Was it further proof that God is actually an Englishman and that he should get out of the eurozone as soon as possible and get back to having his own currency?
No sooner was Flanby with his Plan B sworn in as the fifth president of the Fifth French Republic – that’s about one new Republic every twenty-five years compared with the same British Constitution approaching its first one thousand years – than his presidential jet took off to meet Merkel, the Lutheran Evangelical champion of Plan A for Austerity, when it was promptly struck by lighting and had to turn back.
Poor old Flanby: on his triumphal procession down Les Champs Elysees the heavens had opened and pissed on his parade, as he stood on the back seat of his Citroen Deux-Chevaux powered by salad oil peering out of the sun-roof, getting drenched. It just wasn’t his day: but what was the Deity trying to do now to Flanby, with his thunderbolt flung from His seat on high?
Was the Supreme Being telling him to stay grounded in France and keep his growth powder dry, and leave Plan A to stew in Berlin as the markets were about to attack the Lutheran champion for him? Or was He telling Flanby to reduce his green footprint and save the planet with an unnecessary journey as it would achieve absolutely nothing, which was what actually happened anyway.
Or was it further proof that God is actually an Englishman and that he should get out of the eurozone as soon as possible and get back to having his own currency and central bank, just like Les Rosbifs, so that he could reinstate growth? Well, you can take your pick, but the last explanation is the obvious one.
Now all the world’s puppet-leaders are off to Washington for what will prove another dose of jaw-jaw going nowhere at the G8 “Summit”, as the crisis back home in the eurozone gets increasingly out of control without their help. It must be even-money now if the Greeks can start their second election in as few months, on 17 June, before the Greek olive cart is toppled by the markets with a forced Grexit, as the extremists emerge to take control in the birthplace of democracy.
You really couldn’t work out how to achieve such a perfect storm across a whole continent if you tried. Old bin Laden must be cursing in his watery grave at the brilliance of it all, but then he never met the hoodlums that dreamt up the Maastricht Treaty, and the even bigger idiots who signed it.
Living out this self-induced encircling crisis in the courts of the EU and the banking parlours of the ECB and the eurozone central banks cannot be much fun these days. It must be like staggering around blindfolded in the smoke and mirrors of a new hell being chastised by an angry Jacques Delors and Helmut Kohl armed with whips and adorned in skin-tight black wet-leather look underwear.
Frankly, I would rather be the car-park attendant at the Tiverton Staghounds Hunt Ball: at least the old MFH took some assertive and positive action to deal with the situation – a woman who proved to be some other fellow-hunter’s wife tearing her knickers off – that confronted him. And no doubt David Cameron, happy to have anything to divert the electorate’s attention away from his own predicaments, was left standing at the Despatch Box animatedly telling the old MFH to do something about it! As I say, you couldn’t make any of it up if you tried.