François the French man returns to Paris tomorrow. Reenie is frying him up a last British feesh and cheeps as we enter. "Vive Napoleon!" - we chorus. "Bonjour Breetish pipple" - he retorts; and straightaway we get to the real nub of it. 'This brexit' we ask him concernedly, 'If we leave the EU, will you, will you be able to cope François? Will Frenchmen playing on village squares across the land be unable to see their boules through the tears? Will those little French cars - made from corrugated-iron and a sewing-machine motor - be clogged with mechanical grief and refuse to start?
François snorts Gallically. He gazes into the middle distance and raises a pole-vaulter's arm. "Ze Breetish" he begins "zey vote zis weh; ze Breetish vote zat weh; all ze time" he continues "ze French merns zey tek a big stick each, an zey poosh, zey poosh, and Great Britaing she float aweh; bye bye Prince Arry, bye bye Betty, bye bye Yorkshire Pooding ha! ha! ha!"
I rather feel that his opinion on the matter lacks the love that I was expecting.
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