Last Sunday French people voted, leaving the already well twisted political knickers, as predicted by Tradwell, in such a knotted state that even the most aroused politicians in a dreamy state of electoral priapism and gleeful journalists omnipresent on all earthly media will need extra greasy pair of hands to cover the very much exposed and rather carelessly wiped political derrière.
Read more
Not very much, if one disregards the existing elite’s hubris. French regional power is all about school canteen serving pork, or not and deciding if a bus taking kids to school is to be equipped with emergency Nutella jars.
The political dinosaurs are so preoccupied with cementing their sagging bottoms to the three-legged chairs they’ve been occupying for such a long time that it brings memories of Tradwell trying to understand his mother signing up to the communist party whilst changing the prodigal son’s name in order to avoid any suspicion of non native affiliation.
The new leader is a nice person, she said; he understands his people and will make it better. Which incidentally was the truth as Tradwell was able to fulfill his dream of tasting Coke, in a liquid form, from a tin amorously shared with a gorgeous blonde sitting on his knees. The now-respected psychologist blonde only noticed her miniskirt riding past her hips when her furious father pounced. Tradwell escaped through the widow of the communist council flat, followed by insults bringing to bear the oft talked about reality that name change doesn’t fool xenophobic haters. More on that later.
So, the estranged daughter, Marine Le Pen came on top. This is scary if one considers the brute enormity of her feminine wiles. Even scarier as she’s thrown her own father, Jean-Marie Le Pen, the one-eyed Lex Luthor to every French president, out of the party he singlehandedly founded back in the hippy era. Grass was stronger then, as Tradwell is led to believe. One might find Papa Le Pen paying more attention to the pro-preservative lobby here. Too late.
Marine came on top not because she’s the political bees knees with Ronda Rousey’s finesse and Maggie Thatcher’s sartorial sense. Front National hasn’t got the answers but it gives people what they need right now. Tradwell dares to venture that if she gets to run the factory all hope of a can of Coca-Cola is to be abandoned. Besides, Tradwell’s pre-arthritic knees are not strong enough to support the sight of Marine in a miniskirt.
Marine Le Pen came on top for two obvious reasons: French politicians, permanently super-glued to their comfortable pensions and besotted by power, do not listen, unless it’s to the voice of an ex, as is the case of François Hollande who appointed the mother of his 4 children, Ségolène Royal to be his shadow, as shown on photos of the permanent presidential travels; she’s always just one step beyond, sending the current presidential squeeze, Julie Gayet into a head-spinning rage. Ségolène was the environment minister in the Pierre Bérégovoy government from 92 to 93. We know what happened to the poor chap and how well the planet’s been doing since then. Cherchez la femme.
Secondly, French politicians do not consider opinion polls other than the ones they’ve commissioned and only if the results confirm the image they adoringly ogle daily in the mirror mirror on the wall. French politicians, left, right and centre will promise and promise to get the electorate so hypnotised as to slot the paper in the home box or stay at home and watch the results. Trust in me, just in me. 50% participation is hailed as a major win in the land of Bordeaux and saucisson sec. That’s the other reason; foie gras at Christmas is fine but who’d want it every day for breakfast?
Things are bad in France, its people listened to the promises of both the left and right and watched their beliefs wither and evolve in an inversely proportional manner to the number of new taxes being delivered daily by the village postman, riding his eco-friendly, electrically assisted velocipede purveyed by the current mistress of sustainable development, you guessed it, Ségolène Royal.
So, time for change, not as promised by the father of Ségolène’s children back in 2012 and never delivered. New Faces, as Rodney would put it. This brings Tradwell to offer its excuses to Papa Le Pen, as he is the grand-genitor of the pretty Le Pen, Marion Maréchal. Marion Maréchal Le Pen carries granddad’s genes rather beautifully and Tradwell would succumb to her feminine wiles with or without a can of Coca-Cola. Seeing Marion Maréchal Le Pen in a miniskirt presiding the Conseil Régional of the French Riviera region, which she’s poised to win next Sunday, is surely a more tempting fantasy than having the ugly face of the domineering, arrogant and thoroughly crooked mayor of Nice, Christian Estrosi staring at you with a deranged grin of an upstart hiding many a dirty secret in his man cave. Lock up you daughters, and sons.
The French call him motodidacte, as he used to be a champion bike rider. A misjudged professional orientation counselor convinced him that politics is akin to motorbike competition where your thrills come from the 500 horsepower throb between one’s thighs and knocking out competitors by whatever the means is part of the rules. Tradwell does not voice political beliefs, yet having personally tasted the dirty doings of the self-obsessed, power-mad Christian Estrosi and with a thorough knowledge of affairs in Nice, where Brutus resides, I would strongly advise the local voters to go for the fragrant granddaughter of the not so fragrant grand papa, Jean-Marie. Yes, Marion Maréchal Le Pen is your choice if you want legs to admire underneath a transparent Plexiglass lectern. You’d let Christian Estrosi run the shop for the next six years? Talk to Tradwell to get a reality check. Don’t let the tactical-voting mongers spoil the balmy climes of the Provence-Alpes Côte d’Azur and think of a can of Coca-Cola spilling over the hairy, miniskirted thighs of Christian Estrosi.
I’d rather French kiss a skunk with terminal halitosis.