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The Sprout – February 2005
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Back in dear old Blighty the main political parties peddle the line that membership of the European Union is vital to the UK economy. This rubbish has gone on for so long that perpetrators of it have long since fallen into the trap of believing their own propaganda. As the economic illiteraté of public service broadcasting have also bought into it any serious debate is left to the technical think tank types at the Institute of Economic Affairs, the Centre for Policy Studies and the Institute of Directors.
Yet over here in Brussels there is a significant difference. Here political union is not a matter of such mundane matters. Here it is a religion. Counter argument is heresy. The great Cathedral that is the parliament building harbours true believers. The Spanish Inquisition lives on in Rue Wiertz. How the earth trembled when a suggestion that employment regulation was detrimental to employment, the law of unintended consequence. A statement of the blindingly obvious to any small businessman. Yet high inquisitress Glenys Kinnoch heard only Galileo suggesting the earth went around the sun.
High Priest Richard Corbett walks the corridors wafting burning incense in hand chanting the constitution, a man above all others whose only fear is that his holy scriptures will be translated into English for the masses. A fear deeply shared by impossibly handsome Stephen Sackur of the Brussels Broadcasting Corporation. For if the established religion is successfully challenged it is the end of the civilised world. Notwithstanding the end of the communion gravy which slops generously off the plate for such expectant Jack Russels under the commission table. Likewise affable if laodicean editor of the Independent Church Times Stephen Castle, there is no sand in your sandwiches in Strasbourg, Basra is a poor swap for Brussels no gravy boat rocker he.
The rapporteurs go about their spiritual business devoid of the humour which their amendments carry in such abundance. Who could not take Philip Whitehead at committee for an avuncular diocesan bishop surrounded by junior clergy confident in his spiritual excellence. Parliamentary staff shimmer hither and thither with the assumed humility of the church warden. Mrs Wallis, surely the gimlet eyed choir mistress, a spanker if ever there was one. Any wonder the unbeliever feels like a man who has left his hat on at a state funeral.
Yet occasionally there lurks the Tory sceptic. The man with the hunted look. They also believe but not in this. Not the bells and smells. They must reform the unreformable or think the unthinkable, but they fear excommunication or even burning. They are not yet ready, so they sulk silently behind the pillars of superstate, stifling their iconoclasm in wodehousian raiment.
But lo! What transformation awaits on the high priest’s return home. It is no longer holy work but real-politik. The great bearer of the scrolls Archbishop Corbett renounces his faith. It is no longer a constitution for a superstate. No aspirations to the Europe of Charlemagne. It has become a rule book like the golf club’s. A tidying up exercise. Verger Chris Davies nods enthusiastically at his mild deception.
So at home the pews remain empty; the masses continue to worship false god Beckham and await Big Brother. But the people will feed the disciples to the lions yet in the referendum coliseum. |
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