Beat to quarters, and cry God for Harry, England and Saint George! because England expects every man will do his duty. As if dealing with the relics of Hitler and Stalin wasn’t bad enough, now we have to fend off Napoleon IV.
Or is it Caligula? Emmanuel Macron has compared himself to Jupiter. Maybe he will try to emulate that other mad emperor who had a God-complex, and battle Neptune, getting soldiers to bring home seashells as spoils.
After all, he forced the French military to dance to Daft Punk for the benefit of a bemused and unimpressed Donald Trump, so clearly no humiliation is too great to be heaped upon them by the man they call “the little puppet.”
Still, at least he is passionate about French culture, and has demanded that the baguette be protected by the UN:
“Excellence and expertise must be preserved, and that is why it should be heritage listed. When I see the quality of bread in supermarkets, it is impossible not to get angry. The bread is frozen, some of it comes from Romania or who knows where, nothing is carried out in accordance with the rules of the art. The baguette is the envy of the whole world.”
The urge to shout at Romanian bread may, of course, stem from the fact that he boasts of only sleeping for three hours per night. Being English, and therefore not emotionally engaged with baked products, or indeed, bakers, my advice would be “Have a nap, mate.”
One of Emmanuel Macron’s great-grandfathers came from Bristol, but I think we should deny all responsibility for the confusing phenomenon which is King Manu – the man who aspires to be Emperor of Europa but got the big job just as what he calls the “leprosy of populism” swept across the continent.
Les Anglo Saxons were the source of the infection, naturellement, but the Italians have got it bad, which is why, in a recent shrill outburst, he described them as lepers.
The Italians responded by calling him “a chatterbox” – I never before thought the Italians to be such masters of understatement.
Anyway, they have form when it comes to annoying Manu, who Berlusconi described as “a 39-year-old lad, with good work experience under him and most of all with a good looking mom who has carried him under her arm when he was still a child”.
Brigitte and Manu obviously only started a romantic relationship when he was l8, and if you could excuse me for a few minutes, I am taking a brief break to clean the window, as a whole flock of flying pigs just swooped past.
Brigitte was l5 year old Manu’s 39 year old teacher when they met, and Manu’s parents sent him to Paris to escape her clutches, begging her to “leave him alone” until he was at least l8, but chose not to heap scandal on scandal, possibly damaging Manu’s own future career, by bringing charges against her for corruption of a minor.
The average Frenchman would of course think it fabulous to be ‘educated’ by an older woman but ridiculous to be a victim of one, or indeed to remain with her in perpetuity. Manu’s declaration “without her there would be no me” gives a queasy feeling and is not reassuring in a statesman.
Luckily, female teachers who prey on pupils are not condemned as roundly as male ones, and their relationship is painted as a grand romance. It’s rude and sexist to disparage a mature lady, so the pair have been equated to Donald and Melania, whose age gap is the same.
However, Melania was not groomed from childhood, being in her late 20s when she met Donald, who was not her teacher.
Perhaps it is the relationship with Brigitte which has made Manu appear oddly infantile.
Manu always had a thing about his grandma – he asked to live with her at the age of 5. His interest in the older female equips him superbly for a political world which for some years, in a diversity drive, has been run by mad old women.
Mrs May – who beneath her guise as a depressed heron gives the impression of wearing split-crotch tweed knickers – has been seen to skitter girlishly and flutter her eyelashes while gurgling incoherently at him, and poor, lumbering Frau Merkel, who clearly saw him as her special leibling, appeared to be a broken Orc as Manu ditched the Gallic seductiveness and showed his sharp little teeth at a recent joint press-conference.
Now the Spanish – whose border with France is ‘leaky’ due to Spanish laziness and incompetence – have allowed in the migrants the Italian ‘lepers’ have turned away, and Macron has had to pull up the French drawbridge, annoying Mutti Merkel even more.
The love affair is over and Brigitte’s jealous tantrums can stop.
Drying Brigitte’s tears could at least save on the make-up bill. Presentation of this couple is expensive. Their joint make-up bill was £24,000 between May and August last year, and they required two make-up artists due to cosmetic “emergency”.
Manu’s Wikipedia page is very odd, as if Manu – who speaks English fluently but with strong shades of Inspector Clouseau – wrote it himself. Much attention is devoted to time spent with his grandma, and he doesn’t neglect to boast that he once won a piano competition.
