Lundi

Alors. I am sitting on the end of my bed in an Egyptian beach resort, stretching. I am wearing a cowboy hat, cowboy boots and les shorts rouges, exactement comme the ones that David Hasselhoff wore in Baywatch. I am checking myself out in the mirror.

On the floor is the Italian supermodel and singer Carla Bruni, who is softly playing a guitar. She is wearing one of my shirts. And, she is my girlfriend. Oh yes. I am a man.

I peer at myself in the mirror, flexing muscles and holding in my belly. “Carla?” I say. “Do you think I should shave my chest?”

Carla shrugs. Oh, l’amour! This is what life is all about, hey? I stand, sigh, scratch myself and move over to the window. There will be paparazzi on the beach. For la France, this is new. Mitterrand and Chirac both had mistresses, and never did they parade with them on the beach for the world’s media. This, I cannot understand. The lies! The hypocrisy! When I do it with a hot chick, I want the world to know.

Mardi

Back to Paris, for the day job and a press conference. A sober, serious affair. In the front row, a journalist is asking tiresome questions about my fitness for office. I suppose he is referring to the paunch.

“Hey,” I say to him, with my best Gallic sneer. “I bet you don’t have a supermodel girlfriend.” The journalist shrugs.

“Ha!” I say. “So what do you know? Et voilà. This is my point. Life is not all about GDP, and consumption, and money. Sometimes it is about fun, and happiness. Sometimes it is about hanging out on a beach with a supermodel girlfriend. This is what the country should be aiming for. Oui. Next question?” “Monsieur le Président!” says another journalist. “I am wondering why you opted not to wear a suit for this press conference.” I roll my eyes, and explain that these red shorts are exactement comme the ones that David Hasselhoff wore in Baywatch.

“Tell me,” I add, “do you think I should shave my chest?”

Mercredi

The Americans have the Oval Office. I shall have an oval bed. It is fake leopard-skin, and it revolves.

As I recline, I am visited by my Finance Minister. “Monsieur le Président,” he says. “It is imperative that we discuss the merits of the Anglo-Saxon model.” I rub my hands together, but quietly, because Carla is in the bathroom.

“Which one?” I hiss. “Kate Moss?”

Jeudi

As President of the Glorious Republic of France, a man has dilemmas. Gallic socialism or American individualism? Allies in Europe, or across the Atlantic? And should I buy a bright red sports car, or a very big motorbike?

Vendredi

I have a call from my old political friend Tony Blair. We just missed each other in Egypt.

“Tony!” I say. “You old dog! Don’t fancy yours much, hey? Did you see I’m doing it with a supermodel now? When are you coming over to Paris so we can have some fun? I know this strip joint on in Montmartre where the girls will . . .”

“Sarko,” says Tony, quickly. “Look, mate, I keep seeing you in the papers. You and Carla. Hanging out on beaches. At Disneyland. In sunglasses. It’s like you think you are Tom Cruise or something. You want everybody to see you all the time. And you’re a middle-aged man. You’ve just had a divorce. Do you think you might be having a midlife crisis?”

“Oui,” I snarl. “And what’s it to you?”

“Oh, just some advice,” he says. “Do you think I ought to shave my chest?”

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