Though anecdotes abound concerning the Englishman’s legendary ability to preserve his sense of humour and sang-froid in moments of crisis fewer exist as to his penchant for hypocrisy. The following example is one the Frenchie in me is particularly fond of:

     Some years ago during an IRA terrorist bombing campaign in London I was enjoying a quiet evening drink with an English friend in a pub near Piccadilly Circus when suddenly in the distance we heard a violent detonation. The window panes rattled slightly, glasses on the shelves behind the bar chinked together, and a few particles of dust floated down from the ceiling. To my utter amazement everybody threw themselves to the floor, and remained there for several moments in deathly silence. Finally, on realizing there was no danger, my English friend raised himself to his feet, casually dusted his jacket sleeves and trouser legs, looked me knowingly in the eye, and then remarked with a smug-looking smile: ‘Oh! You were so scared you couldn’t move!’

     You know, my Frenchie is convinced that there isn’t another country in the world where direct rectification, disagreement or contradiction is perceived as being tantamount to a declaration of war. It can only be you English who, when you find yourselves in the embarrassing position of having to correct a mistake, will go to such extraordinarily apologetic lengths to point out that what you’re about to say is in no way a criticism but stems merely from a wish to explain. Though my Froggie would be the first to admit that the rules of politeness oblige us to conceal our true feelings and opinions so as to minimize the risk of conflict with others, you take this to ridiculous extremes. He really doesn’t know of any other people in the world who, instead of declaring: ‘No, I disagree with you entirely!’ go to such extraordinary lengths to reply, ‘Well, you certainly might have a point, but on the other hand, don’t you think …?’ when they are intimately convinced you’re talking unmitigated rubbish. Now, let’s be honest. How can you possibly trust someone who systematically professes to agree with everything you say?

     What’s more, in the field of sport my Frenchman is convinced that you English are much less stars of fair play than champions at making people think you are, and that if there was a gold medal to be won in the field of perfidity you’d be world-beaters. On this score he often cites the experience my neighbour, Monsieur Martin, had in his youth as just one example. 

     In his younger days, Monsieur Martin played rugby for our local fifteen. Such is the aggressive nature of this sport, ‘a game of thugs played by gentlemen’, that certain situations could provide the opportunity for violent, below-the-belt tactics, worthy of the most unsavoury street-fighter which the referee is not always positioned to witness and punish. The game relies, therefore, on the rules of fair sporting conduct being applied by all and sundry. In this respect, He remembers in particular a ‘friendly’ match he once played in against a touring English club team. 

     A match between England and France can never, of course, be amicable in the true sense of the word, and this one was no exception. In an enthusiastically-disputed ruck Monsieur Martin received a kick in the head from an English forward (out of sight, of course, of the referee), vigorous enough for him to be obliged to play the rest of the match with blood streaming from a gash in his forehead (this was before the days of the blood substitute). At the end of the game (narrowly lost by the French), the English consolidated their triumph, as is their custom, by lining up in a guard of honour and ‘sportingly’ shaking hands with their adversaries. 

     ‘Oh dear! Did you bump your head?’ enquired the English forward, seizing Monsieur Martin warmly by the hand.