Half of France is currently under a red heat alert, a colour that, to the British tourist, is as familiar as the glow of a sunburned nose after three shandies too many. The mercury is predicted to hit forty degrees in the shade, though in the shade of a beach umbrella, it’s closer to the temperature of a freshly poured gin and tonic before the ice melts. Which is to say: hot. Perilously hot. The sort of hot that makes you reconsider that second croissant or the wisdom of wearing jeans in a country that invented air conditioning but seems to have forgotten to install it.
But the real crisis, the one that has the Foreign Office issuing drab statements and the Sun columnists polishing their bile, is the impending street alcohol ban. Yes, in a move that strikes at the very heart of British tourism, local authorities are threatening to impose an outright prohibition on the sale of alcohol from street vendors, mobile bars, and the kind of impromptu beachside establishments that serve rosé in plastic cups for three euros. This is not a drill. This is a war on fun, a declaration of hostilities against the Great British holidaymaker whose primary objective is to feel the warmth not just on their skin but in their bloodstream.
The situation, as I see it from a cramped press office in Whitehall where the air conditioning has been set to ‘sauna’ as a cost-cutting measure, is a masterclass in climate change comedy. On one hand, you have a nation literally on fire, a heatwave that has caused rail delays, power outages, and the spontaneous combustion of several baguettes. On the other, you have a government that thinks the best way to combat this is to deny people the one thing that makes the heat bearable: a cold, crisp, socially lubricating beverage. It’s like telling a drowning man, ‘No, you can’t have your life jacket, it’s been confiscated for being too buoyant.’
The irony is that the very people who would be affected by this ban are the ones most likely to ignore it. British tourists, after all, are a hardy breed. They have survived the Brexit vote, the collapse of the pound, and the closure of the Calais border. They are not going to be deterred by a local bylaw. They will simply smuggle their own supplies, perhaps in the hollowed-out baguettes that have become the unofficial national snack. Or they will find a sympathetic barman who, for a small fee, will serve them a pastis in a teapot.
The real tragedy here is that this ban will do nothing to reduce the heat. It will only increase the misery. Imagine, if you will, a British family huddled in a hotel room, the air conditioning broken, the children crying, the parents sweating through their shorts. They cannot step outside because the heat is unbearable, and they cannot drink because the booze is illegal. This is not a holiday. This is a punishment. A reward for years of ‘Freedom of Movement’ and the presumption that the sun belongs to us all.
In conclusion, I propose a toast: to the red alerts, to the heatwaves, to the bans and the bureaucrats who impose them. May their irony glands never dry up. And to the British tourist, who will, I am sure, find a way to drink against all odds. For he is not just a tourist. He is a symbol of defiance. A glowing, slightly sunburned symbol of defiance.