The Real Little England Is In Eymet, France
“HOW hundreds of ex-pats, fed up with obnoxious youths, incompetent councils and politically correct nonsense, have turned a tiny village into a very Brtish idyll.”
The Express is in the French town of Eymet, twinned with a vision of Britain rarely seen beyond the Mail’s Keith Waterhouse column and Polly’s Tea Rooms, Marlborough branch.
It is home to ex-pats buying cans of Heinz tomato soup (American), Weetabix (founded by South Africans) and Tetley Tea (produced Indian tea giant Tata) from Kevin Walls’ corner shop, the Magasin Anglais. There are tea rooms, market stalls selling stilton cheese and British newspapers. There are white men in cricket whites playing cricket. Of the town’s 2,600 residents, around one third were born in the UK.
Says the Express: “If you want to live in France but don’t speak French it seem this is the place to be.” Or there’s Euro Disney, that other theme park, near Paris.
In Eymet, the Express sees children playing hide and seek in meadows on the way to school. It sees unlocked doors. It sees knife crime only on the television.
“I like living here because it’s like England 50 years ago,” says Simon Colebourne. And just like in 1958, Mr Colebourne runs an internet cafe. As you’d expert the cafe is chock full with ex-pats sat indoors “using the computers to e-mail friends at home and regale them with tales of the good life”.
As the Express says in headline form: “WE FOUND A LOST BRITAIN…IN THE HEART OF FRANCE.”
Lost. And maybe it should be lost once more.
Years from now, when the Internet connection to Eymet has been cut off, the place will become overgrown and impenetrable from the outside. German anthropologists will hack through the undergrowth and discover a town of inbred locals communicating in a patois learnt from Terry Thomas DVDs, Test Match Special and Sacha Distel’s back catalogue.
Of course, it could all be a lie, a plot by the Express to deter the foreigners, those Rogarian masses, from coming to Blighty. Reading the Express is to discover that the UK is rubbish, a place where only devils should tread. No, dear Mr Nastasie, Mrs Olga and your million hungry mouths, the real England is to be found in France.
Go there and try your luck. You will find a warm welcome and a gollywog on every lamppost.
Bon voyage, as they say in Eymet-under-Umpire…
Posted: 26th, February 2008 | In: Tabloids Comments (7) | TrackBack | Permalink
