How French women caught the British drinking disease

The other Saturday night there rose up from the (supposedly) sleepy streets of Batignolles in northwest Paris, a roar the like of which I haven’t heard since Zinedine Zidane put away the penalty that took France into the 2006 World Cup final.

This time, however, the cause of the excitement was not sporting. Instead, the noise came from female revellers, who were descending onto the street from the bars on the corner. Les filles françaises are famous for their understanding of the darker hues of fashion and their classy use of a scarf. Yet this skill wasn’t on display—many of these young ladies had clearly forgotten not only their scarves but other items of clothing normally useful on a crisp February night. Their speech was loud and slurred, their eyes were glazed—they were drunk, your worship.

Now, I’m not against drinking any more than I’m against eating, breathing or saying “Je vous en prie, monsieur” at the bakery when you mean “get out of the way, you babbling idiot, I’ve been waiting half an hour.” But I was surprised. For months people had been telling me that, thanks to the smoking ban, noise restrictions and the type of neighbour that you get when house prices start going up, Paris was fast turning into the European capital of boredom. The vomit outside the Indian restaurant the following morning told a different story. Is no English drinking ritual safe from these Anglophile Parisians?

When I moved here nearly ten years ago, you seldom saw women out drinking. You’d see them in couples, or mixed groups, but gangs of girls out on the lash were as rare as a corked Côtes du Rhône. Not now. On any given Saturday night you’re as likely to see pissed-up chicks in Paris as to find a variety show on French television. Le binge drinking est bien arrivé.

The resulting moral panic has a shrilly familiar ring about it too. France has always had a drinking problem. In fact, rates of alcohol-related premature death are far higher in most parts of France than in any part of Britain except Scotland. But that was behind closed doors—it had to be, since it was too expensive to get drunk in public. Not now. From Place de Clichy, where I live, to the Moulin Rouge about half a mile away, the boulevards are paved with cafés and bars, each offering “le happy hour.” And, as in Britain, it is public consumption that is causing concern. The French health secretary, Roselyne Bachelot, has banned all-you-can-drink events, increased the age you can buy alcohol to 18 and introduced restrictions at petrol stations, takeaways and other outlets.

We Anglo-Saxons may love what John Travolta’s character in Pulp Fiction called “the little differences” with Europe, but the truth is that English and French culture are probably closer now than at anytime since we gave them back Calais. Speaking English is cooler than Gainsbourg with a Gauloise. It’s in the advertising, the music, and the language of everyday life as Parisians queue for a double shot in their tall, skinny Starbucks coffee.

Place de Clichy is essentially a roundabout plagued by congestion and never-ending roadworks. (Sound like anywhere near where you live?) When friends visit, I proudly point out it is the site of one of the last stands of the 1871 Paris commune, where a handful of brave idealists held out for three hours against the might of an empire. “Where were the barricades?” my friends ask. “Outside the McDonald’s, by the KFC or in front of the Starbucks?”

Admittedly, some things are still done differently here. Wander into the local supermarket at the wrong time and you can’t move for youngsters stocking up with cheap lager and alcopops. But Parisians are still too style-conscious to copy British Tesco shoppers and make their nocturnal purchases in their pyjamas. I bet it won’t be long though. If someone designed a nice, slim-fitting black pair with a matching scarf, they would clean up. Marks & Spencer, which pulled out of Paris in 2001, must be wishing it had stayed.