His statements appear to show a man conflicted and deeply confused: for example, he says he is not a socialist but just works in a socialist government, and there are many other erratic thoughts and opinions. If you want a bloody good laugh, I urge you to read it. This is just one quote:
“Macron also proposed a plan to “reorganize” the Islamic religion in France saying, “We are working on the structuring of Islam in France and also on how to explain it, which is extremely important – My goal is to rediscover what lies at the heart of laïcité, the possibility of being able to believe as not to believe, in order to preserve national cohesion and the possibility of having free consciousness.” He declined to reveal further information about the plan.”
Could it be that he just didn’t actually know what the hell he was saying?
About the only thing Manu is clear on is that he is rabidly pro-EU. Why wouldn’t he be?
France has done very nicely out of the whole sorry mess, clawing in 96% of all CAP funding, and refusing access to migrants from newly-admitted European nations, given a big seat at the big table, refusing to comply with any ruling which interfered with France’s ‘little ways’, and all for less than half the financial contribution of Britain. In order of annual contribution to Juncker’s drinks cabinet, sums are as follows: Germany €14.3 billion, United Kingdom €11.5 billion, France €5.5 billion. And they didn’t even put that in the pot until l992 – and then they rioted in horror at the very idea.
The only thing likely to trigger ‘Frexit’ is the loss of Britain’s funding, which will end the halcyon days of French one-goat cheese artisans financing their pretentions out of the pockets of the British.
No wonder little Manu is gnashing his teeth about Brexit.
The French could probably handle Manu strutting around the world insulting all and sundry – he is especially rude to Africans, who he appears to detest – but not having the mannerisms of an 8 year old.
Trudeau has become his ‘special friend’, a bromance which has been widely parodied, and he has been filmed lecturing a teenager who called him ‘Manu’, on the correct way to address such an important man as King Manu – not in the manner of an older, pompous man, but like a fellow adolescent jealously guarding his important job of sharpening the pencils for teacher.
Surely nobody under 25 will vote for him now?
Manu is making himself look ridiculous and emasculated, and this is something which the French, who take themselves very seriously indeed, find intolerable.
His stunt of taking questions while sitting on a gilded velvet throne has not gone unpunished by the French, an artistic people who have responded in the way only the French can by creating elaborate effigies to burn.
Hats off to them, say I: we Brits tend to produce a balloon on a stick to represent our leaders at demonstrations, but perhaps that’s because that’s what our leaders tend to look like.
It’s best not to needlessly annoy people whose national anthem translates as follows, especially so close to Bastille Day:
Let’s go, children of the fatherland, the day of glory is here!
Against us stands tyranny – it’s bloody standard is raised!
Listen to the sound in the fields
The howling of these fearsome soldiers!
They are coming into our midst
To cut the throats of your sons and wives!
To arms, citizens!
Form your barricades!
March, march, let the impure blood water the furrows of our fields!
Manu was elected to confound Marine Le Pen – always silly, voting for what you don’t want just because you don’t want something else even more.
We could have told them that – we do it all the time, and the results are always as substandard as the candidate.
He is also an example of what happens when a 2nd vote gives globalists a chance to discover what needs to be tweaked in order to obstruct populists (which is precisely why Remain, here, want a 2nd referendum.)
History in Europe runs on a loop: our identities are so fixed after thousands of years, that this destiny is inescapable.
This is just one of the reasons that we cannot be confined and rendered uniform beige by the EU, which is of course itself a repetition – the German Hat Trick, a third attempt to dominate Europe in a single century.
Manu appears to be channelling the most annoying aspects of French history. There was not one, but three previous rulers of France called Napoleon, who didn’t hesitate to reinstate the monarchy, and spent their tenures provoking rage in every nation they encountered, including the shiny new USA: it ended with Prussian troops marching down the Champs Elysée.
Heartbroken Angela will probably be too busy trying to remove the knife which her own coalition has plunged between her shoulder blades, to pull that particular stunt, but that doesn’t mean that King Manu is safely out of the wood, because sadly for Manu, the mad old women who have been running the show are rapidly being replaced by alpha-males, who see him as something of a joke.
Trump, the ultimate Silver-back, has tended to treat Manu with fatherly affection, as an amiable child. But with King Manu’s ego being inflated by what he perceives as conquest, and with him repeatedly spitting the word populism like a French-accented four-letter word, it’s only a matter of time before he insults The Don, and gets decisively sat on.
And then, even being immortalised in colouring books won’t save him.