Euromyths, Part 1

Well, I promised to indulge in some fun myths about the European Union, so let’s start out hard with this compilation of untrue reports in mainstream media that the European Commission’s representation in Britain has amassed.

What’s that? Oh, I’ll say that again.

The lengthy list of simply untrue stories, reported as if they were true, that you will find by clicking on the above link, is what the European Commission has been able to find in ONE out of 27 member states. It’s probably mind-boggling to start imagining the amount of myths reported as facts in non-EU countries.

Don’t believe everything you read in the news, then.

Already googling the word ‘euromyths’ returns almost 32,000 results, and then we’re obviously not counting the major part of them; the myths and misunderstandings that are being taken as truth as we speak.

How did this happen?

Well, to begin with, a lot is plain ignorance. In most countries, newsmen and -women lack the basic understanding of how the EU functions, in a way that would embarass them had they been similarly ignorant of how their own nations work. I will be the first to agree that the EU’s legislation process is very complicated and difficult to comprehend, but you would at least expect editors to be aware of the difference between the EU Parliament, the European Commission, and the Council of Ministers.

Moreover, there are strong EU-skeptic movements in many countries, and be not ignorant, m little children: there are bad boys out there deliberately spreading misinformation. Exaggerating things just a little bit or twisting things only so slightly is a well-known way of bending reality so that it serves your own interests.

However. If you look at the stories gathered on the page I linked to, you’ll notice that many of them do contain a grain of truth. Bananas may not be banned if they are curved, for instance, but it is true that they cannot be too curved in order to qualify for Class 1 standard.

Now, how in the world did we end up wasting our time and money inventing Classes 1 and 2 for bananas, when half of the world is starving and the other half is eating itself to death? That’s a question only the European Commission can answer.

Yes, I do like the banana shelves in my supermarket to look neat and tidy, but I’ll rather have peace, health, safety and prosperity for everyone first, please.

The page I linked to should keep you busy for the 1 May holiday. When you have finished marvelling at the threats against traditional Irish funerals, the erasing of islands, the rewriting of history or Kent becoming part of France, we shall move on to some of the murkier stuff where there is really misinformation going on, so stay tuned.

And no, I do not write this because I necessarily like the European Union or want to convert you all into EU-huggers; I simply can’t stand when fiction is being presented as fact. If we want a proper critical assessment of the EU, which we should in health’s name, then it must be based on facts. Otherwise, we’re just wasting our time and unable to keep the real scandals under control.

In the name of democracy, let’s stick to the truth.

Technical Info

WordPress has managed to mess up the entire appearance of this and a host of other blogs, and will not respond to any support questions because they’re still having a nice weekend rest. Let’s hope they get my painstakingly designed sidebars back in their places soon, until then, I can’t change a thing.

After The Coffee Break, We’ll Save The Rest Of The World

Speaking about press briefings, I must add a note about Thursday’s lengthy press briefing on the upcoming EU-USA summit on 2-4 May. The whole briefing was off the record, so I can’t go into too much detail. But you’re not missing much, because it was frankly as exciting as watching paint dry.

However, what did make it worth attending was watching one of the spokesmen for the German presidency, suit-clad, stone-faced and serious-looking, list the issues within the field of foreign policy that would be on the agenda:

“Ze Middle East, ze Israel-Palestinian situation, Lebanon, Syria, Kosovo, Afghanistan, Iraq, Sudan, Darfur and Russia, international terrorism, organised crime, and weapons of mass destruction”.

By then, muffled giggles had started spreading among the journalists in the European Council’s press briefing room in Brussels (where the whole thing was shown live on-screen via CCTV as the original briefing was held in Berlin).

Consequently unaware of the amusement he was causing in Brussels, the poor spokesman made a short pause and added, in an unchanged serious voice:

“I’m not sure all of these will be discussed”.

Duh.

Good thing, then, we must conclude, for the rest of the world’s dictators, criminals, thugs and villains, that the summit is only TWO days long.

