Drawing of Martirena
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I so wanted to hate this stay. During the weeks before my arrival in Paris, I kept hearing that this city was just a hole teeming with nimble-handed pickpockets, hidden between mountains of garbage. I was even warned against tap water. French fichus.

Because to be British in the spiritual sense of the term – that is to say beyond the phlegm of a “Keep calm and carry on” and cushions embroidered with the Union Jack – it means above all: to hate the French. And how not to hate them? The undrinkable waiters, the bidets, frogs and snails, the willful incompetence in running their side of the tunnel, the pecks on both cheeks, their obsession with cheese, the frightening corruption of farm subsidies. The French aren’t just weird, they’re cheeky. My stay in France was to obey only one rule: not to appreciate anything. No question of letting them win.

know how to live

And yet, I have to confess one thing: it didn’t take me long to understand that not everything in French was entirely detestable*. As I went out to restaurants and strolled along the boulevards, I began to think to myself that maybe the French weren’t such bad buggers. And, though it pains me to say it, the

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The Spectator (London)

“The Spectator” is an institution of the British press. Founded in 1828, it is the reference newspaper for conservative intellectuals and leaders, but also for Eurosceptics: The Spectator supported the exit from the European Union during the 2016 referendum. Renowned for his analyzes and his incisive tone, he has belonged since 1989 to the same group as The Daily Telegraph.

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