Mildly creepy monsieur still desperate to be one of the cool kids
...sees PM receive a weird but warm welcome in Paris
At school one imagines Emmanuel Macron was the studious sort that more unruly pupils condemned as a bit of a dweeb. Swotty, hard-working, probably rubbish at games.
A typical teacher’s pet, you might say. It’s a small wonder that he and the drama teacher got it together.
But these days little Monsieur Clevercloggs is desperate to be one of the cool kids.
Welcoming Boris Johnson to the Elysee Palace yesterday, he resembled a mildly creepy stage door Johnny finally meeting his hero for the first time.
No sooner had Boris’s blacked-out, drug-dealer chic 4x4 pulled into the sundappled courtyard, there was Le President, bounding down the steps past the impeccably turned-out Republican Guard to greet his guest with all the gormless enthusiasm of a two-monthold border terrier.
Such was the force with which he grabbed the Prime Minister’s paw that he almost sent poor Boris tumbling over backwards. Cr-unch! the resulting handshake and back slapping seemed to go on for ever.
It was not at all what had been expected. the President had made some very dismissive remarks beforehand about the Irish backstop so we were fully anticipating le snub.
Instead, the body language between these two world leaders was warmer than a saucy Serge Gainsbourg/Jane Birkin duet.
From Monsieur Macron, bronzed from his three-week Mediterranean hols and preening like a cheesy catalogue model, we then got the usual ‘special relationship’ pre-amble.
Speaking in French, he reiterated his disappointment at the UK leaving the EU. ‘If I had been British I would have voted to stay,’ he lamented.
He was unhappy, too, at the way France has been portrayed as the EU’s wet blanket during the Brexit negotiations. ‘I’m often seen as the toughest in the group,’ he said, staring at his counterpart in the eye. translation: ‘Stop making me out to be the bad guy.’
Standing beside him, Boris oozed all the impatient energy of a small child in church. the new PM really is the most frightful fidget. He played with his notes, he rearranged his hair, he eased himself up and down on his toes as he gazed skyward. Occasionally, he reached for an item in his inside pocket which strangely never seemed to materialise.
this was all partly understandable. Le President does rabbit on a bit. At one point, as his host continued warbling, the PM suddenly began jotting something down in the margin of his own speech.
A final alteration to his statement? Possibly. Knowing Boris, it could quite easily have been some last-minute entries he wished to add to Downing Street’s weekly Ocado delivery.
then he was on and the Prime Minister got straight down to Brexit talk.
He was encouraged by his meeting with the German Chancellor the night before, hailing Frau Merkel’s ‘can-do spirit’, but stressed he was still prepared to leave without a deal.
Praising British/French co-operation, he pointed out that just as French-made buses ply the streets of London, so too does France’s tGV run on British steel.
‘Not a lot of people know that,’ he remarked, embarking on one of his offscript meanders. ‘In fact, er, er, the British ambassador didn’t know that, er, er, until I just told him.’
From the watching press pack there came the usual sniggers at this customgoals
ary moment of Boris surrealism. Le President raised his crooked beak in the air, a picture of Froggy haughtiness, and shot his counterpart a thin smile which suggested: ‘Qui est ce buffoon?’
A quick Q&A followed. The (sigh) backstop, needless to say, took centre-stage.
Macron was doubtful a solution could be found. Boris evoked his usual optimism. ‘Where there’s a will there’s a way,’ he insisted.
After 20 minutes it was time for lunch. ‘Merci beaucoup. Let’s work,’ harrumphed Le President.
And so up the steps they went, hands chummily resting on each other’s shoulders, these most unlikely freres d’armes.