The French left is in uproar this week over a series of lavish banquets hosted by President Macron at the Élysée Palace, just as millions of French families struggle to put food on the table. The opulent feasts — reportedly costing over €10,000 per head — have ignited accusations of obscene inequality, with union leaders and grassroots campaigners vowing to escalate protests. Yet across the Channel, the British response has been notably different: a quiet, stubborn refusal to be drawn into similar excess, rooted in a deep-seated cultural commitment to moderation.
For those of us who cover the real economy — the price of a loaf, the strength of a union branch in Barnsley — the contrast is stark. In France, the radical left has seized on the banquets as a symbol of a disconnected elite. Demonstrations have already turned violent, with masked protesters clashing with riot police in the streets of Paris. The CGT, France’s largest trade union, has called for a nationwide strike. Meanwhile, here in the UK, our own political class has largely avoided such blatant displays of wealth. Prime Minister Rishi Sunak may take flak for his personal fortune, but Downing Street receptions are modest affairs compared with Macron’s galas. The British tradition — born of wartime rationing, collective sacrifice, and a stubborn belief in fair play — holds that leaders should not be seen to feast while the people go hungry.
It is a tradition that runs deeper than mere politeness. It is rooted in our industrial past, in the mining villages and mill towns where the working class built their own institutions: co-ops, working men’s clubs, trade union halls. These were places of mutual aid, where a shared pint and a plate of pie and peas were enough. Ostentation was never the point. In 1926, during the General Strike, the Archbishop of Canterbury famously declared that no British family should suffer while others had plenty. That ethos — that we are all in it together, even imperfectly — has shaped our national character.
Today, the contrast with France is instructive. The French left, energised by Macron’s excess, is now calling for a ‘marche contre la vie chère’ — a march against the high cost of living. But here, despite soaring energy bills and stagnant wages, our unions remain cautious, preferring negotiation to street battles. The rail strikes have been painful, but they have not tipped into insurrection. Why? Because the British public has a low tolerance for elites who flaunt their wealth, but an equally low tolerance for chaos that threatens the normal functioning of society.
Critics on the hard left might argue that our moderation is a form of passivity, a failure to confront the true scale of inequality. They point to 11 million people in food poverty, to the rise of food banks, to zero-hour contracts that leave workers in perpetual precarity. But there is another reading: that our commitment to incremental change, to the slow grind of collective bargaining, has delivered real gains. The minimum wage has risen. The NHS, for all its flaws, remains a symbol of solidarity. And when a scandal like the banquet story emerges, our newspapers are more likely to demand an explanation than a revolution.
In Barnsley, where I grew up, we know the cost of bread and the price of dignity. We also know that the French tradition of revolutionary romanticism can sometimes produce only bloodshed and reaction. The British way, with its stubborn moderation, its insistence on incremental justice, has its flaws. But on this day of French fury, it stands as a reminder: sometimes, the slow path is the surest path to a fairer world.
