In what can only be described as a divine prank on the nation that invented the pastis, half of France is currently simmering under a red heat alert while simultaneously facing an alcohol ban at its own street festivals. The mercury has soared to levels that would make a lizard weep, and the French government, in a stroke of bureaucratic genius, has decided that the best way to cool down the masses is to cut off their supply of cheap red wine.
Yes, dear reader, you heard it here first. The land of liberté, égalité, and fraternité has declared that during the height of the fête de la rue, where sweat and accordion music mingle freely, no alcohol shall pass the lips of the revellers. This is not a joke. This is not a fever dream induced by heatstroke. This is the reality for the poor souls who have come to celebrate the summer solstice with a glass of something cold and alcoholic, only to be handed a bottle of Evian and a stern look.
British tourists, those perennial ambassadors of sunburn and loud T-shirts, have been urged to 'take care' by the Foreign Office. But let's be honest, the only caring they'll be doing is a desperate search for the nearest off-licence that hasn't yet been raided by the gendarmerie. The advice, no doubt drafted by someone in a cool, air-conditioned room in London, suggests drinking water and seeking shade. But we all know that the average Brit abroad interprets 'seek shade' as 'stand under the awning of a bar while clutching a rapidly warming pint of Kronenbourg.'
The irony is so thick you could bottle it and sell it as sunscreen. France, a country that prides itself on its wine culture, is now telling its citizens and visitors to stay sober during a heatwave. It's like telling penguins to avoid the sea. The ban, which seems to have been enacted by a committee of teetotal health inspectors, covers all public spaces during the festival. So if you were planning to enjoy a chilled rosé while watching a man juggle baguettes, think again. You'll have to do it with a glass of Perrier and a sense of profound injustice.
And what of the UK tourists? They are, after all, the ones who turn up to these things with Union Jack shorts and a determination to drink their body weight in lager. The advice to 'take care' is laughably inadequate. It should read: 'Be advised that the French have lost their minds. Bring your own booze, hide it in a water bottle, and for heaven's sake, avoid the gendarmes.' But the Foreign Office, in its infinite wisdom, has opted for the cautious language of a man who has never queued for a paella in 40-degree heat.
The heat alerts themselves are the colour of a postbox on fire. Red, meaning 'this is serious, don't be an idiot.' But when has an 'idiot' ever looked at a red warning and thought, 'Ah yes, I should definitely not go outside and drink heavily'? No, the British psyche is programmed to see a red warning and think, 'Challenge accepted.' We are a nation of people who sunbathe in a blizzard and eat spicy food to cool down. We will not be deterred by a colour on a map.
So here's the state of play: France is an oven, the street festivals are dry, and British tourists are being told to be sensible. This will end in one of two ways: either a mass outbreak of dehydration and bad decisions, or a sudden spike in sales of non-alcoholic beer. My money is on the former. Because nothing says 'British abroad' like collapsing from heatstroke while clutching a baguette and muttering about the lack of proper pubs.
In the meantime, I shall be watching from my desk, where the gin is plentiful and the air conditioning is set to 'hypothermia.' Stay cool, stay hydrated, and for the love of all that is holy, avoid France until the heat bubble and the sobriety bubble both burst.