In a development that has sent tremors through the world of overwrought Gallic balladry, Patrick Bruel, the man who single-handedly convinced a generation of Frenchwomen that a bloke with a woolly mammoth’s haircut and a voice like a strangled badger was the pinnacle of romance, has been formally investigated for rape. Yes, the very same Patrick Bruel who once crooned about 'Casser la voix' has now had his own voice rather rudely interrupted by the long arm of British justice, which has apparently been doing bicep curls in preparation for this moment.
The alleged incident, which occurred in a London hotel room that probably boasted a minibar charging £12 for a packet of salted peanuts and a mirror strategically placed to catch the disrobing of groupies, has triggered the Anglo-French extradition treaty. This dusty old document, normally used for nicking jewel thieves and tax-dodging chateaux owners, is now being waved about like a soiled handkerchief at a French farmer’s protest.
Let us consider the absurdity. Mr. Bruel, a man so beloved in France that he could probably run for president on a platform of replacing the Louvre with a giant fromagerie, now faces the prospect of swapping his silk cravat for a pair of Argos shackles. The British legal system, which has a proud tradition of botching everything from railway privatisation to the proper brewing of tea, is now tasked with untangling the sordid details of whether the singer did indeed force his attentions upon a woman who presumably had the misfortune of being in the same postcode as his ego.
One must pause to admire the sheer chutzpah of the Met Police. They have clearly decided that if they cannot solve the mystery of who stole the Queen’s corgis or why there are always puddles on the platform at Clapham Junction, they can at least have a crack at a continental crooner. The investigation, which is being conducted with the gravity of a papal conclave, will likely hinge on forensic analysis of a hotel duvet and the testimony of a concierge who saw nothing because he was busy watching reruns of 'Allo 'Allo!.
The extradition request itself is a masterpiece of diplomatic theatre. It requires the French government to hand over one of its most precious cultural exports, a man who is basically the French equivalent of a cherished but slightly embarrassing uncle who tells the same joke about a priest and a donkey at every family gathering. President Macron, no doubt, is currently wrestling with the decision of whether to extradite Bruel or simply claim that he has been 'lost in translation' and is actually in Biarritz eating a baguette.
In conclusion, the Bruel affair is a splendid reminder that the wheels of justice grind slowly, but they grind exceedingly absurdly. Whether our hero is ultimately frogmarched onto a Eurostar or allowed to slip back into the mist of Parisian nightclubs, one thing is certain: the world of French chanson will never be the same. And the minibar industry has a new cautionary tale to add to its employee handbook.
Now if you will excuse me, I have a date with a bottle of Hendrick’s and a copy of the Criminal Justice Act. Salut!
