My last week in London and it is just as well. One more would most likely kill me. The least frantic night was the one that Simon Phillips and Roger Moore threw in Harry’s Bar for Unicef, as worthy a charity as there is, following “Masterpiece” at the former Chelsea Barracks. I sat next to Britt Ekland, still sexy and still working, but my high moment was finally meeting Sir Roger’s youngest son, Christian. Many years back Christian had designs on some young blonde friend of mine, but I checkmated him by telling her she would end up in the pokey as he was 13 years old. (He was 18, and his now father-in-law, a most charming Syrian gent, has been reading the Spectator since the Sixties.)

Writing a weekly diary with metronomic regularity can, of course, bore the reader. In my 33 years of doing it in these here pages, I try to vary them. Two weeks of high jinks, one serious one, and one so-so. Mind you, we surely all agree that football is out as a subject. Italy and France have disgraced themselves, just as England has. The rest of the teams are not much better. I am referring to the phony writhing and elaborate pantomimes of agony practiced by every team except that of the United States and possibly Germany. How can these bums take themselves seriously when caught time and again by the instant replay, untouched by an opponent, pretending to be mortally wounded? Is there another sport where such blatant cheating is accepted? Don’t these thugs have any pride? I’d rather die than writhe in false agony in front of millions. Or in real agony, for that matter. The Italians started it, the South Americans perfected it, the Africans ditto, and now it’s as much part of football as running and kicking. But as I said, no more football, just football as a metaphor.

A wonderful physiotherapist here in London told me an amazing story. He treats many of the stars, including some Frenchmen, and three of the latter told him that playing for France was for the birds. In other words, they didn’t feel French and never would. There was no professional pride involved, no desire, in fact the contrary. Many of them are Islamic converts, and most of them refuse to mouth the French national anthem. The French governing elite has pulled the wool over the peoples’ eyes yet again, pretending that the secular state has integrated every immigrant, starting with the ninety percent black football team. Well, they have not and never will.

“Trying to weaken the Far Right, Sarkozy and his gang turned French sport into an anti-racism theme park.”

Thiery Henry demands an audience with Sarkozy, and the dwarf grants it immediately. Has the dwarf no pride? Can any of you see Charles De Gaulle agreeing to meet with a footballer? (“Mais qui est Monsieur Henri? Un depute? Un general?”) The general opinion is that France is confused about her identity and uncomfortable with the growing numbers and the attitude of its poorer, darker immigrants and their children. Well, who filled the country up with them, I didn’t. And if the extremely rich players like Patrice Evra refuse to sing La Marseillaise why should extreme poor unemployed youth do? One French philosopher, with the almost absurd name of Alain Finkielkraut, called the French team a gang of hooligans that knows only the morals of the mafia.

One thing is clear. As Jean Le Pen said, the national team was picked for its color, “a flag of anti-racism instead of sport.” Trying to weaken the Far Right, Sarkozy and his gang turned French sport into an anti-racism theme park. The dwarf’s policies are as shallow as he is, but the electorate has a very short memory. Unrestricted immigration is the worse plague that can be inflicted on a country, and Europe’s elite have not only encouraged it, but demanded it. Complaining of lack of patriotism now is a bad joke.

But just take a look how countries south of the North American border treat immigration. Mexico, for example. An illegal immigrant in Mexico can land in prison for years. Up north, in Uncle Sam country, it is a misdemeanor, and illegal immigrants regularly protest under Mexican flags. In Mexico, immigrants are not allowed in who could upset the equilibrium of the national demographics. In the United States immigrants regularly boo the national anthem and root for some banana republic playing Uncle Sam’s teams. In most south American countries the booers would be lynched. The state of Arizona passed a law that suspicion of illegality as far as immigrants are concerned is enough to warrant a search by the fuzz. The law was passed in order to try and cope with an army of half a million illegal aliens living in Arizona. By the outcry against it, one would think new Jim Crow laws were passed segregating Mexicans from native whites. But Americans always had to have identity cards, all students had to flash them to get a drink, and we always had to produce a driver’s license the moment a cop requested it, in or outside a car. And we also carried draft cards. What’s wrong with asking a possible illegal to produce his documents? The poor little Greek boy had to do it, why not they?

Europe has been overrun by immigrants, the equilibrium of our national identity has been changed, yet all we hear and read about is how some rock star is organizing a concert against racism. Starting next week I shall be reporting to you from the birthplace of deficit spending, a place where everyone retires early in life, and I shall also be reporting how the rich Greeks are coping with the terrible controls imposed on us by the beastly Germans. Deutschland Uber Alles.