3 SEPTEMBER 2005, Page 35

Political moves

Taki

Gstaad

Iknow few politicians and speak to even fewer — Lady Thatcher and Lord Tebbitt being the exceptions — so I’m hardly the one to judge whether being a cuckold is good for one’s political career or not. I am, of course, talking about Nicolas Sarkozy’s marital problems, and the fears expressed by the British press that his career might be in jeopardy as a result. That’s the Brit press for you. It simply does not understand the French, c’est tout. The great Napoleon was greatly cuckolded by Josephine and, after his fall, by Marie Louise, and it certainly didn’t stop the Bonaparte legend or adoration of his person by his subjects. Even after some tart told the post-Waterloo world that Wellington was ‘de loin le plus fort’ which of course she would, wouldn’t she? Marie Louise quickly forgot the emperor once General Graf von Neipperg went to work. The priapic Austrian stuffed her non-stop in Geneva and fathered numerous children with her. (Metternich’s the one who thought that one up.) No, France’s interior minister is in trouble because of the rentrée chaude that September promises, and not because his wife Cécilia has been cavorting with one of his closest backers, the Moroccan-born Richard Attias. Yes, sure, Mitterrand’s various mistresses worked in his favour and were seen as evidence of his virility, but that’s because old François was considered a sorcerer, whereas Sarkozy is expected to be a magician. (Make these horns go away, and, pffttt, they disappear to applause.) Despite press reports in this country, Sarkozy is not about to sue ParisMatch for publishing pictures of Attias and Cecilia in tender poses. Even in France, where privacy is respected, a politician running for the highest office has to admit that his marriage is not what it seems once it has become obvious. And millions have seen the pics.

Anyway, most French people are cocus, even those among the working classes. The grocer bonks the plumber’s wife and the plumber stuffs madame butcher and on it goes, round and round. There was even a play written about it which was made into the film La Ronde. And there’s nothing wrong with it. While the Brits are out getting blotto and violent, the Frogs are screwing their heads off. I’ll take the latter any day.

Last week, feeling no pain, I grabbed Mme Mitterrand, sister-in-law of François, and whirled her around the Palace lobby to the tune of an Austrian waltz. She is a friend of 40 years’ standing. In fact, she once told me that we kissed in St Tropez during the late Fifties. Ironically, the exwife of my father’s friend, Jean-Marie Le Pen, told me the same thing. Alas, it was too long ago, but I am going up in my own estimation. Apparently I did not spend all my time with useless tarts, but with women of destiny. Bravo, young Taki!

But back to French politics. If Sarkozy wins the presidency in 2007 absolutely nothing will change. Weakness, indecision and an inability to face France’s problems head on are a way of governing the land of cheese. The last man to change the equation was le Grand Charles, back in 1958. The rest is all bullshit and electoral promises. And it works. I’d rather be in France, a country however misgoverned that thrives on culture and clandestine understanding between elites, than in, say, America, where a greedy ignoramus can tear down any beautiful building and put up a Coca-cola plant instead. Personally, I am for Villepin, a modest poet, admirer of Napoleon and a very good-looking man, rather than the unattractive Sarkozy.

And, speaking of elites, do you believe that journalists and politicians have been put in front of the queue for flu shots once the bird epidemic reaches us. Has the British public gone totally bonkers? Why aren’t millions storming Parliament demanding that pols and hacks be the last to be given the shots. Well, for one, Parliament is shut, but, even if it were open, such is the servility of the English that they will take anything sitting down, as they say in Barbados. Just imagine. Peter Mandelson ahead of a taxi-driver? The former has lived as a parasite throughout his life, off the state, off Tony Blair, off Robinson, off the EU. His only dependant is his samba partner. The taxi-driver, in the meantime, has worked all his life, has depended only on himself, and has raised a family through his hard work. Now one must have a heart of jelly not to choose to save the taxi man before the parasite. Or the phoney-expenses person whose genius lies in being a busybody, a liar and a snoop. But what the hell. In a world where in my last week’s column the word black was taken out in case someone’s feathers were ruffled, this is to be expected.