In a development that has sent a shudder through the British constitution (and my liver), the UK Treasury has issued a solemn warning about geopolitical risk following France's draconian decision to restrict alcohol sales amid a shrieking heatwave that has turned the continent into a crème brûlée. Yes, dear reader, the Parisians, those lords of the grape and champions of the aperitif, have slammed the shutters on their own vinicultural heritage. The horror. The absolute, gin-soaked horror.
One can only imagine the Chancellor's face as the dispatch arrived: puce with outrage, or perhaps simply puce from the claret. The Treasury, in its wisdom, has identified this as a 'geopolitical risk'. Not the heatwave, not the collapsing ecosystems, not the fact that we are all slowly roasting on a planetary spit, but the fact that the French have stopped pouring. This is the level of strategic analysis we pay our civil servants for. I assume the risk assessment includes the possibility of a sudden, catastrophic drop in the quality of British diplomatic relations, as our ambassadors can no longer ply their trade with a decent bottle of Bordeaux.
But let us peel back the layers of this absurd onion. The heatwave, you see, has shifted. It has migrated from the usual barbecue spots to the vineyards of Bordeaux and the fields of Burgundy. The grapes are scorched, the vines are weeping, and the French government, in a fit of panic, has decided that the best way to save the nation's alcohol supply is to stop people from buying it. Because nothing says 'crisis management' like a Parisian bureaucrat banning the very nectar of life. It is like a fireman turning off the water supply to prevent flooding.
The Treasury's warning is, of course, couched in the usual evasive jargon: 'potential supply chain disruptions', 'volatility in beverage markets', 'implications for the UK's strategic booze reserves'. But we all know what this means. It means a pint of gin in London is about to cost the same as a small flat in Milton Keynes. It means the only thing that will be flowing freely is the Thames, and only because everyone is too dehydrated to drink it.
Let us consider the geopolitical ramifications. Without a steady flow of French wine, the British upper classes will be forced to confront their own cellar's inadequacies. The aristocracy, already trembling at the thought of a world without foie gras, will now have to face the prospect of drinking Australian Chardonnay. The horror. The unimaginable, cultural collapse. I fully expect the Treasury to release a second warning about the destabilising effect of Aussie Shiraz on the class system.
And what of the common man? The office worker who once soothed his existential dread with a weekly bottle of Côtes du Rhône? He will now have to turn to British ale, a beverage that tastes like remorse and looks like dishwater. The pubs, already reeling from the pandemic and the scourge of avocado toast, will be flooded with refugees from sophistication, demanding a pint of something that doesn't taste of failure.
This is the news. This is the world. A heatwave forces Paris to go dry, and the UK Treasury wrings its hands over the geopolitical fallout. Not the fact that the planet is cooking us alive, but that our ability to get pleasantly sozzled is under threat. I, for one, welcome our new gin-free overlords. I shall raise a glass of lukewarm tap water to their health. It seems the only thing left that the climate hasn't ruined.
