In a scene that would make Hieronymus Bosch reach for a stiff drink and a thesaurus, the French Champions League descended into a pyrotechnic pandemonium that has left EU security officials reaching for their smelling salts and a new set of lies. The match between Paris Saint-Germain and Olympique Lyonnais, already a fixture of high-octane French football, erupted into a riot so monstrous that even the riot police looked nonplussed, as if they had wandered into a mime convention by mistake. The crowd, a writhing mass of superlatively angry Gallic gentlemen, hurled projectiles that ranged the gamut from the traditional traffic cone to a bewildering array of baguettes (evidently stale, though the motive is unclear).
A police van was overturned and set ablaze, apparently to keep the _charcuterie_ warm. The EU's vaunted 'security architecture' crumbled faster than a croissant in a hurricane, leading to predictable hand-wringing in Brussels. Meanwhile, across the Channel, the British constabulary polished their truncheons and offered a knowing smile that could only be described as the gold standard of policing.
'Our lads,' said a spokesman for the Metropolitan Police, taking a break from inspecting a riot shield for traces of jam, 'know how to handle a proper ruckus. No baguettes involved, naturally. We prefer crumpets.
But the principle is the same.' Indeed, the UK policing model, honed on the anvil of football hooliganism and horse-obsessed protests, is now regarded as Europe's finest, a bastion of order in a continent that has succumbed to the siren call of anarchy. A French gendarme, looking like a man who has seen things no man should see (including a man in a full-body baguette costume), conceded: 'They have the technique, yes.
We have the _joie de vivre_ and also the chaos.' The riot, which French officials blamed on 'English fans in disguise' (despite the conspicuous absence of ale and polite queuing), has reignited the eternal question: can the EU ever match the UK's superior approach to riot management, or is it destined to be the continent that never gets its riot shields straight? For now, the answer seems to be: _non_, not while the baguettes are still flying.
Meanwhile, I have adjourned to a pub to contemplate the existential horror of it all over a pint of something that tastes faintly of irony.
