J'accuse: Symbolic

I spent a day in Brussels this week, mostly lounging around the cafes and eating very homely Italian food while my better half was busy submitting to the exertions of European civil service examinations. Regular readers of J’accuse will be no strangers to my dislike of the city that boasts of being Europe’s capital. I confirm that Brussels is still filthy, its transport is still impossible and there is still not much to charm you into coming back again and again.

Yet I am cursed. Fate seems to throw up the occasional appointment in the city that never ceases to stink and I am therefore condemned to submit to the trials and tribulations that accompany such journeys. To be fair to the city of pissing boys and magnified atoms, much of the blame for my discomfort this time around lay squarely on my knee. The previous weeks’ exertions in the five-a-side football league had proven too much for the assortment of fibulas, tibulas, patellae, quadriceps et al and I was therefore obliged to limp around the smog-infested jungle.

Never mind the kneecaps then, and while I waited with bated breath for the (hopefully) positive outcome of the orals and writtens, I got to meet a number of colleagues and fellow bloggers over a variety of (Belgian) coffees. It’s not like there was nothing to talk about – within two days the European Union would be choosing its first ever President and High Representative – and there was the small matter of who would ultimately make it as Maltese EU commissioner. Would Joe Borg be confirmed? Would another suitably qualified personality be suggested for the post? Or would the Maltese government, like others before it, use the nomination to exile a personality who has become an uncomfortable presence at home? In other words would Malta have its own Mandelson?

Presidential

The truth is that Brussels was about as abuzz with fervent anticipation as the annual general meeting of the Society for the Appreciation of Athletic Movements among Slots. Sure the various free papers given out on the underground did make a fleeting reference to the occasion – and this from the perspective of the urgent need to include a lady in one of the posts – but on the whole the press coverage was not exactly rabble rousing either.

I surfaced at Schumann Roundabout at eight in the morning fully expecting to feel the electric hype in the air. Instead I was greeted with the usual works in progress, grey sky and hideous traffic. That did it. I gave up trying to get a feeling of the vibe there and turned my attention to the more worldly matters as explained by La Gazzetta dello Sport and Focus magazine. Not even a little chitchat later in the day regarding the possible eventual appointment of John Dalli in Joe Borg’s stead served to rekindle any interest on my part.

There I was in the city of clichés and trumped up symbols that are the closest to kitsch (akin to the leaning tower of Pisa and kitchen aprons adorned with the member of Michelangelo’s David) that you can get. Theoretically, there would be a new symbol in the making on Thursday night and you could be forgiven if you did not notice. Yet the specialised papers had done their bit of speculation. The real fight was between Tony Blair, backed by the faction all for a “loud” presidency to be marketed to the world, and a list of nobodies (or almost nobodies) backed by the faction for toning down the role.

Round one definitely went to those who were intent on turning the choice of President into a non-event. They could hardly be blamed. Here was the Union utterly exhausted after another round of referenda and ratifications, having finally managed to half-sell the idea of a Lisbon treaty that is simply a work in progress, a simplification with no particular “constitutional” (ah, the ugly word) implications. No wonder most leaders would opt for a non-entity who would ensure that the new role remained that of a chairman among peers and not some kind of superman who would suddenly take hold of the symbolic head of the Union.

A long night of negotiations between the two factions had been foreseen and the Swedish presidency of the Council had even predicted the need for an early morning breakfast. I had forfeited my right to play footie on Thursday night thanks to the prolonged kneecap pain and had prepared for a night of couch surfing, following the various news channels late into the early hours of the morning until the announcement of the new President. I was therefore surprised (as were many others I suppose) when I received the Le Monde breaking news on my iPhone: a President had been designated, and a High Representative to boot. And it was only twenty to seven in the evening!

Rubik

And as I switched on the TV, the Harry Potter-like image of Herman Van Rompuy appeared on the screen as he walked coyly among the various leaders who had ensured that they would choose the meekest among them in order to never be outshone. Sarkozy was there, strutting as usual at the forefront and pushing the wiry, half-bald, nerdish gentleman towards the podium. It is an unfortunate reality of the European Union that its leaders rarely address the demos live. They are always sitting on artificial sets with the cliché stars on blue and surrounded by photographers and journalists.

This does not help to improve the tangibility of the institutions and their work, so it was an energetic and anecdotal intervention by (Commission President) Barroso that kept the whole shebang alive. A symbol of the eighties (and of complication) was bandied around the table before finally settling in the Swedish Prime Minister’s hands. It was a Rubik cube and frankly I do not believe that a more appropriate symbol could have been chosen for the night.

The Rubik cube presented to the Swedish Prime Minister had already been solved. The events of the night seemed to at last have put the final piece of the puzzle in place. Yes, the EU had a new figure head – one who the US President could finally call (what is all this urgency with the bloody phone call anyway?) – and yes, it also had a High Representative (who also fulfilled the symbolic gender equality quota). What we also had was a happy bunch of leaders who took this epochal decision in much less time than expected and, as was usual with EU decisions, the Dickensian ending where every one is happy and God Blesses Us All was more than guaranteed.

