The historical enmity between France and Britain often feels like Punch and Judy. There may be bloody-nosed, theatrical spats between politicians and the worst amongst us may mutter “stupides Rosbifs” or “cheese-eating surrender monkeys”, but everyone enjoys the spat.
Once the show is over, we return to an entente cordiale, because it’s clear there’s nowhere your average Waitrose-shopping Brit more wants to live than Brittany, the Dordogne or Provence.
The French may not feel the same about decamping to Cumbria, but they’re thick on the ground in South Kensington and know that millions of us have Norman blood from their previous colonisation of these isles.
But now, for the first time in centuries, the enmity feels dangerously real. The French Culture Minister, Rachida Dati, has just announced her intention to make all British and other non-EU tourists pay a significant surcharge when they enter Parisian national monuments such as Versailles and the Musée d’Orsay.
Instead of the standard 22 euros for a ticket to the Louvre, they’d be required to shell out as much as a third more to gain access. This, despite all evidence suggesting the central purpose of the Eurostar is to provide sufficient UK culture vultures to prop up Paris’s cultural landmarks.
And despite the fact we already pay a levy on gristly steak, served by a waiter so surly he makes Basil Fawlty look like Bambi, who then affects to miscomprehend our school-girl French. Even though all we’ve said is “Merci bien!”
We Brits – generous to a fault – give the traffic coming our way sundry glories of our cultural heritage for free.
The fact any visitor, of any age or background, can wander the hallowed spaces of London’s National Galleries, two Tates, the British Museum, the Natural History and Science Museums and the V&A without paying a penny, should tell you which country truly believes in “liberté, egalité, fraternité”.
In fact, the French should be giving us subsidised entry in return for all the cheese, wine and duck paté we ship over the Channel, not to mention our devotion to Parisian fashion brands like Chloé and Isabel Marant.
I’m generally not one for proposing a boycott, but on this occasion I think it’s appropriate. Although, to be clear, let’s just bypass Paris – there’s no need to forsake Toulouse, Nice or Marseilles.
As any frequent visitor to France knows, most of the nation’s inhabitants look askance at the toffee-nosed inhabitants of their capital city.
When my gay uncle bought a ramshackle mas near Avignon in the 1980s, he walked round with his partner to apologise to his farmer for being part of the British invasion of Provence – thinking he might set his dogs on the pair of them.
The old man said gruffly that it was fine, because “Heurseusement, vous n’êtes pas par Parisien.”
Which is a motto many of us could get behind, including all the UK women who’ve had a chic Parisian woman of Carine Roitfeld’s (former editor of French Vogue) type direct a Medusa-like glare at our Brora cardigans and birds-nest hair.
A good friend of mine who lived in Paris for a year swore she only got good service in shops when she’d had her wild curls blow-dried into an acceptably sleek mane.
For your cultural needs, why not fly to Vienna, Madrid or Amersterdam, where the galleries are just as fabulous and the frites better value. Or, better still, nip to Tirana, which I visited for the first time this September.
The city’s Pyramid, once a museum dedicated to the communist dictator Enver Hoxha, is now a joyous, free “open sculpture” that you can climb, infiltrate (to view an exhibition), slide down or sit atop with a bottle of wine, marvelling at the panoramic views.
It’s a 3D representation of liberty, frugality and jollity. Crucially, no one gives a damn what you’re wearing, nor how you pronounce faleminderit.