Heavens knows I've done my bit for the entente cordiale.
I married a Frenchwoman in the knowledge that our children would be half-French. I've paid taxes and social charges to the French exchequer.
I have eulogised the country, tried hard to get on with its people to the extent that a British ambassador accused me of showing a rare understanding of French ways (other British journalists within earshot considered this an offence worthy in itself of dismissal).
And what is the reward? To be told by the coach of the French rugby team, Marc Lièvremont, that he hates us, the English, indeed that the French hate us.
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