In a move that has sent shivers down the spines of British bargain-hunters and desiccated al fresco diners alike, the city of Paris has declared a temporary prohibition on alcohol sales as a staggering heatwave turns the City of Light into a colossal convection oven. The decree, signed with what one imagines was a sweaty, trembling hand by some municipal official who has clearly never experienced the soothing properties of a crisp Picpoul de Pinet, bans the sale of all alcoholic beverages until further notice. This, friends, is the sort of draconian measure that separates civilised nations from the parched, sun-addled hordes. I say this as a man who has personally conducted extensive research into the correlation between gin consumption and thermoregulation, and I can confirm that the correlation is positive.
British tourists, already basting in their own anxieties over delayed Eurostar services and the alarming price of a baguette, now face the prospect of a Paris without pastis. A Paris without wine. A Paris where the only approved soporific is the sound of one's own internal organs slowly desiccating. The Foreign Office, in a statement that was both predictably useless and grammatically suspect, has advised travellers to 'stay hydrated and avoid strenuous activity', which is theirweaselly way of saying 'don't drink, you'll just sweat it out again'. One can only imagine the scenes of desperate Brits attempting to bribe street vendors with crumpled sterling, or perhaps fashioning improvised gin stills from discarded croissant wrappers and the tears of disgruntled mimes.
This prohibition is, of course, a classic piece of French theatre. The same government that once spent months debating the precise curvature of a corkscrew is now acting with the speed of a guillotine blade. They have decreed that the sale of alcohol is henceforth verboten, as if the act of purchasing a bottle of Bordeaux were somehow more dangerous than the already alarming sight of French men in tiny swimwear. Meanwhile, one imagines the cafés of Saint-Germain-des-Prés are in full rebellion, serving clandestine Ricard in teapots under the suspicious gaze of gendarmes who are probably just looking for an excuse to confiscate a nice Sancerre.
But let us not jest too cruelly. The heatwave is a serious business. It has turned the asphalt into lava, the Metro into a Krakatoan sauna, and the charming Parisian habit of public urination into a health and safety nightmare. The ban is meant to prevent dehydration, public order offences, and the unedifying spectacle of a sunstroke victim attempting to use a fire hydrant as a bidet. But in its place, they offer us only the sterile embrace of mineral water and the vague promise that 'the heatwave will break by Tuesday'. Tuesday! As if the thirst of a nation could be assuaged by a calendar.
In the world of tourism, this is a catastrophe of epic proportions. The British invasion of Paris has historically been fuelled by three things: Eurostar, the promise of leisure, and the ready availability of cheap, vinegary plonk. Without the third, the entire enterprise collapses. We will see a wave of cancellations, a rise in the price of non-alcoholic beer, and a worrying uptick in the number of Brits attempting to get 'creative' with the hotel mini-bar. I predict the emergence of a black market for canned lager, sold from the boots of battered Citroëns by men who look like they've just stepped off the set of a particularly gritty adaptation of Les Misérables.
In conclusion, this ban is a farce, a piece of legislative cruelty that targets the very heart of the tourist experience. It is a reminder that in a world gone mad, the only sane response is to find a shady spot, a bottle of something with a decent ABV, and to wait for the madness to pass. And if the madness doesn't pass? Well, there's always the gin aisle at Charles de Gaulle. Duty-free, naturally.
