The Long View.

The Candidates' Diaries

Version francaise

From the diary of Lionel Jospin:

I am a sad clown. Today I discovered the depth of my humiliation. Jean- Marie Le Pen, leader of the proto-fascist movement, has bested me in the national elections. What to do, what to make of the despair I feel? It is as if my lover has found another man and my wife has left me for her lover, and I am left only with my other lover, a woman for whom I no longer feel passion. Such is my misery.

I mourn for La France. I mourn for her many cheeses and varied sauces, for her plotless films and smothering bureaucracy. I mourn her turbot en papillote and her ris de veau saute avec petits pois au beurre and her poulet de Bresse.

And, bien sur, I blame les Americains. They have exported more than le Big Mac and les boy-bands. They have exported le populisme americain, which enables an absurdity such as Le Pen to rise. And I? I am a figure of yesterday. I will sit alone in the corner of Le Petit St-Benoit, sipping vin ordinaire and thinking of my lost lover. And also of La France.

From the diary of Jean-Marie Le Pen:

O la la! I say formidable! With the gusto of a young Sancerre, with the richness of a confit de canard from le Perigord.

Am I, as they say in Le Figaro, a bit "nutty"? Yes! Yes, I say! I am nutty like a wonderfully ripe Pont-l'Eveque.

I am, in short, la France entiere. I awoke yesterday morning to discover that I had bested the cretin of Brussels, the monkey of the EU, the porteur d'eau of the immigrant and the criminal, Lionel Jospin. To him I say "ha!" To him I say, "I banish you to the miserable but stylish life of a broken man, to sip vin ordinaire in some cafe, thinking of your lost lover!" Or something along those lines.

This morning I enjoyed a grand creme and a pain aux raisins with my copy of the surrealist nonsense of Le Monde. My waiter approached me with a sliver of a smile and I knew that he, too, was a member of my brigade. "Ce n'est pas seulement les immigres qui sont en train de detruire la France," he muttered as he counted out my euros (and that's another thing I will change!), "c'est aussi la crise philosophique de la vie technologique et la mort de l'esprit de l'homme moderne."

I nodded. "N'oubliez-pas," I added, "les juifs."

He nodded. "Et aussi les Americains."

I shrugged. "Ah, oui, bien sur les Americains."

From the diary of Jacques Chirac:

I was enjoying my morning facial (only 150 euros per treatment, paid in cash, a gift to me from the center-left coalition party, which is totally legal) when Aleef, my pedicurist, mentioned that Le Pen was asking for a presidential debate.

"Merde!" I shouted, wiggling my toes so violently that the tiny boules de coton squeezed out from between my toes, causing Aleef much distress.

The insolence of the man! The absurdity of his elevation! It is politics as farce! It is an act of irrationality that qualifies as art!

It is also a load off my mind. I shall not debate the man. I shall, instead, sail to victory, for another six years in office.

Tonight, as I was enjoying a lovely roti d'agneau aux morilles et feves and drinking a simple Volnay (only about 450 euros, service compris, paid in cash from my Gaullist-party cash fund, as the law requires), I reflected on the tragedy of Jospin. He will end his days as a sad quasi-cretin, sitting in some awful cafe, drinking vin ordinaire by himself, abandoned by his lovers. And then I suddenly realized that I alone must rescue La France from the neo-fascist proto-Americain Jean- Marie Le Pen. He with his love of debates and publicity and les sound- bites is bringing l'imbecilite americaine to French politics, and he must be stopped. He must be stopped cold. I shall fight him. I alone shall crush him.

Either that, or possibly invite him to form some kind of coalition government.

And then I went to bed. For some reason, it was impossible to get comfortable, until my lover reminded me of the sacks of money (347,000 euros in total, part of my completely legal and legitimate political- outreach funds) that were lodged beneath the mattress. She and I then lifted the top mattress and removed the money, lodging it in the Louis XIV armoire (a gift from the left-center-socialist-party coalition, paid in cash -- 23,430 euros -- as is totally honest). It was a cumbersome and difficult operation. I complained bitterly to my lover about it, pointing out that it had ruined my manicure. She was unsympathetic. And I could hear my wife laughing in the next room, too.

What black irony. I am a king to the outside world, but in my home I am a silly clown.