Travelling frequently as I do between England and France, I am always
depressed almost to the point of despair when I see the English at the
airport. Never in human history can so many people have been so
determined to make the worst of themselves. Self-respect is unknown to
them. Fat or thin, they dress in a more slovenly fashion than any other
people in the world known to me; their choice of clothing is so bad that it
can only be deliberate, for it cannot be a mere matter of chance.
The English now choose ugliness as a matter of ideology. For some
years now, Ms Slut-Harridan has dominated our public address systems.
Her voice would be enough to send shivers down the spine even of a
non-English speaker. Since she must have been chosen for the job, it
can only be because company executives think that the English are now
comfortable only with ugliness, as fleas in fur.
This would bode ill for us were it not that other nations are in the process
of following suit. Behind me in the queue to board the plane was a plump
young woman squeezed into unsuitable clothes so hideous I thought she
must be English. This impression was strengthened by the
metallic-mauve coloured pins that she had had inserted into her upper lip
on both sides of her mouth. Despite this stupidity, however, she was
French, not English. My heart swelled with patriotic pride at our cultural
I am not starry-eyed about other nations. Arriving from the airport at the
Gare du Nord, and having some luggage with me, I took the lift between
two ‘levels,’ as they are now called. It was one of those class cages that
is never out of public sight as it ascends or descends: and the Gare du
Nord is one of the busiest stations in the world.
As always, this lift stank of urine. Indeed, one could see the dried urine
on the glass sides of the life. One did not know which to remark upon
more, the swiftness of the mens’ capacity to empty their bladders (now
far beyond my own ability) or their psychopathic indifference to common
decency and welfare as they did so. No one would dare stop them, of
course, just as no one dares stop the many young men who jump over
the ticket barriers in the Métro to avoid payment.