PS. Speaking about villains: I wrote this in the reception lobby of a car glass service in Drogenbos, where I had to waste a lot of time watching my car having the window replaced that some faceless thugs smashed in pursuit of my car stereo yesterday. To add insult to injury, it now turns out that the car glass company can’t produce such a window on short notice, so I have to satisfy with a plexiglass dummy TAPED there and come back once again another day for the real thing. All the hassle, all the time wasted, all the frustration, just because of someone who couldn’t care less about other people’s hard-earned belongings! If only THAT could have been on one agenda or another, I murmur selfishly.

Brainstorming Storm

…as I was saying, before we were so rudely interrupted, yesterday offered some of the usual, amusing stonewalling amusement that only the European Union can muster. This time, the attempt was to rein in the monumentally mishandled “mini-summit” that the Commission’s chairman José Manuel Barroso called the day before.

On Wednesday, it was announced that Mr Barroso was to invite a few select heads of government to his native Portugal on 12-13 May, to look into the future and discuss a few issues of one kind or another. (You might suspect this to be a euphemism for “looking into a glass with an ice cube-cooled beverage by the poolside in sunny Portugal”, but that is of course unsubstantiated slander.)

However, a number of other heads of government were not invited, which immediately triggered questions such as “What criteria did you have when selecting the lucky charter passengers sorry, conference attendees”, or “Is this another step towards a ‘two-speed EU’”, with some members being, eh, more members than others, which the union has tried to avoid in recent years.

Amusingly enough, the outcry thus produced made Mr Barroso swiftly change his plans and strike a few people off the guest list. All of a sudden, only a few people with slightly more defined importance for forward-looking issues were now on the shortlist, such as the heads of government for the countries next in turn to take the rotating chairmanship. You could almost hear the groaning of the other ones grumpily unpacking their sunscreen tubes and swim shorts.

Of course, Mr Barroso’s spokesman, our favourite gatekeeper Johannes Laitenberger, was pressed about all this by journalists who wondered whether or not they should bother booking a flight ticket or so. (They always send him forward when they know something controversial’s coming up.) Mr Laitenberger tried his best to convince us all at the daily press briefing that this was not a “mini-summit”, merely “brainstorming”.

“What”, one reporter eventually asked, ” do you say to those heads of government, like for instance the Belgian Prime Minister, whose brains were not considered important enough to storm”?

“Mr Barroso holds ongoing talks with all kinds of people”, Mr Laitenberger responded, adding:

“I can assure you that all brains will be stormed”.

All brains? Yeaouwch. Remember this, next time you have a sudden headache: it might be the EU storming your brain. Watch out for little men in black. Look carefully under your bed before going to sleep,

Chrome, Smoke & BBQ

(That’s the best name for an album I’ve ever seen, given the image of the group, so I couldn’t resist using that as a headline for this entry. My apologies if you were looking for the CD and ended up here by mistake.)

Yesterday, I was told that Belgium was going to impose a tax on barbecues. 20 euros per event, the deal was, because BBQ adds so much to CO2 emissions and global warming. To make sure the whole thing was adhered to, the country would be monitored by helicopters with thermal sensors.

Helicopters! Which would of course leave a far heavier CO2 footprint than your cookout! (No, wait, choppers can’t leave footprints. That sounds like a decent title for a Christian album, though. Footsteps In The Sky. Like another completely brilliant Christian album title by Graham Kendrick may years ago, Footsteps On The Sea. But that’s beside the point.)

Anyway. Some brief investigations showed this to be an April Fool’s joke in the Belgian region of Wallonia, however, that for some reason wouldn’t go away.

“We have repeatedly denied this information, which is nothing but an April Fool’s Day joke. But we never imagined it would create such a fuss”, a spokesman for the local government of Wallonia told RIA Novosti.

That’s the second time in half a year that a Walloon prank has gone haywire. In December, the RTBF television channel created a War-of-the-Worlds-style hysteria when it broadcast a bogus report that the other main region, Flanders, had broken off and formed a country of its own.

In both cases, you can laugh at the dupes. But there is some reason why so many people readily believe such things to be true: somewhere, it is enough in line with mad political decisions to be credible enough.

