Low life | 4 May 2017

‘Emmanuel Macron est le plus grand con du monde,’ said the elderly gent taking the vacant seat on my right at the Marine Le Pen rally last week. He had slicked-back white hair, a little hog’s-bristle moustache and broken-down white trainers. Plus grand means ‘biggest’, du monde means ‘in the world’, and con means, well, have a guess. A teenage girl and her pal squeezed past to occupy the spare pair of seats on my left. They flung themselves joyfully into the chanting and singing before they’d even
sat down.

The Palais Nikaia, a concert venue next to Nice airport, holds 8,000 people. Ten minutes before Marine Le Pen was due on stage, the packed auditorium was a noisy kaleidoscope of waving French tricolours, flashing LED tricolour lapel badges and ‘Choisir la France’ placards. ‘Ma-rine Prés-i-dent!’ we chanted. And, ‘On est chez nous!’ — ‘We are at home!’ If I had to characterise the faces, I would say they were unmoisturised faces; outside faces; Poundland faces; dog-and-ferret-show faces; prematurely aged, car-boot-sale faces.