THERE was a lovely line on my Twitter feed recently wondering why all French politicians looked as if they were starring in a classy TV police series.

It was accompanied by a photo showing Francois Fillon looking darkly brooding in a blue cashmere coat, the lapels obscured by a double wrapped scarf.

Naturally his hands were in his pocket as he strode on, careworn and dismissive of the Press who had gathered to watch him leave his house.

Careworn because ‘Penelopegate’ – the furore over payments to his wife and children – is not quietly going away; brooding because he comes from that genre of politicians in their early 60s who wear casual arrogance as lightly as their cashmere.

A few days later every UK front page carried a quite different picture: A revolting photograph of a sweat-stained Boris Johnson, idiotically grinning in a parody of a serious jogger.

Britain’s senior diplomat and Foreign Secretary was bagged up in a mish-mash of polo shirt, swimming shorts, bobbled fleece and pull down woolly hat.

His obscenely fleshy, white legs hung shapelessly; scratched and juddering from the multi-hued knee-length swimmers, more suitable to a beach than the streets of London.

In its own way the ensemble was an equal badge of arrogance but his was the uniquely English brand once favoured by the aristocracy who were far beyond such petty considerations of dress and public opinion.

Despite his Eton background and his pretensions, Johnson is not and never will be a ‘toff’ to those who actually are. But then again, with his admittedly fine brain he pretends to parody the very set to which he aspires.

Had he attempted to jog on in France in such an ensemble I am quite sure his bodyguards would have restrained him. Dignity, perceived dignity, is all in politics here.

The ‘look,’ the clothes, the gravitas are as much admired as the man and almost, almost as important.

The role of French President is much more than its mere title. The French have always invested the position with a sort of mysticism.

He, for so far it has always been a he, is seen as embodying the spirit of France – the container of a turbulent, proud history that gave the world the three ideals of freedom, equality and brotherhood.

The presidents who most represented this ideal began with the lofty solemnity of Charles de Gaulle, continued through the intellectual detachment of Valery Giscard d’Estaing and Francois Mitterrand.

Even the more approachable Jacques Chirac held himself with a dignity befitting his position.

And then the world, and even France, tilted. Along came Nicolas Sarkozy. Very quickly he was known as President Bling Bling for his overt love of flashy suits, hideously expensive watches, restaurants where the menus carry no prices and a model with a past on his arm.

In truth he could not last.

But there was a further sinking of the Gallic heart with the arrival of Francois Hollande, a backroom politician promoted way beyond his middle-manager pay grade.

He soon acquired a nickname – Monsieur Flanby, after a wobbly nursery pudding with a soft centre.

Again, he was undone as much on a question of style as on his private life of which the French claim to have no interest. (Well, that and the dithering political decisions and back-tracking on policy.)

Visiting his second mistress he was photographed behind a bodyguard on the back of a scooter wearing his office suit and a helmet.

Worse still, a pizza was subsequently delivered to the love nest. La, la, la, la, la.

So here we are now, just a few weeks from the first round of voting which is expected to leave two runners in the final vote off.

The Far Right Marine Le Pen and her tawdry, allegedly populist policies of hate and division, and Emmanuel Macron, the centerist who formed his own party after walking away from the Socialist Government and not renewing his party card.

At 39, he would be the youngest ever president with an enthusiasm and zeal contained by sound, fresh policies and a brilliant, modern financial mind.

There is no doubt there is something about Macron that has him leading the polls in an appeal, transcending party affiliations.

His subsequent marriage to his teacher 24 years his senior, shows him, in my mind at least, to be a risk-taker; a man who sets a goal and achieves it.

I like that for it also implies a gambler as we saw when, in perfect English, he cheekily stood outside 10 Downing Street after seeing Prime Minister Theresa May and invited "the banks, talents, researchers, academics" to move across the Channel.

His distaste for May, Brexit and no doubt President Trump, is never far from the surface.

Amidst the parade of the Far Right across the world, his presence is the antithesis of the bloated, inheritors of evil.

Sadly, as I am not a citizen I cannot vote for him and his policies which could wrest France from its coming decay.

Apart from that he knows how to rock a serious cashmere coat and how to double knot a dark scarf.

He looks the part.