That is perhaps the reason for the host of myths that surround the European Union. I will spend a few blog entries over the next week or so dealing with some of the most outrageous ones; be sure to check back here regularly for some happy slapping of your favourite EU conspiracy theories.

Waiting For Clouseau

I was going to tell you some funny episodes from today’s events at various EU institutions, but that will have to wait until tomorrow, because for most of this afternoon and evening I have been busy with all the miserable aftermath that came with the discovery that someone had broken into my car when I was away downtown, stealing the CD player I had as a gift for my graduation, with a CD in it that I had for my latest birthday.

(If someone offers you to buy a JVC KD-G332EX with the serial number JV20332UE07124, it’s MINE.)

This little surprise awaited me where my car was parked, right behind a police station on the far edge of Anderlecht, as well as the owners of a number of other vehicles in the same parking lot, which were subject to the same fate.

So, obviously, you go to that police station to report the crime. And what do they do? They call the police.

Seriously. I’m not kidding. I and the children, whom I had just fetched at school, sat and waited for about half an hour at a police station, waiting for a police patrol from another police station to turn up so I could report a simple crime.

This oddity was explained when that patrol eventually made I there. It turned out that the police station where I was waiting belonged to the highway police, apparently only authorised to go after cars and not human criminals.

“You would have thought”, I murmured between clenched teeth to the policeman who did not only speak French, “that your car would be safe when you park it behind the police station”.

“Oh no”, responded the policeman, “they’re only the highway police, they don’t even look there”.

Now, you must remember that Belgium used to have a few different fragmented police forces until a few years ago, merged only after the inefficiency of that system proved itself in its epical failure of capturing the Devil of Charleroi, aka paedophile/psychopath Marc Dutroux. But, apparently, the new, purportedly unified police force has yet to merge with itself.

“I thought all this was reformed”, I said in a voice intended to be frosty enough to make snowflakes fall in spite of the +33 C we are currently experiencing here.

I didn’t get an answer.

The CD in the player was the latest by the Belgian band Clouseau, world famous all over Flanders but sadly unknown in the rest of the world, a duo which I hope to write something nice about at another occasion because they’re really good. They take their name from the dim-witted inspector in the Pink Panther movies, and I hope to be forgiven for recalling that character in the light of these current events.

Anyway. OK, I thought. At least I’ve got insurance.

Or so I thought.

My insurance broker kindly informed me that the insurance I have paid hundreds of euros for every year basically doesn’t cover anything, save for liability and legal aid in case of an accident. Moreover, when I asked him in the somewhat animated fashion that was the inevitable result of such a revelation why on Earth he couldn’t have mentioned that or offered me something else when I signed up, it turned out that you cannot insure a car against theft, glass damage and fire in Belgium, if the car is more than five years old. So, if they had done away with the whole car, I would have simply been stranded. Lucky me.

“Excuse me”, said I, “but that’s just not good enough. Can’t you hear how stupid this sounds?”

“That’s how it is in Belgium”, said the broker.

So, now we know. If you’re poor enough not to be able to afford a brand new car, you have to anticipate whatever money you do manage to earn to become cannon fodder for the rampages of any airhead for a lowlife who cannot be bothered to get a proper job.

Upon drawing these conclusions, I asked my friend JD whether I should use a hacksaw or a screwdriver to lobotomise myself.

“That depends on whether or not your head is older than five years”, he responded laconically.

The Gas-Guzzling Travelling Circus

This week, the EU Parliament holds its monthly session in Strasbourg. Strasbourg, France, that is. Although being based in Brussels and having built a monstrous castle at the top of a hill there, they travel once a month to another ghastly castle to convene. This building – erected solely for the Parliament – is then EMPTY for the remaining 307 days each year.

The rest of the year, 785 Members of the European Parliament (MEPs), 1,220 officials, and countless hordes of journalists, lobyists and other creatures travel from Brussels to Strasbourg and back again for week-long sessions. The MEPs alone need 15 lorries to haul all their documents back and forth each month, as we all understand is necessary in this day and age of e-mail.
Oh, yes, and I forgot the 525 people who travel to Strasbourg from Luxemburg, where the Parliament’s administrative offices so wisely have been located.

