing performance.
Our experts, in their wisdom, call for reform. They want Europe to adopt our model, to streamline the process, to inject some British common sense. But common sense, as any true gonzo journalist knows, is the enemy of art. And French justice, for all its flaws, is a work of art. So raise a glass of something cheap and continental to Madame X. She may never see the outside of a courtroom, but by God, she will have given us a story worth telling.
As for our experts, let them howl into their cocoa. The European justice system is not broken. It is simply performing its greatest hit: the slow, agonizing, beautiful dance of legal absurdity.
