Twice in the last century Britain saved Europe, and France especially, from itself. The French don’t seem inclined to return the favour. Instead, they’re playing the ol’ Uno Reverse on the ally that once stormed the beaches of Normandy to save France, by ferrying the new invading hordes across the Channel to destroy Britain.
To really rub Gallic arrogance into the wound, the French have collaborated (they’re rather good at that) to force the British taxpayer to help fund their own invasion.
Labour would like you to believe the £662 million handed to Paris over three years has done the trick. Crossings are down about 40 per cent on last year’s record, Andy Burnham and Emmanuel Macron have slapped backs over a new ‘special force’ and August went quiet. Not because France actually did anything to stop them, instead, in something of an act of God, the weather stepped in where the French dared not. Turns out high wind and waves are more effective than 1,100 gendarmes standing around doing nothing.
Or, as it turns out, worse than nothing.
Last Sunday […] a boat carrying 120 migrants launched from near Cherbourg, in Normandy, some 250km south of Calai […]
The French authorities sent lifeboats and border patrol ship the Abeille Liberté to escort the Cherbourg dinghy into international waters to the south of the Isle of Wight […] at least three [French] lifeguards were in the water, one wearing fins, and they helped some of the migrants hold on to a surfboard.
When the water got deep they helpfully suggested a shallower patch. It’s a wonder they didn’t offer up some of France’s well-supplied stock of white flags to dry off with.
The British have had more than enough of French perfidy. Even some of the French are fed up with Macron turning their country into a through-station for Third World invaders. Rupert Lowe’s Reform and Jordan Bardella’s National Rally pledge to not only stop the boats but deport the freeloaders by the million.
To the pearl-clutching dismay of the socialist quislings on both sides of the Channel, more and more Britons are rediscovering their inner bulldog. Hundreds of masked men shut Dover last week because their towns have had enough. Piddington, all 350 souls of it, wants a symbolic divorce from the United Kingdom after Burnham fast-tracked a camp for 1,250 fighting-age men next to the village cricket pitch. Ports near Portsmouth are waving the Royal National Lifeboat Institution boats on to Dover: no facilities, they say. Translation: sod off, Johnny Foreigner.
On the French side the excuse is always the same. Beach police shrug that ‘it’s complicated’. They will not slash a tube in water more than waist deep, lest someone get wet. That single prissy rule has turned a smuggling racket into a listed industry: violence, protection money, priority pitches in the camps for those who can pay, women and children last. The camps themselves are rubbish dumps with tents. Armed standover men run them. Boats from Frontex, the European Border and Coast Guard Agency, cruise the horizon. And they’re about as useful as the Maginot Line, when the invaders launch.
Back at the beaches of Normandy and Cherbourg, gendarmes stand around and watch: even launching a drone so they can get a bird’s eye view. Stopping them? They’d as sooner have stopped the Germans. The only people they stop are pesky journalists who might tell on them: they take the names of photographers and tell them not to approach the migrants. They don’t take the names of the smugglers.
Britain paid for this. France watched it. The gendarmes filmed it. The taxpayers of Kent and Oxfordshire will house it. Normandy was liberated once by men who waded the other way. The descendants of the liberated are now running a taxi rank, with British cheques in the glovebox, and calling it an alliance.