The cost for this travelling circus amounts to millions of euros alone. If you only count in money, that is.

The EU has recently decided to cut greenhouse gases by 20 per cent. A couple of EU Parliamentarians therefore amused themselves by investigating the environmental cost for this madness, and today announce that the CO2 emissions from all this is at least 20,000 tonnes per year. You can read more about it in this excellent publication, one of the best news sources on all things EU.

So, why doesn’t the EU Parliament stop this? The answer is simple: They want to, but they do not have the power to change it.

That’s food for thought. The only directly elected institution in the EU is so aggressively powerless that it can’t even take a decision on where to house itself.

Now you might understand why I usually don’t bother to travel to Strasbourg to cover what they are doing.

One million people signed a petition some time ago to put an end to this. But such a decision has to be taken unanimously by the member states. And there’s one country that just won’t give up.

I’ll leave it to you to figure out which one.

I Saw An Eyesore: Welcome To The Luxembunker

Having recovered from my Luxemburg odyssey, I must deliver on my promise to tell you the story on what the EU ministers are doing there three times a year.

It’s actually pretty simple. Luxemburg tried to grab the position as seat for the then EC institutions in the beginning of the Union’s history, but the squabbling among the member states meant they couldn’t agree on a formal decision. Meanwhile, Brussels happily offered the institutions to locate there instead, and so Luxemburg found itself snubbed. Having the various minister groups’ monthly meetings there in April, June and October, is the consolation prize for the country.

For this purpose, they are refurbishing a huge white monster for a congress centre, which, in good EU tradition, is taking its time to become finished – the latest forecast for its opening is for 2012. Meanwhile, the minsters are convening in what can only be described as a tin can.

This picture (right) shows what this place, the Kiem Conference Centre, looks like from where the delegates enter. The two shiny metal tubes sticking out on either side are not some inventive central vaccuuming system, but corridors leading to different parts of the premises. And no, the black building to the left is not still under construction; that’s actually what it looks like. Either designed to have the heat insulation on the outside, or just heavily soundproof for reasons I can only imagine.

Here’s another view of this complex, which apparently has won some sort of architecture prize or another; a factoid that only reinforces my already firm conviction that in order to become an architect, you absolutely, positively need to be stark raving mad.

My friend and colleague Patrik, well known to readers of this blog by now, refers to the Luxembunker along the lines of ‘a closed institution for the confinement of politicians’.

That is certainly an impression that is greatly amplified by one observation I made at the rear security perimeter. As you can see on this next picture (right), the steel fence is topped by a few rows of barbed wire.

And, as you can see, these barbed wire rows actually tilt inwards, which can only mean one thing: They are not there to keep people from getting in… but to keep people from getting out.

Quite frankly, I was at first convinced that this place was a prison, or possibly a closed institution of some kind.

Some of you will now immediately make a connection between the latter and the EU, which, of course, is little else than malign slander.

But what are you suposed to believe, when this sight is what meets you? This next picture (below) shows the side facing the entrance to the press centre. (No, you don’t have to climb the ladder in the middle of the picture to get there; all you need is to get through a gap in the perimeter littered with barbed wire and manned by a security guard.)

In the press centre , you have the obligatory wall-to-wall carpets, but little else. The rooms are made up of cubicle modules. Unpainted wooden columns support the steel roof. In the briefing rooms, where ministers meet the press, the wall-to-wall carpets continue up the walls. You could probably keep walking and suddenly find yourself hitting the ceiling by mistake.

Those walls are so grey that some Eurocrats probably blend in easily; maybe it’s intentional, to provide camouflage in case the media gets too intrusive. But I wouldn’t be surprised if there are Eurocrats in grey suits still left behind in there by mistake. (“Has anybody seen Leonard??” “-I’m right here!” “-Where?Step away from the wall so we can see you!”)

I feel sorry for Patrik, who is a TV reporter, and who has to try to make them stand out against that backdrop enough to be visible on-screen.

