In a dismaying turn of events that has left the chattering classes of Europe clutching their pearls and spitting out their croissants, a wave of child abuse cases has erupted across the schools of Paris. Yes, the City of Light has a dark stain on its educational knickers, a scandal so foul it would make a sewer rat wrinkle its nose. But fear not, dear reader, for while the French are busy staging a national crisis of hand-wringing and existential debate, the British are doing what they do best: standing smugly on a pedestal of superior safeguarding standards.
Reports from the Seine suggest that the abuse, spanning years and multiple institutions, has been systematically buried under a mountain of bureaucratic indifference. Teachers, priests, and even the occasional janitor have been named in a cascade of allegations that would make even the most hardened cynic weep into their morning espresso. The French education minister, a man with the gravitas of a soggy baguette, has promised a full inquiry, which in France usually means a committee will meet, produce a report the size of a small car, and then everyone will shrug and go back to pretending it didn't happen.
But let us turn our gaze to the shores of Blighty, where the sun, though rarely seen, casts a warm glow of moral superiority. Our own safeguarding standards, painstakingly crafted through decades of scandals, inquiries, and the occasional royal commission, are held up as a beacon to the world. We have DBS checks, safeguarding leads, and a culture of mandatory reporting that ensures no stone is left unturned, even if that stone is covering a particularly nasty case of institutional neglect. Oh, we’ve had our own scandals, to be sure, from Rotherham to Rochdale, but by God, we’ve learned from them. Or at least, we’ve implemented enough paperwork to make it look like we have.
The contrast is delicious. While Parisians are taking to the streets to protest pension reforms, their children are left vulnerable in classrooms where the only safeguarding is a prayer to the secular republic. Meanwhile, in Britain, we have posters in every staff room reminding teachers that if little Timmy has a suspicious bruise, they must write it down, file a report, and photocopy everything in triplicate. It is this dedication to process that separates us from the continental chaos.
But let us not be too smug just yet. The real story here is the timeless capacity of adults to fail children, a universal constant that transcends borders. Whether it’s a French principal looking the other way or a British headmaster hiding statistics, the result is the same: pain, silence, and the slow erosion of trust. Still, if we’re going to have a contest of who does it with the most bureaucratic elegance, Britain wins hands down.
So raise a glass of warm British gin, the kind that tastes of regret and government funding cuts. The French are in crisis, but we have our standards. And as long as we have forms to fill and inquiries to hold, we can sleep easy knowing that while evil may thrive, at least it will be properly documented.
