For a thousand years we have traded blows, barbs, and the occasional reluctant alliance, from Agincourt's muddy fields to Waterloo's decisive square, from the Entente Cordiale that saved civilisation to those moments when we eye each other across the Channel like quarrelsome spouses who secretly relish the rows. No other rivalry quite measures up: the Germans are too earnest, the Americans too distant, the Scots too familial.
It's a relationship that has shaped empires, toppled monarchies, and produced Concorde and the Tunnel precisely when we deigned to cooperate. Other nations may compete or clash, but they lack our delicious, centuries-honed intimacy. It's knowing that we alone are permitted to tease and prod one another, because beneath the froideur beats the certain knowledge that when the world truly turns dark, the English and the French will, with maximum grumbling, stand shoulder to shoulder once more.
Only the English are allowed to bully the French.