But, in contrast to the press centres in Brussels, you have to pay for the privilege of working in this warehouse: the deposit for the right to surf the Internet, sit at a long table, and use a telephone which you can’t call outside Luxemburg with (now there’s a definition of local calls if I ever saw one), is 15 euros. OK, you get it back when you leave, but that requires you to check out, which I have already talked about.

The food on sale is as overpriced as any given BMW, the most overrated car on the face of the Earth. Luckily, there’s a large shopping mall just across the road.

But it’s such a shame that such a beautiful, clean and picturesque city as Luxemburg should be littered by such an eyesore.

Let’s just hope it gets recycled into the can crusher by mistake next time the rubbish truck swings by.

Ulysses The Deskjockey

Perhaps it’s just as good that a couch potato like me, whose main movements at work are across wall-to-wall carpets within the EU’s comfortably padded cells for press centres, gets his shoes dirty with some foray into the real world every now and then.

As I said, the trains were on strike and I had told Belgian TV that I’d go home. However, I then decided to make an attempt to get to Luxemburg after all.

By one of these neat little coincidences in life that you might thank God for, I had bumped into my friend Philip at the strike-ridden Gare du Midi station. He had been given a plane ticket so he could go see his girlfriend in California, but couldn’t get to the airport. I had told him to try to get to the North station instead, where it might be easier to get an airport train or bus.

So, having weighed my options, I decided to try that myself; maybe I could get somewhere from there instead.

Arriving at Gare du Nord, I was met with the same sight as at Gare du Midi: one single information booth, a mile-long queue of stranded travellers, and signs saying sorry, no international trains because of the strike. (There were a number of domestic trains there, though, so I do hope Philip made it to his flight. “Fly away, Phil… be free”, if you’ve seen “Cars”.)

Anyway. I had talked with my colleague Patrik about perhaps riding with him, but eventually decided not to because he was planning to stay overnight in Luxemburg and I wasn’t. But now, I had, ehrm, thoroughly changed my mind. I called  him on my cell phone.

“I was waiting for you to call”, were the first words I heard.

I was more than welcome to hitch a ride. If I could just make it to their office.

It only so happened that the easiest way to get there turned out to be on a brand new tram line, making its first trips today – I must have been on the third or fourth departure of Line 25 ever. It was so new that it didn’t even seem to have learned to find its way, or so it seemed, as we were soon stuck in the perpetual vehicle gridlock that is known as Brussels traffic. Good thing that I had, for once, started early.

Arriving at the stop as instructed, I started my search for the offices of the Swedish Television. I thought I had a clue. I didn’t.

Patrik called, telling me not to hurry because he was late, too, as his bus had got stuck in the traffic. Surprise, surprise (Not).

I got some directions. Now, you must understand that the address spelled out to me was in French, and that I nearly failed French in high school. And it was spoken into one mobile phone and received by me on another mobile phone. To the backdrop of the morning traffic.

Another explanation for what was about to happen is that I am officially completely liberated from any sense of direction whatsoever.

So, having checked the two-by-four-metre billboard map in front of me, I set off. House number 95. Hm, the numbers start at 12 or something. OK, I’ll walk. And walk. And walk. Scorching sun. Sweaty shirt. Shoe size steadily increasing.

Some 10-20 minutes later – at last, number 95. Wait a minute. No sign of Swedish Television here.

I’m not calling again. After all, I’m a man, and there’s this thing about asking for directions. Wait, I have an idea. I’ll call directory inquiries and ask. Oh no, I’ve used up the phone card, another little walk to the cash dispenser.

Since Belgium is divided sideways, longways, thisways, thatways and some ways you wouldn’t imagine, there are three different numbers to call for directory inquiries, depending on whether you speak French, Flemish, or English. I called the one number I could think of, and a voice answered in German.

I hadn’t finished asking when the voice interrupted me. “No no, you must dial 1405 for inquiries in English”, she said. In perfect English.

I dialled 1405, but an automatic voice in my phone told me “You are not allowed to dial this number”. I’m not joking. I tried it twice.

