Biarritz, France. The G7 summit. A gathering of the world's most powerful people, men and women who collectively possess more nuclear codes than common sense. The air, thick with the scent of expensive cologne and the stale breath of broken promises. Outside, the plebs, the riff-raff, the *hoi polloi* with their righteous anger and their homemade placards, have decided to have a bit of a ruckus.
Yes, dear reader, the protests have turned violent. Not the polite, orderly, British-style queue-and-chant sort of violence, oh no. This is the Gallic variety, all flailing arms and existential fury. Tear gas hangs in the air like a bad perfume. Stones are being hurled at police, who respond with batons and a sort of weary resignation. One protester, a man who looked like he hadn't seen a baguette in a week, was seen grappling with a gendarme over a bag of stones. Existential, I tell you.
And who is the voice of reason in all this? Britain, of course. The same Britain that is currently engaged in a slow-motion car crash of its own making, Brexit. Yes, a new government press release has been issued, calling for 'calm and dialogue'. The same 'calm and dialogue' that has worked so well for them at home. Perhaps they think the protesters just need a nice cup of tea and a stern talking-to. Or maybe a stern letter, handwritten on vellum, sealed with the royal crest. That'll sort 'em out.
Let's be clear. The G7 is a circus, a travelling carnival of the powerful, where they perform tricks for the cameras and then go back to their gilded cages. The protests are a sideshow, a necessary inconvenience, a reminder that real people exist outside the fortified glass walls of the summit hotel. But when the tear gas clears, and the stones stop flying, nothing changes. The same suits will go back to their boardrooms. The same policies will be enacted. The same oceans will rise.
I stood on a hill above the protests, a gin and tonic in hand (Bootleg Polish stuff, tastes like a chemist's mistake), watching the chaos below. A young woman, her face smudged with charcoal, was screaming at a riot shield. A man in a tie, probably from the Treasury, was watching from a balcony, a glass of Chablis in his hand, a bored expression on his face. There was a chasm between them, a yawning gap of understanding and experience. And in the middle, the police, just trying to get through their shift without losing an eye.
The call for 'calm and dialogue' is a joke. A cruel, absurd joke. It's like telling a drowning man to take a deep breath. The people are angry, and they have every right to be. The world is on fire, and the G7 leaders are arguing about tax loopholes. But what can you do? This is the theatre of the absurd we live in, and I'm just the court jester, reporting from the sidelines, my notebook stained with gin and tear gas.
So raise a glass, dear reader, to the great spectacle. To the protests that will be forgotten by Tuesday. To the politicians who will drone on about 'meaningful change' while doing precisely nothing. To the fine, distinguished gentlemen of the press who will write about all of this with a straight face. As for me, I'll be at the bar, drowning my sorrows in something cheap and potent. Calm and dialogue, my arse.
