For some months now, a certain Quilgars has been spitting out his venom on the Internet and has regularly published satiric articles about British current affairs on his blog, in French and English alike. With a rare dishonesty, this disgusting Frog got into the habit of making completely irrelevant remarks about our country’s politics, economics, culture and life style, and through columns, letters and anecdotes has been expressing his point of view on Britain – a country he does not apparently know and can never know, given the natural limitations of the French brain. He has pushed ignominy to the point of vandalising one of our greatest poems by calling his blog “Oh, to blog in London!,” thus showing his complete disdain for English Romantic poetry. Obviously, the IQ of this wannabe Robert Browning does not even equal half that of one of Sir Peter Viggers’ ducks.
But who is this pretentious scribbler?
According to our sources, Quilgars is the grotesque pen name of a French pseudo-highbrow who moved to London in February 2009. He has come out of nowhere, he lives by his wits and does not work in the City. We can incidentally see the disastrous effects of both the economic crisis and Brown’s inept fiscal policy upon the quality of today’s European immigrants. Before the credit crunch, France used to send us bankers, financiers, accountants, football players and coaches; in any case people with good manners and high moral standing. This Gallic elite however is going back home and now France exports its intellectual proletariat, as if the UK had not enough work dealing with the BBC, The Guardian and its own hordes of lefties thirsting for equality and tax increases, led by Polly Toynbee. Maybe we should expel George Monbiot to France in retaliation.
Of course, it is useless to expect this distasteful creature to act with common decency. Apparently, it has never crossed his limited mind that, as a guest in a foreign country, he should show courteous restraint and respectful reserve towards his hosts – especially when it is thanks to the sacrifice of thousands of Britons on Normandy’s beaches sixty-six years ago that he can use this freedom of speech that he utterly abuses today. But why should we be surprised? France is an ungrateful nation and French people are furtive by nature. Except for making Camembert cheese and handing over defenceless Jews to the Germans, there is nothing else that they can do successfully. They are not even able to elect somebody as a President who can represent them with dignity, preferring instead to give the keys of the Elysée Palace to a preposterous little squirt wearing Cuban heels, who moreover had the strange idea of turning a guitar-strumming strumpet into his First Lady.
At the National Army Museum in Chelsea, today we can still see on display the skeleton of Marengo, the beloved horse of Napoleon – the horse he rode at the battle of Waterloo. Naturally, bogged down in a catastrophic situation, France is nowadays unable to produce both a military and a political genius such as Bonaparte. But she would be equally unable to produce such a reliable, steady and courageous mount as Marengo! Honestly, I would infinitely prefer to share my dinner or play a game of bridge with Marengo than with this horrible Quilgars. O tempora, o mores! When was the last time that a French racehorse won the Derby? We live in truly desperate times if an English gentleman cannot meet a well-trained, distinguished French horse any more. I guess now I can only complain and say like Richard the Third: “A French horse, a French horse! My kingdom for a French horse!”