Nor would tourists, or anyone else, have to learn French which, by now, would have been marginalised, like Gaelic, thus freeing up study time to practise archery or musketry or whatever the modern equivalent might be. Internet hacking, perhaps. The Brance range of cheeses would have been unbeatable. Meanwhile, as the French adopted proper breakfasts, kedgeree and sandwich spread, so we would have stamped out andouillette and, being pragmatic, found a use for the rest of the frog. We would also have established, for the good of mankind, that bottled water is only useful if you’re a long way from a tap.
Entertainment-wise, I’ve a feeling that Johnny Hallyday might have been overshadowed by Billy Fury and would, like Billy, have faded out halfway to paradise, thus leaving room for the Stones, Deep Purple, Mott the Hoople and no-one at all from France. That said, France could certainly have satisfied the demand for anguished performers with complex backgrounds and a tendency to early death – Edith Piaf, Serge Gainsbourg, Dalida, Mike Brant – while Britain catered to the 20th-century taste for wholesome; Vera Lynn balancing Piaf, Cliff cleaning up after Gainsbourg.
In sex-symbol matters, Brance’s combination of Brigitte Bardot and Diana Dors, Emmanuelle Béart and Elsie Tanner would have covered most essential aspects. Meanwhile, I can’t see Racine, Proust, Sartre and other examples of overwrought literary torture prospering in our united nation, not when there were Dickens, George Eliot and Mick Herron to hand.
In terms of transport, we would all have profited from the TGV and 2CV and everything in between, courtesy of French engineers. OK, they have nothing like a Rolls but, then, neither do the rest of us. Should we turn to inventions in general, Brance would be a world-beater, the French tipping in with aspirin, margarine, cinema, the parachute and the pencil sharpener to our trail-blazing of everything else, up to and including the hostess trolley.
