THE FRENCH: PURE CLASS.

(pictured: the French, chanteuseing away)

The French are great aren’t they? They really are. Take Christine Lagarde. I really like Christine Lagarde. She’s so sophisticated. She always looks like she’s on her way to the Cannes Film Festival. I bet she’s always having lunch with Bernard Henri Lévy. They’d be discussing the world over croissants but you’d never see them eating the things. Biting and chewing would be a bit beneath them. The crumbs and all that wouldn’t do at all. No, the croissants would just kind of evaporate as Christine and Bernard sit there looking superb and talking about fancy books and not books they pretend they’ve read either, ones they’ve actually read. Dead long books about mad complicated stuff. Nicholas Sarkozy might drop by too. He’s a grand fella. His wife is a chanteuse. Imagine having a chanteuse for a wife. That’d be great. Lévy would compliment Sarkozy on his handling of Libya (they’ll all be eating croissants in Libya come Christmas). He’d pat him on the shoulder and say ‘formidable’ and offer him one of the croissants for evaporation.

Christine would get her share of compliments too. She’d be told she’s looking well and that the new IMF job really suits her. She’s well worth the $467,940 a year. As far as I’m concerned, she can do what she likes in the new post. As long as she does it with style. Any cuts you want Christine. Any assets. Work away. She loves us Irish. She says we’re a great lot, paying up and not moaning like the Greeks and Portuguese. The Greeks and Portuguese are bold. But we’re good. Ms. Lagarde said so and she looks like someone who is off to the Cannes Film Festival. Have you ever been to the Cannes Film Festival yourself? No. No you haven’t. You’ve never been to the Cannes Film Festival. You pitiful little Irish bollix.

You can trust Christine. She’s beyond reproach and even if she isn’t, she looks like she is and that’s the main thing. So forget about that dodgy business with Crédit Lyonnais and just sit back and sigh at the sophistication.

Ah yeah, you can imagine the three of them there. Christine, Bernard and Nicholas at the outdoor café, folding their legs, stroking their chins, lighting Gitanes, je ne sais quoing all over the place. Fantastique. The only thing that could put a dampener on proceedings would be if Merkel showed up. That wouldn’t be good. I mean, don’t get me wrong, she’s OK and it was dead decent of her not to use tanks when she took over Ireland, but, . . .well, . . .she’s a bit dumpy isn’t she? I mean, you can imagine it. She’d come along and plop herself down and kind of ruin the picture. Christine, Bernard and Nicholas would look at her. Not enjoying the sight. Reminded of the strict teutonic governesses their parents used employ. Merkel would pick up a croissant. She’d take a bite out of it. Chomp. The pastry would flake and fall and land on her ill fitting blouse. The others would avert their gaze. Their conversation would continue. Merkel’s interjections would be acknowledged with polite nods but never directly addressed. It’d go unsaid but there’d be a mutual hope that the old bag might just go away after a while.

Here, just for Christine and Nicholas, is a song by a good friend of theirs. A friend who they perhaps shouldn’t be seen with for a while to be honest. He’s a former jailbird and we don’t want any scandal. It’s bad enough with Christine’s predecessor jumping out on chambermaids but I’m sure no one knows anything about any of that and find talk of it distasteful. Ah the French. Such a classy bunch of fuckers. Anyway, here’s the song: