The continent is melting, and our Gallic cousins have responded with the only rational solution: ban the wine. In an act of pure, unadulterated French logic, authorities have slapped a booze embargo on street festivals as a heatwave turns the nation into a crème brûlée. All this while British tourists, fresh off the ferry and already sporting third-degree sunburn in the shape of a Union Jack singlet, are being warned to stay hydrated and, crucially, sober.
Let this sink in, dear reader. A country that invented the baguette, the beret, and the very concept of indolent, wine-soaked afternoons has declared alcohol a public hazard. One can only imagine the existential wailing echoing across Provence as vintners clutch their grapes in despair. The logic, we are told, is that booze plus forty-degree heat equals dehydrated dolts collapsing into fountains. But let us not mince words. This is a cultural atrocity. It’s like telling the British to stop queuing or the Germans to stop being efficient. It simply isn’t done.
Naturally, the British tourist is caught in the crossfire. Picture them: a man named Gavin from Slough, his pale, freckled shoulders already glowing a magnificent lobster pink, wandering the streets of Nice with a bottle of Evian he bought for eight euros. He is being asked to participate in a French street festival sans Pastis. This is a violation of the Geneva Convention. Or at least the unofficial one about holidays abroad. The Foreign Office has issued a statement, no doubt written in panic, advising Brits to “drink plenty of water,” “stay in the shade,” and “avoid excessive alcohol consumption.” In other words, be a fun sponge. The irony is so thick you could spread it on a baguette.
But let us examine the situation with the clear-eyed cynicism it deserves. Is this truly about public health? Or is it a ruse, a cunning plot by the French to make their festivals insufferably tedious so that tourists flock elsewhere, thus preserving their quaint cobblestones and patisseries from the cloven hooves of British stag dos? I suspect the latter. The French have long harboured a secret desire to be left alone with their cheese and their existential melancholy. This heatwave is just the excuse they needed.
Meanwhile, the British government, in its infinite wisdom, has issued a heatwave warning for the entire country. Which means, in practice, that every newspaper will print a picture of a smiling child under a garden sprinkler, and the nation will collectively complain about the trains. But the real story, the one that matters to the gin-soaked heart of this correspondent, is the assault on personal liberty. If a man cannot get blind drunk at a street festival in the south of France while his skin sizzles like a Cumberland sausage, then what is the point of the Eurostar?
I say, let them drink. Let them collapse into fountains. Let them serenade the locals with drunken renditions of “Wonderwall.” It is the natural order. To ban alcohol is to deny the very spirit of the holiday. It is a step towards a world of damp, sensible anoraks and sugar-free cordial. We must resist. For today France, tomorrow the world. Or at least Brighton.
As for the advice to British tourists: hydrate, but hydrate with wine. Seek shade, but only the shade of a parasol on a bar terrace. And remember, the best cure for heatstroke is a cold lager. Preferably in a paper bag. Vive la France, and God save the boozy British tourist.