In a move that has left the continent reeling and British expats weeping into their warm Ricard, Paris has declared a temporary alcohol ban as a heatwave grips the city. The measure, ostensibly aimed at preventing dehydration and public disorder, has been met with predictable Gallic harrumphing. But here in Blighty, we have a very different reaction: a smug, collective pat on the back. Because, you see, our own public health strategy of encouraging pre-emptive, mass intoxication has been quietly vindicated. Why wait for the sun to toast your cortex when you can fry it in Gordon's from the off?
The logic of the French, it must be said, is typically Cartesian. They see a problem (heat, dehydration, fainting in the Métro) and they remove the cause (alcohol). We, on the other hand, see a problem and remove the solution. Why have a dry crackdown when you can have a wet knees-up? As the mercury hits 40 degrees, Parisian bars will be shuttered, their terrasses empty save for the odd, sweat-soaked pigeon. Meanwhile, in Brighton, the beach will be a heaving, sunburnt, 2-for-1-pitcher-covered nightmare. And that, dear reader, is civilisation.
Let us examine the evidence. The British public health establishment has long advocated a 'sensible' approach to drinking: start early, finish late, and never, ever let a single ray of sunlight fall on a sober thought. Our famous binge-benders are not, as the French would have it, alcoholics in denial. They are patriotic, heat-defying warriors. When the temperature soars, our response is not to ban the demon drink but to double down. We call it 'heatwave preparation'. The French call it 'le chaos'. Splitters.
I can see it now: a British family on a cheap flight to Alicante, the father already three G&Ts deep at half past eight in the morning. His T-shirt, damp with sweat and pride, reads 'Stay Calm and Have a Chaser'. He is a hero. He is a public health exemplar. His wife, clutching a litre of rosé in a plastic cup, is a paragon of cardiovascular efficiency. Their children, given their own 'special juice' (lemonade with a hint of something else), are the future of our great nation. Compare that to a French family, sipping Evian and eating a melon. Which one looks like it's having more fun? Exactly.
The hypocrisy of the French position is staggering. They lecture us on the dangers of binge drinking, yet their own national drink is pastis, a liquid that tastes of regret and ghosts. They claim to value public health, yet they allow smoking in cafes until the crackdown of 2018. They ban alcohol in a heatwave, yet their entire culture is built on the premise that life is a long, slow, wine-soaked suicide. Non, merci.
So I applaud the British approach. Why ban alcohol when you can simply drink more, faster, and hotter? Dehydration is a myth perpetrated by the bottled water lobby. Hangovers are the price of patriotism. And as for public disorder, well, a bit of shoving and chanting never hurt anyone. In fact, it builds character. The French, with their orderly queues and their civilised chat, are missing the point entirely. Heatwaves are for raging, for sweating, for fighting over the last ice cube.
This column is a product of that very British genius. I write this from a pub garden in Clapham, the sun hammering my already pickled brain. My glass is a dangerous half in a sweaty-stemmed glass. My notebook is stained with gin and a bit of vomit (not mine, I think). The nation is drunk and happy. Meanwhile, in Paris, they are sober and cross. Who is the real winner?
Memo to the French: when the sun beats down, don't run from the bottle. Embrace it. You'll feel better. You might pass out, but you'll have a story to tell. And that's what public health is all about, isn't it? A good story, a better punchline, and absolutely no memory of the ambulance ride.