OK, maybe it was that other street I should have walked. Another little promenade in the heat and sun, arriving almost full circle back to where I begun. At 95, there was still no sight of any TV newsroom, only the Embassy of Equatorial Guinea. I pondered for a moment whether I should ring the bell and ask for political asylum. Luckily, Patrik called again before I fell for the temptation.

“Where are you?”

I tried to explain to him that I had been at the advised address, but that there was no sight of his company. Oh yes, they were supposed to be there alright. Oh no, I have been right outside and gone somewhere else! OK, I’ll start all over again.

Just check the billboard map once again.

Oh no.

I had turned my perception of the whole thing upside down. I had walked in exactly the opposite direction.

The TV office was at number 95, alright, with at least two or three coloured signs brightly announcing its presence there. I thus understood that Patrik must have thought that I had completely gone either insane or blind, when I’d made some unwisecrack on the phone about “microscopic letters”.

We did eventually get to Luxemburg. I’m not sure how, because I fell asleep in the car.

Fast-forward to the same day’s evening. There was supposed to be a decision by the EU ministers on how to save the world’s eels, and we journalists waited, and waited, and waited. I called home. My wife was alone with two tired kids. The train strike was over, but when I checked the timetable, I realised I needed to get on the 20:24 train or get stuck in Arlon until early next day. I told her. She was not happy. To say the least.

Finally, two disillusioned Germans materialised to inform us that there wouldn’t be a decision after all. Case closed. Finito. Too bad.

That was about 19:55.

Right! Grab a bus and scoot down the hill from the European quarters to Luxemburg’s train station, conveniently located at the exact opposite side of town. Oh wait a minute, for some reason you have to actually check out of the conference centre where the meeting was held. And of course, it was all taken care of by a new apprentice, who had his supervisor talking him through the whole thing, step by step.

Come ON, before one of us dies.

Dash out to the bus stop. Next bus is 20:05. No, don’t start walking, Jonathan, you don’t know where to go. The bus should arrive at the station… well, some time around a minute after the train was to leave.

The bus was late.

Easy now. At least it’s a nice sightseeing.

SMS on the cell phone, about two minutes before arrival. “Negotiations about the eels have started”. Wait! Didn’t they just say that it had all broken down? Do I have to take the next bus back again?

By then, I decided I had had enough of eels for a decade or twenty-two. Two nanoseconds before arrival, I managed to send a message asking what was going on. The bus arrived at the station at 20:24. I scampered across the street to the serenade of angry car horns. I zoomed through the station. Yess! The train is late! Wait! There’s another one too! I made it!

I must have looked like a convict on the run from an asylum, as I – sweaty, adrenaline spurting out of my ears, hair in all directions, panting – roared to the conductor “C’est pour Bruxelles??”, pointing at the train bearing big large signs saying “Bruxelles-Midi” all over.

“Normalement, oui”, he responded, sanguinely.

Another SMS: Sorry, you’re right, the eel thing had collapsed.

The train arrived in Brussels some time before midnight. I pondered on how on Earth to get from central Brussels to my home here in the village outside town, now that the last bus had gone, and eventually decided to take a chance there’d be a metro taking me to the station from which it’s only a 45 minute walk to my home.

It did take 45 minutes alright, during which I wrote this whole story in my head. I arrived home an hour into the 17^th of April, my 38^th birthday.

Happy birthday to me.

I will never eat an eel in my life.

Belgium Isn’t Working

(As transcribed from handwritten notes that I scribbled on a tram this morning.)

I thought the other day that I ought to write something nice about Belgium. After all, all said and done, I do like this country very much.

Then – I was stranded by a sudden strike.

This time, it was the train personnel that decided to walk out  - on the very same day that I was going to take the train to Luxemburg to cover the EU Agriculture Ministers’ meeting there. (Why on earth they have to meet in Luxemburg a couple of times each year, instead of Brussels as is customary otherwise, is another story. I have a limited daily capacity for rants, so that’s for another day.)

The train staff is upset with all the violence they are being exposed to, for which one can have some sympathy. Exactly how this will change by quitting work for a few hours is something I have yet to comprehend, though.

