I don’t know what it is about politicians and football but it always goes wrong somehow. Surely, then, Nicolas Sarkozy was tempting fate when he asked Gordon Brown if the Anglo-French summit could take place at Arsenal’s Emirates Stadium. The idea, as I understand it, was that the two boys (sorry, world leaders) would kick a ball around before kicking the press around. I paraphrase the official plan slightly there.

So here we go, here we go, here we go, as they say, to Block D, Gate 17 of Emirates Stadium. My but it’s a beautiful place: a cross between an open-top cathedral and a flying saucer. We were taken to a room with a row of windows that overlooked a pitch so green that it really did dazzle like an emerald.

I had assumed we’d all go down to watch Team Gordon and Team Sarko run out of the players’ tunnel. But, no, that turned out to be forbidden. Only French journalists were allowed on the hallowed turf. I know not why. Maybe because their team won the night before in Paris. Maybe because Carla is such a hit.

Still, we had a good view. How many people does it take to prepare for one Entente Amicale kick-around? The answer is 31 adults, almost all wearing suits. A dozen children had been drafted in to do a bit of prekicking. Ten balls were arranged on the pitch in what appeared to be an obsessive way (seven in a row, two in the middle, one at the side). More suits arrived but I lost count, not least because at this point we were banned from watching the pitch for “security reasons”.

“So much for the Entente Amicale!” cried infuriated journalists reduced to crouching to look around the corner of a blind.

It is from this position, my neck bent like a feeding giraffe’s, that I saw Sarko and Gordo emerge from the tunnel. I don’t wish to be antiFrench ( amicalement and all that) but they were walking, definitely, at the pace of an escargot.

Once out, they did a bit of posing with the Arsenal coach Arsène Wenger. They were joined by four other suits and had a bit of a wander, looking like escapers from Reservoir Dogs. They watched the children kick the ball for what seemed an eternity. The balls were now seeking them. At least one headed for Gordo, who veered away. Another almost grazed one of Sarko’s shoes which are, with their heels, really rather fascinating.

This was getting painful. “Kick the ball!” we cried to no avail. Finally, Sarko executed a quick back kick, the football equivalent of an afterthought. Gordo shuffled towards the ball and, I am told, may have nudged it. It was an ugly moment for the beautiful game.

They trailed, still escargoting, up to our room. The press conference had all the pace of the football, I’m afraid, though Mr Sarkozy certainly has charisma. The love-in continues. Mr Sarkozy unloaded bucketloads of praise on Gordon who reciprocated by calling him “Nicolas” twice in a row. For Gordon, that’s practically a marriage proposal.

They appeared to agree on everything and even when they didn’t “Nicolas” crowed that “It’s good to talk!” The only fraught moment came when the man from Le Figaro asked the president if he had felt overshadowed by his wife on this visit. Sarko went a bit psycho at this.

“The fact that you have even put the question seems to indicate that you have an unhappy experience of marriage or being in a couple,” he snapped.

Sarko now heaped praise on his wife. “Everyone understands and has seen this is a woman who has belief, sensitivity, who is a humane person. This sensitivity, this belief, this humanity is what contributes to her elegance.”

The French did not blink an eye at this gush. The British didn’t know where to look. It was, truly, a very strange event.

Tony’s top tips

Advice for politicians faced with a football

— Do not try to juggle the ball. Even Cristiano Ronaldo would find this difficult in suit and shoes

— Do not start a game of head tennis. It will not last and you will look like idiots

— Stand 5ft apart and slowly pass the ball using the instep

— Get rid of it as quickly as possible so that everyone thinks you are a team player

Tony Cascarino

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