Doves
Everyone who worried and everyone who mattered was at peace with the decisions. The Belgians, proud founding members of the Union, were finally repaid for having put themselves at the forefront of the project (not such a sacrifice really, judging by how fruitful hosting the EU circus has turned out to be for the Belgian budget). Tony Blair would not be casting his long shadow on the other leaders. As Fausto Majistral remarked on my blog, as a recent convert to Catholicism Tony should have known that if one enters the conclave a Pope then one exits a Cardinal.

Gordon Brown could face his belligerent electorate claiming that, thanks to Baroness Ashton, Britain was still “at the heart of Europe”. In fact, Brown would repeat the phrase “at the heart of Europe” ad nauseam to anyone who bothered to listen – even when it was completely beyond the point of whatever question was being asked of him at that instant. Barroso would smile and tell the world how beautiful this collective decision was for the fine workings of the Union, and the Swedish Prime Minister could gleefully gloat about the success of his endeavours over the phone with 26 other leaders (I’d hate to be on the receiving end of that phone bill).

Above all we had Herman Van Rompuy. He has already built a reputation in Belgium of being able to obtain compromises among very difficult partners. It should suffice it to say that Herman is leaving a coalition government of five parties that took aeons to form. Here we should stop and spare a thought for the Kingdom of Belgium – they risk descending into new chaos trying to find a new Prime Minister. The EU turns a new page – we shall have to wait and see what legacy Van Rompuy and Ashton will leave for future leaders.

Cocks

This was also the week of the final elimination matches for the last places in next year’s World Cup. I was overjoyed to see the return of New Zealand to the largest competition on earth but that was at the expense of plucky tiny Bahrain who went down honourably. Bahrain had been part of a controversial World Cup qualifier against Uzbekistan some time ago when, as a result of a technical error by the referee, a replay was ordered by the highest authorities of FIFA.

No replay was awarded to the Football Association of Ireland after their vociferous (and justified) complaints that followed the daylight robbery by ex-Arsenal stalwart Thierry Henry under the eyes of millions of football hopefuls. Les bleus also go by the nickname of “the cocks” and they were responsible for the mother of all cock-ups as they engaged in last minute thievery, which resulted in the exclusion of the plucky and deserving Irish from next summer’s South African debacle.

You had to pity Giovanni Trapattoni and you would be forgiven if you shed a few manly tears for the valorous Doyle, Duff and Keane. Most of all you would probably be forgiven if you wished offensively unprintable badness on the head of that obnoxious scoundrel that is Raymond Domenech and his obvious smirk of a smile at the final whistle. Why and how the man has not been given a lifetime ban from the green grass of the football pitch beggars belief.

In a way though, the absolute dismal failure of the sport to churn up a positive response to this conundrum of the falsely awarded qualification is symbolic of all that is ill about the game. FIFA is suspected of favouring the bigs – a conspiracy that was given the lie by the valiant Slovenes who qualified at the expense of the Russian giants. All the same, there was a bit of a whiff of overriding lucrative interest as soon as Henry turned to the crowd arms akimbo visibly overjoyed that he had got away with bleu murder. There is too much money involved in a football qualification – Irish pubs will not make as much money next summer and we will not be graced with the jovial enthusiasm of the Irish supporters. Tant pis – the victory is for mammon and economy and one less for Coubertin.

Rubber

Henry is quoted to have said that it is a shame that the match will not be replayed. His statement seems to reflect the collective conscience of the majority of the French public. On the other hand Henry only chose to make a statement in favour of a replay after FIFA ruled out the possibility of such replay ever happening.

Convenient, no? Everybody is clever after the event. It’s a bit like beating and pounding on a former judge who is now in the dock. All sorts of stories and irrelevant (to the case) private issues are being brought up, now that the man is on his knees and is probably about to be judged for his actions.

Funny how the very same throwers of mud and slime kept mum about all these facts that seem to have been at their fingertips all these years. One wonders if they had this same level of aggression pent up inside them on the day the former Chief Justice had been appointed and why they had to wait for him to be in the dock and half way to Corradino before they brought out the cannons and took free aim. Mine is not a comment on the guilt or otherwise of the former Chief Justice – that is for the judge in the case to discover – mine is a comment on the hypocrisy of this nation when it comes to dealing with these matters. Rubber johnnies indeed.

S.K.W.A.D.R.A fc

I was challenged by my football rivals to inform the public of the embarrassing rout that my team suffered this week at the hands of formidable opposition. True we were missing two regulars but I guess it was not our day. SK Wandering Athletic Dynamo Roving Amateurs FC lost 37-8 to Red Star. We will fight on undaunted – and ne’er shall our fealty to the rules of conduct and sporting behaviour sway…