So the G7 descends upon Biarritz, and predictably, the streets of France boil over with an almost theatrical fury. Masked protesters hurl projectiles, police respond with tear gas, and the usual choreography of chaos unfolds. Yet, as the cameras pan away from the smoke, they catch a curious sight: the British delegation, calm and collected, having hosted their own summit with nary a broken window.
The British security apparatus earns praise for its orderliness, a quiet rebuke to the continental spectacle. But this is not merely a matter of policing tactics. It is a symptom of a deeper civilisational drift.
France, once the crucible of Enlightenment, now seems to revel in a kind of revolutionary nostalgia, a performance of dissent that has become sterile and self-indulgent. Britain, by contrast, has weathered its own storms—Brexit, pandemic, inflation—yet retains a social compact that, however frayed, still holds. The contrast is instructive.
The French protests are not a cry for justice but a ritual of decay, a sign that the intellectual decadence of the elite has trickled down to the streets. Meanwhile, the British model, imperfect as it is, proves that order and liberty are not antithetical. One can host a summit without turning one's capital into a barricaded war zone.
The praise for British security is deserved, but it should also be a mirror held up to Europe. Look and learn: the age of performative rebellion is over. The future belongs to those who can govern with quiet competence, not shouting in the streets.