Only recently, the firefighters at Brussels International Airport (aka Zaventem) walked out in protest against who knows what, bringing the entire airport to a standstill. And on and on it goes, strike, strike, strike, and such have the state of affairs been ever since I first came to Belgium in 1995.

While I cannot entirely blame the rail company for their staff walking out (although I’d like to), I do blame them for their complete lack of customer care in moments like these.

The ticket office at the station I was to depart from – Gare du Midi – was shut, visitors being met by a short notice saying there’s a strike, sorry. All of us stranded passengers – including people like myself, who had already bought and paid for our tickets, were referred to ONE (1) tiny information booth, manned by a hapless young woman who could only shrug her shoulders at our questions.

I asked if there would be any train to Luxemburg today. She said she didn’t know, probably not.

I asked how long the strike would go on for. She said she didn’t know. (I later found out reading Metro.)

I asked where I could get my money back. She didn’t know, but handed me a general complaints form.

I asked why the ticket office wasn’t open. She said it was because the staff hadn’t been able to get to work because of the strike.

What complete and utter rubbish. How come, then, that I and so many other people could get to the station? And if they knew about the strike since last night – which they did – why didn’t they drive, walk, take the tram, bus, or even bicycle to work?

No, this rather gives the impression that the SNCB/NMBS was too much of a coward to face its paying customers, and that its staff decided to give themselves a day off to bask in the unexpected summer weather we’ve had here for the last few days.

Expecting people will put up with being treated like cattle.

Excuse me, SNCB/NMBS, but we don’t.

This is the kind of nonsense that went on in England 30 years ago, I explained to a TV team from RTBF, which interviewed me as I had made my second attempt to squeeze some information from the (dis)information booth. The UK has come a long way since then, but Belgian workers still can’t seem to be bothered to show up for work of the weather’s too nice.

Eventually, in spite of having told the TV crew that I’d have to head for home, I was bailed out by my friend and colleague Patrik, correspondent for the Swedish Television, who let me ride with him.

Seems like driving is the safest way, after all, to be sure that you will actually get where you are going.

So much for eco-friendly travel.

Warning, Warning

I shall end this working week, Friday the 13th and all, by warning you of the world’s biggest killer: Dihydrogen Monoxide. A chemical compound which takes thousands of lives each year, yet is used in industries and homes alike.

To quote from a petition circulated a few years ago:

“Dihydrogen monoxide… is the main component of acid rain… may cause severe burns, contributes to the erosion of our natural landscape”, yet it is used “as an industrial solvent and coolant… as a fire-retardant… as an additive in certain ‘junk-foods’ and other products”.

Scary? Read on.

Covering the food industry and related issues, I am daily inundated by various reports about health effects, or, more commonly, dangers caused by this-or-that substance. In some cases, fears may be well-founded, but the alerts are more often than not offset by counter-reports weeks, months or years later. Sometimes item x is good for you; next week another report claims it makes you ill. That is why I rarely, if ever, write on such reports, unless there is massive reason to do so. More often is it relevant to write about the effects on sales and public worries that such reports have caused.

Moreover… it is only too easy to fall for sloppy research, if you’re simply a journalist with no scientific knowledge. There is every reason to be cautious.

That’s one reason why the EU, and national authorities, try to examine all evidence for or against various food items before banning or recommending them. One such question currently underway is whether cloned food should be allowed for human consumption within the EU.

That’s an issue that worries a lot of people – but on the other hand, it’s technically all about copying an organism already proven safe. So, is it dangerous… or is it just our emotions that cause our gut reactions to avoid it?

So, still worried about the dangerous chemical Dihydrogen Monoxide, and prepared to sign up to call for its ban? Then read more here. This is a site I check regularly, and would like to recommend you to do, too.

I especially like the last paragraph about how a California muncipality almost passed a law banning the substance.

Idiot!

As in “I am an”.

I almost published a story this morning, where I claimed that eel is on the verge of becoming extent because of over-fishing of the larvae. Which is true, and which will be the theme of the EU Agriculture Minister’s meeting in Luxemburg on Monday, which I plan to cover.

