from the diary of Rishi Sunak, prime minister of Fortress Britain
‘I WOULD not run against Zindane,’ Macron explains. ‘He would steamroller me. So you should not run against Gary Lineker.’ ‘I’m not,’ I say, again.
‘Or Henry,’ he continues. ‘Deschamps, Desailly, even Cantona. Platini, I could take on because his image has been tarnished by Fifa and he has lost his hair.
‘Lineker? Looks better with age, less boyish. With him as leader of your opposition I regret to say, mon ami, you do not stand a chance.’
‘He isn’t,’ I explain. Our Gallic cousins do love to hear their own voices raised in oratory, often to the exclusion of hard factual information. It’s amazing they’ve achieved so much as a country, with that and enjoying sex too much.
‘Gary Lineker,’ I continue, ‘is not a politician. He is a mere television presenter like your Antoine de Caunes, and has no influence on politics. I could fire him tomorrow.’
‘Eh?’ replies Macron, puzzled. ‘So you have entered hostilities with an immensely popular footballing hero and he is not even a politician..? Pourquoi?’
When I fail to answer, because I’m wondering if the French have a word for nuance, he continues: ‘Anyway. The small boats plan. It is merde.’
Discreetly opening Google Translate under the table, I say ‘Then we’re agreed? We’ve got your co-operation on stopping this illegal and dangerous trade in human misery?’
‘Non,’ he replies. ‘It is like Brexit: if they wish to leave the EU, why should I stop them? We have racists here too, you realise. A problem for you is a problem solved for us.’
‘Oh,’ I say. ‘But it’s my only hope of winning the next election.’ ‘Win?’ Macron laughs, raising his Bordeaux Blanc. ‘Non. Not you. My money is on Lineker.’
