In a scene that could have been painted by Hieronymus Bosch, if Hieronymus Bosch had a season ticket at the Parc des Princes and a taste for mediocre lager, Paris erupted last night. Not a revolution, mind you. That would be so 1789. No, this was something far more important: a football victory. PSG, the team that embodies the city's glamour and the rest of France's deep-seated resentment thereof, actually won something. And the locals, bless their beret-wearing hearts, decided to celebrate by setting fire to things. Because nothing says “we are the city of light” quite like the warm, comforting glow of a burning skip.
The scenes were, by all accounts, chaotic. Joyous hordes spilled from bars, waving scarves and singing songs that probably rhymed something with “Marseille” in a disparaging way. And at the epicentre of this maelstrom of merriment, a group of British police officers stood, notepad in hand, taking diligent notes. Apparently, Scotland Yard is studying the French approach to crowd control. Because if there is one thing the British police are famously good at, it is applying lessons learned from the French. This is the same French police force, bear in mind, that once tried to control a demonstration by unleashing a herd of goats. I am not making that up. They did. The goats were not effective.
But let us dissect this exquisite absurdity. Britain, a nation that prides itself on keeping a stiff upper lip and a firm grip on its truncheon, is looking to France, a nation that regards public order as a charming suggestion, for pointers on how to manage a crowd. It is like asking a cat to explain the finer points of dog obedience. The French approach to crowd control, as far as I can tell, is to stand around looking stylish, occasionally waving a baton, and then when things get too much, break out the water cannons and hope for the best. It is a philosophy that has served them well, from the barricades of 1848 to the more recent battles over baguette pricing.
Meanwhile, back in Paris, the confetti cannons have been packed away, the bins have been extinguished, and the PSG fans are nursing hangovers and a vague sense of triumph. And in London, some police commissioner is probably staring at his notes, muttering, “Right. So we need to wear more scarves and be more sarcastic? Got it.” The lesson, if there is one, is that football hooliganism is a universal language. And the police, poor sods, are just struggling to translate.
I, for one, welcome our new French overlords of disorder. Maybe they can teach us how to protest properly. With more panache. And better cheese. And definitely, definitely more gin.
