In a shocking turn of events that surprised absolutely nobody with a passing knowledge of football, Paris has descended into a glorious, glorious mess after PSG’s latest victory. The streets, once proud bastions of French je ne sais quoi, now resemble a post-apocalyptic car boot sale where the only currency is tear gas and spite.
Let us not mince words: the French police have finally admitted what we’ve all known for years. British policing tactics are, in fact, a model to be emulated. Specifically, the model of wrapping a truncheon around some bloke’s skull while shouting “Stop resisting” in a plummy accent. It’s the kind of efficiency that would make even the most hardened Birmingham traffic warden weep with pride.
The carnage began, as all good carnage does, with a singularly dim individual climbing a lamp post to wave a flag the size of a small yacht. This provoked a chain reaction of pure, unadulterated Gallic chaos. Bottles were thrown. Cars were toppled. The smell of stale baguette and tear gas hung in the air like a stale croissant of anarchy.
And yet, in the midst of this beautiful nightmare, the British police were lauded for their restraint. Or, as the French call it, “the peculiar habit of hitting people hard enough to make them reconsider their life choices.” It’s a delicate dance, really. A waltz of violence and paperwork.
One can only imagine the scene at Scotland Yard. Commissioner Sir Cumference of Twattington is undoubtedly polishing his baton with a smug grin, muttering about “colonial techniques perfected through centuries of oppression.” Meanwhile, Parisian gendarmes are feverishly jotting down notes: “Hit first. Ask questions never. Always wear a helmet. Especially when dealing with a mob that chants ‘Allez Paris Saint-Germain’ while setting fire to a moped.”
But let's not get too self-congratulatory. This is Paris, after all. The city that gave us surrender, berets, and the world’s most passive-aggressive waiters. Their riot tactics are about as effective as trying to put out a fire with a baguette. So it’s no wonder they look across the Channel with envy at our proud tradition of casual violence.
The irony, of course, is thick enough to spread on toast. The British police, who couldn’t manage a single protest without turning it into a PR disaster, are now the gold standard? It’s like being praised for your cooking by a man eating a gas station sandwich. But here we are. The French are officially saying, “Yes, we want more of your aggressive, tea-stained authoritarianism.”
Meanwhile, the PSG fans continue their rampage. They’ve now reached a level of chaos that makes the ordinary football hooligan look like a disgruntled stamp collector. They’ve formed a human pyramid outside the Eiffel Tower, chanting and waving flares. It’s a scene so perfectly French that it could only be improved by someone shouting “Omelette du fromage” while being handcuffed.
In conclusion, this is a wonderful day for British policing. A day that will go down in history as the moment when we finally exported something more useful than Stilton cheese and the Jeremy Kyle show. Well done, lads. You’ve made your mothers proud. Even if they’re currently shaking their heads in shame while reading the Mail.
