Book Review

1000 Years of Annoying the French, by Stephen Clarke.

At the very outskirts of the world, at least until America was discovered, a narrow channel of water separates the misty island of Britannia from the continent. Although both the British and the French were once a part of the Roman Empire, they have come to develop significantly different ways and customs over the years. Like a pair of young siblings who can´t agree on who gets to play with the train set, the history of these two countries is one fraught with gleeful taunts, tears, loathing, betrayal, treachery, regicide, backstabbing and murder.

When the Chancellor of the Exchequer declared in the recent British election that a vote for the opposition would result “Rising unemployment … as seen under France´s socialist president”, he was merely continuing a proud British tradition of bashing the French whenever possible. For those who lust after a detailed and humorous account in the same vein, stretching across a thousand years, this book is most definitely for you.  

As a Briton who has spent several years living in France, Mr. Clarke is ideally suited to writing a through historical account of the two countries shared history. His bestselling A Year in the Merde depicted his struggles when he had arrived in Paris fresh from the Eurostar, and in this new book he brings his familiar humorous and irreverent, yet diligently researched style, to bear.

It should be noted that Mr. Clarke is by no means anti-French and that this book is written as a labor of love rather than a reason for Britain to leave the EU. Not hating the French meant that he took some flak when he was promoting A Year In the Merde in the US back in 2005.  Following their invasion of Iraq, anti-French sentiment was running high, and a radio presenter got so upset with Mr. Clarke when he wouldn´t call the French “uncivilized froggies” the he promptly cancelled their interview. A noble gesture to be sure, although I suspect he is still waiting for his Legion d´Honneur.  

The first piece of cherished French history Mr. Clarke tears into is the Norman invasion of 1066, when the namesake of yours truly, William the Conqueror, invaded England. As the writer frequently reminds us throughout the book, there is a French version of what happened, and then there is the truth. If you were to stop a perfumed Parisian strolling down the Place de la Concorde, he would probably tell you that the William and his Normans were French and that ever since their invasion Britain has, de facto, been ruled by Frenchmen. Before our Parisian friend could light up a Gitanes and take a delighted puff, Mr. Clarke would point out that the Normans were anything but French. Back in the days when an enfeebled French king could barely hold onto half of modern day France, the savage successors of the Vikings who roamed the northern coasts were a serious threat to his somewhat feeble kingdom. Even though our Parisian friend might spill some ash over his Louis Vuitton shoes when he gasps in shock at that bold statement, the Norman invasion of England set the stage for a thorn in France’s side that continuous to sting to this day.

The hundred year’s war saw the flower of France’s nobility, resplendent in their shining armor, slaughtered time and time again by English peasants wielding longbows. One has to assume that the sparkly luster the most ornate cuirass rather goes away after it´s been pierced by a bodkin arrow and it´s owner has died in a muddy field outside Agincourt. While the flower of France was repeatedly deflowered, a succession of English monarchs happily plundered and rampaged through their country. When Joan of Arc, France´s great saint and savior, was captured by Burgundians, the French king saw this as an opportunity to remove a growing threat and promptly allowed her to be ransomed to the English. Her archenemies were naturally not disposed to showing her any clemency, and our unfortunate Joan was promptly burned at the stake for wearing men´s clothing.  To say that the thirty year´s war ended with a French victory, Mr. Clarke suggests, is a bit like saying that every outbreak of the bubonic plague has ended in a human victory.

The most striking British triumph, by a country mile, is the fact that they delivered the coup the grace when France was poised for world domination. That Napoleon´s hundred days return to power was brought to an end at Waterloo is common knowledge, but the story of the suspicions deaths of the Grand l´Empereur and his descendants has enough drama in it to deserve a novel of its own. Not one, not two, but three Napoleons have all died in British custody under suspicious circumstances. Napoleon I died on the distant pacific Island of Saint Helena. The official cause of death was stomach cancer, but suspicion has long abounded that he died due to the poor care of the British, arsenic poison being a stubborn conspiracy theory that refuses to go away. Louis Napoleon Bonaparte, or Napoleon III, also died while in British care, residing in a manor in Chislehurst outside London after he had fled France following the disastrous battle of Sedan. The exact cause of his death remains unknown, but the lead water pipes in the villa is the chief suspect. Louis Napoleon´s son, the hapless young man who was later nicknamed Napoleon III ½, died in an ambush while serving with the British in the Anglo-Zulu war.  Accidents, as the saying goes, happen all the time.

Fascinating facts leap at you from every page of the book and the stories I have just told are but a tiny fraction of the thousand year feud. If I were to share all the gems from the book we would be here all night, but it will suffice to say that Mr. Clarke must have gone through a legion of musty tomes when he did his research. His uniquely British sense of humor ensures that six hundred plus pages passes by in a blur and the book manages to be both highly entertaining and provide a comprehensive lesson in European history. My only question is how differently the story would have been told if it had been written by a Frenchman? That, however, is a question that will remain unanswered until some enterprising Frenchman, possibly our Parisian friend, decides to take up the pen in anger and strike back at Mr. Clarke.