In a scene so absurdly Gallic it could have been painted by a seditious pigeon on a baguette, the City of Light descended into beautiful, beautiful chaos. Hundreds arrested. Not for philosophical disagreements about the nature of existentialism, but for the sacred task of kicking off at a football match. The Champions League, that glittering pyramid scheme of modern masculinity, had its latest bout of fisticuffs and flares, and the French gendarmerie, bless their shiny buttons, were caught with their croissants down.
Meanwhile, across the wet quilt of the English Channel, a curious thing happened. The UK policing was praised. Yes, you read that correctly. The Met. The bungling, PR-drenched, horse-fearing Metropolitan Police were held up as a beacon of order. This is like praising a leaky kettle for its hydroelectric potential. Let us dissect this delicious irony.
The French, a nation that perfected the art of revolution, had their streets turned into a particularly aggressive game of Pac-Man, with riot police as the ghosts and football hooligans as the yellow muncher. Tear gas wafted through the air, mixing with the scent of baguettes and existential despair. The British response? A stiff upper lip, a few stern words about queueing, and a quiet pride that our hooligans are at least polite about their violence. We like a good ruckus, but we like it with a spot of tea and a system. Order before anarchy, chaos with a condiment.
But let us not be fooled. This praise for UK policing is a narrative spun by the same forces that tell us everything is fine. It is the soothing lie whispered over a warm pint of beer. The truth is that our police force is as effective as a chocolate teapot in a heatwave, but they have mastered the art of looking competent by comparison. It is the old trick: if you stand next to a man on fire, you look positively cool.
So the French are arrested in droves, the English are patted on the back, and the real winners are the gin distilleries who supply the calming glasses of Parliament. We sit in our smug island, watching the continent burn, and pat ourselves on the back with a self-satisfied burp. But mark my words, when the next crisis hits our shores, that long touted order will crumble faster than a stale digestive. For now, let us raise a glass to the perpetual incompetence of policing, and the beautiful, violent absurdity of football. Cheers, mes amis. The hangover is coming.
