American playwright and poet, Beau Willimon wrote ‘Tales of power and ambition and intrigue and betrayal and desire – when you’re telling those in a big way, you automatically want to go to Shakespeare’. Though tempting, it would be too cliché to use William Congreve’s ‘Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned, nor hell a fury like a woman scorned’.
Cast of Characters
Socialist French President Hollande: Unfaithful gaffe expert with matching approval and sex appeal ratings.
Valérie Trierweiler aka the Rottweiler: Sharply fanged ambitious former glossy magazine editor, husband poacher, ex-unwed First Lady of France
Chorus: French Press
Extras: Cringing Citizens of France
Plot: Venomous and vengeful, publicly dumped Shebug creates crippling crisis at the Elysée Palace with a kiss-and-tell aptly entitled, ‘Thank You for this Moment’ as her weapon of choice.
As a publicly dumped woman, she knows that boldness is her friend. While this force to be reckoned with hopes to market herself as, alas, I am a woman, friendless, hopeless, ex-lover Hollande, hears only if you have tears, prepare to shed them now…
Her boyfriend cheated on her and nobody likes to feel betrayed. But wasn’t it all a game of infidelity in exchange for power to begin with? In a fake quarrel, there is not true valour; her ascent from nobody to predatory First 'lover' Lady of France was always suspect.
Every peccadillo and bottom-baring aspect of the odd couple’s life at the Palais possible lie within the pages of Trierweiler’s memoir actively read at present from Calais to St Tropez- and beyond.
If France’s Mr. Bean believed the golden age was before him not behind him after dumping Valérie, he thought wrong; this fury was not labeled ‘La Rottweiler’ for nothing.
Holland is still smarting from being caught cooing good night, good night, parting is such a sweet sorrow, that I shall say good night till it be a little too long with a B-rate actress clambering up the ladder of fame. Living in the STYLE capital of the world, didn’t he realize the 'scooter & helmet' look are so last millennium?
Uneasy lies the head that wears the crown. As Monsieur Le Président turns paler shades of gray by the day, he must have come to realize that when sorrows come, they come not single spies, but in battalions.
Oh la la! Might Hollande's days be numbered? Or might the best-selling novelist’s?