In the end, it was the pictures of Carla Bruni photogenically snogging President Sarkozy on a boat on the River Thames, during their state visit, that made me wish they’d both just clear off back to France, Bruni presumably bobbing gently homewards on a sea of male British drool.
It was a public display of affection too far surely, even for their brand of Je t’aime politics? We’d already had Sarkozy lavishing praise on Britain — our courage, our dynamism, all that stuff in the war; the newly prim Bruni smiling demurely, dressed in a Dior suit and pillbox hat, like Jackie O seconds after being body snatched by the Stepford Wives.
And from the Sarkozys’ point of view, it went splendidly — they had come to Britain for ”PR rehab” and had emerged triumphant, bar the odd upsetting close-up of stack heels. Then the kiss and suddenly the Sarkozys started to remind one of those racy foreign exchange students who come over when you’re 14 and make it clear they have ”experience”. This time, though, they had an entire nation in their sights.
There we were, Britain, the blushing virgin lover, overimpressed, clammy palmed, as sexy brutish France pushed us against the wall, promising eternal l’amour, all the time trying to shove its tongue down our collective throat. The thrill of it; when had we last been so ravished? Carla, especially, so chic in her little Dior suit, does it have to be just a one-night stand? Indeed, in sheer PR terms, you’ve got to ask yourself — when did Britain become such an easy lay?
This is not intended as an attack on Carla, though if it were, there would be no shortage of ammunition. She’s a supermodel turned folk singer (donnez moi strength!); she has said excruciating man-pleasing things in the past such as: ”Monogamy bores me”; she has slept with Eric Clapton, Mick Jagger and Donald Trump. Is it really necessary to go on?
Despite this, I would have loved to have got hold of that full-frontal nude portrait put up for auction on the eve of the state visit by Christie’s, and splashed all over the newspapers, and given it to Carla to burn. Gorgeous though she looked, what was this except a big, boorish shout of ”keep the bitch in her place”? It’s as if, even today, a woman with a past with a capital P scares us and we prefer our First Ladies to be outlines waiting to be coloured in by their powerful husbands.
However, ultimately, it wasn’t her nudity in the past that was the issue, it was the Sarkozys’ naked ambition in the present, which was seemingly to be crowned as the hot new couple on the international political stage, the couple who make all other political couples look dusty, passionless and redundant. And correspondingly their politics, too, even their countries.
Indeed, was it inadvertent or was there a bizarre whiff of quasi-sexual competitiveness from the Sarkozys towards the Browns, a preening display of potency?
Whether Carla was sashaying into Sarah’s charity lunch or Sarkozy was ”playing football” with Brown at Arsenal’s stadium (both men coming across like two girls desperate not to get their petticoats dirty), it seemed palpable; the none too subtle one-upmanship from the French camp. The whole event had the air of a quiet, serious country couple making the mistake of inviting a glamorous, intimidating couple over for a hellish weekend of nonstop patronising, the story of the town mouse and the country mouse as reinterpreted for the international political stage.
However, for some of us, if the idea was to make the Browns, and by association Britain and its politics, look a bit passionless and lacking, it backfired. No offence meant, but the last thing I ever want to see is the Browns playing tonsil tennis on a boat on the Thames. Or anywhere. To me, this doesn’t say ”virile and go-getting”, it says ”midlife crisis alert, get him away from the button”.
Admittedly, it was all very diverting and it was sweet to see how gallantly British men rushed to welcome Madame Sarkozy and her interesting views on monogamy. Ultimately though, the whole try-hard thing with the Sarkozys left one with a huge appreciation for the Browns. In fact, I’d like to use this column to make an apology: I interviewed Gordon once and left whingeing that he was serious and dull. I’d like to change my mind. Like surgeons and airline pilots, you don’t want your world leaders to be too exciting or, God forbid, surprising — it’s reassuring that they’re serious and dull.
Indeed, although one feels this country was too easily seduced by the Carla-Nicolas roadshow, and should maybe have felt affronted by the way they made British politics look passionless by comparison, perhaps in the end, we should just feel relieved. – guardian.co.uk Â