The Westminster village is a world of its own, but today we look across the Channel. A tragedy in the genteel sport of pétanque has sent ripples through the French political class, and the echoes are being felt here. A 68-year-old player, a veteran of the local boules club in the Var, is dead. Killed by a metal boule. A stray throw, a miscalculation, a freak accident. The sport is in shock. You can hear the silence in the town squares where the clack of boules is the soundtrack of summer.
For those of us who obsess over the game of politics, this is a reminder of the fragility of life. These players are not MPs, but they have their own hierarchies, their own rivalries, their own whispers in the bar after the match. The victim was a respected figure. A man who knew the weight of the boule, the spin of the terrain. He died doing what he loved. But that is cold comfort for his family, for his club, for the federation.
There will be an inquiry. The French authorities are thorough. Was it a defective boule? A moment of madness? Or just the cruel hand of fate? The pétanque community is close-knit. They will close ranks, they will mourn, they will ask how this could happen. The answer, as in politics, is often unsatisfying.
Here in Whitehall, we are used to games of a different sort. But the core is the same. Skill, luck, and the occasional devastating blow. This tragedy is a reminder that the game is never truly safe. Victor Hugo wrote that nothing is as powerful as an idea whose time has come. Today, the idea is that even the most peaceful pastime can turn deadly.
The French sport minister will issue a statement. There will be calls for safety reviews. But you cannot legislate against freak accidents. You can only hope. And tonight, somewhere in the Var, a pétanque pitch lies empty. A set of boules without a player. The game goes on, but it is smaller, sadder.
