Cold feet

Well actually, I was not ready to confront the Brits. I had cold feet. It is all very well being brave and courageous on a blog, when you don’t have to look them in the whites of the eyes. But when you know that you are going to meet one shortly, in person, it is a different question.

Yes I know that I only have to shout ‘suicide bomber on the tube’ and they will run a mile. But dirty tricks are not French. When I was a youth in England I was inculcated completely into the finer art of gamesmanship, but that was a long time ago. The methods have moved on and it is the day in day out practice that an Englishman receives, doing down Mrs Jones, that makes him so strong. No there was no way out, I had to use French methods. I had to stick to the rules and be fair. We know that in almost any activity you can mention we whip them easily, and no cheating. That’s why they concentrate on money laundering and fighting wars. Ah the pleasure of being on a French team, that complicity of knowing you are all prepared to give your all for victory. To see the prima donna English playing up to the boss, and doing their colleagues down. Then doing a lengthy investigation into why they lost.

But I needed a team. I was all on my own, up against a member of the most ruthless nation on earth. I checked my watch; I had time for a digestif.