Alone among Englishmen, I suspect, I feel a spot of sympathy for old Jacques Chirac, given a two-year suspended sentence today for running a corrupt system of bogus jobs for political cronies when he was mayor of Paris.
I never shared the general feeling of dislike, even hatred, that les rosbifs were meant to harbour towards the head frog.
Yes, he always seemed a wily, even slightly dubious, character and it was no surprise to me that the court should eventually find he was up to his neck in the rotten practices that prevailed in the early 1990s. And yes, it is right in principle that he should have been held accountable in law, just as - in fairness - he said he should.
But it is difficult to escape the impression that he was the product, rather than the inventor, of a culture that encouraged or at least condoned dodgy procedures especially when it came to the funding of political parties. That is, of course, a point in mitigation rather than a defence, but it is a point worth making all the same.
I recall, when in Paris, reporting on another corruption case, involving a much lesser public servant who had done a lot worse, lining his own pockets in the process. The court came down heavily on him, seeing its duty as sending a message to the world that France was no longer a country that left such malpractice unpunished.
Chirac was prone to making slightly oafish remarks on all sorts of subjects. He also liked to take pot shots at the British or, more specifically, the English.
How, he once asked German and Russian heads of state when he did not realise he could be overheard and see his words end up in the press, could anyone trust a country whose cuisine was so awful? Has he never heard of fish and chips with lavish helpings of scraps? He followed up that quip by saying the only thing we had given European agriculture was mad cow disease, and I suppose a good many would agree with him on that.
But he fought for the interests of the French people he most admired, those working the land (however inefficiently) and, save for the unpopular part of his presidency, was liked by plenty of them in return. If he poked fun at the English, it was no more than was happening the other way round. Remember the Chirac as worm caricature in The Sun?
Our paths crossed a couple of times, once when I was among British correspondents he perhaps unwisely invited to the Elysée before an official meet-the-Queen visit to the UK, and later at the New Year's drinks party he threw for the press. Some of the reporting of that first meeting was harsh, but his chief mistake was probably in thinking it could be otherwise. And I'll never forget the man from The Guardian describing the grandfatherly paunch spilling over his waistband.
He did, as president, make important speeches about the desecration of Jewish graves and vandalism at mosques. And he was right on Iraq.
However, my soft spot for him, as one with a healthy distrust of most politicians that is as robust as their distrust of people doing my job, has nothing to do with policy.
I liked him for a trivial, rather selfish reason. When he addressed the French people, his broadcasts were delivered in clear, precise French that I, in common with many expats, found eminently comprehensible.
But I can hardly wish him pardoned because he spoke his language plainly enough for me to follow. More than anything, I simply feel bad about his state of health.
Chirac sufferes from something that sounds, despite his wife Bernadette's past denials, very much like Alzheimer's disease. He was not in court for any part of the trial, excused on medical grounds; photos of him taking apéritifs on the quayside at Saint-Tropez in the summer showed a frail old man without a complete grasp of what was going on around him.
I have no problem with people being pursued for crimes they committed in the past even if that past is a long time ago. But I do feel a trace of distaste when the person on trial is as enfeebled as Chirac appears to be.
It is not an argument that would appeal to those who have brought to justice the doddery, infirm octogenarians responsible for grotesque offences against humanity in the Second World War. But it one that I find impossible to overcome to my own satisfaction.
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