However, in my zeal to explain the eel, I managed to write something about the larvae being unable to swim to the Sargasso Sea to reproduce.

It was only this morning that it ocurred to me that eel larvae do not reproduce; they do need to grow up a bit first.

My only defence is that one might easily get confused by the way one’s own offspring behaves…

It’s Official: Commissioner Reding Likes Champagne

Today, I can disclose a breaking news item: EU Commissioner Viviane Reding likes champagne.

This was announced by her spokesman Martin Selmayr today, as it became virtually clear that the extra charge you pay for calling and receiving calls on your mobile phone when travelling between European countries will be drastically slashed, in time for the summer holiday season. The EU Parliament’s Industry Committee today voted in favour of cutting these roaming charges by about 70 per cent, and if all the rest goes according to plan, the new rules will come into force in July.

“I just spoke with Commissioner Reding, who is in China, and informed her about the vote, and I can tell you that she opened a bottle of champagne after hearing about the vote”, Mr Selmayr told the amused journalists.

After a few general, more or less critical questions about the matter itself, someone in the press gallery asked:

“Um, an important distinction. Did the commissioner actually open a bottle of champagne?”

“Again, I’m surprised about your skepticism”, Mr Selmayr smurked. “If you knew Commissioner Reding, you would know that she would never miss such an opportunity”.

You can watch the whole thing by clicking here; choose “Thursday 12/04/2007″, scroll down the page and click on “12:46:01″. The all-important question about Ms Reding’s drinking habits comes at  12:53:26.

Of course, given the fierce fight the EU has put up to ensure that nothing produced outside of the Champagne region in France can be called “champagne”, one must assume that Ms Reding was able to get a genuine bottle on location, or had brought her own supply (however she managed to get that past security). Arrggh, I should have asked some kind of spanner-in-the-works question about that. Sorry, I didn’t think of that until now.

Child Slaves Made Your Easter Egg

Think of the most beautiful child you can ever imagine. A newborn baby of your own? A new cousin, a friend’s child?

Now imagine that child starving.

And not only starving. Sold at a price. Toiling, toiling, toiling for hours and hours every day under a scorching sun. Sweating, aching, begging to play.

Those big beautiful eyes long since having stopped crying themselves to sleep as they collapse in the evening; the pain for mummy and daddy taking them up, holding them, comforting them at night only distant memories. The only thing ever being done to their little bodies is ABUSE.

Imagine that. I look at my own sons, but sorry, I cannot imagine them being subject to this.

But that is everyday life for at least 200,000 children TODAY, 10th of April 2007.

And that is the price for every chocolate bar, chocolate Easter egg, chocolate candy you eat.

According to this recent report, the UN organisation ILO has had to conclude that at least 12,000 children have been sold into slavery in cocoa farming in the Ivory Coast alone. (I strongly recommend that you learn more here, too.)

But that is only the beginning.

Ever since I begun covering the food industry seven years ago, similar reports have emerged regularly. For instance, a report sponsored by several bodies including the US Government estimated that 284,000 children were being held in slavery on cocoa farms in the Ivory Coast, Ghana, Nigeria, and Cameroon.

That was in 2002. Since then, very little has happened – if you except the regular high-profile declarations that all claim to be underway to abolish child slavery in the cocoa industry.

One such declaration, involving major chocolate companies, promised that cocoa slavery would be abolished by 2005. They FAILED, or alternatively did not try to lift a finger to help these suffering children.

Maybe they do not have children themselves. Or simply are too coldly cynical to care whose little bodies are being torn apart for them to earn an extra cent or so.

So, what can you do? Stop eating chocolate?

That’s actually only going to make things worse. Slavery and trafficking will only shift to other, more profitable industries. Growing more profitable crops, such as narcotics, will easily become tempting.

However, what you can do, is to keep writing, e-mailing and telephoning to your local chocolate makers. Ask them one simple question:

Why is the cocoa in your chocolate not Fairtrade?

The Berlaymonster

I promised I’d write something fun for Easter about this little cottage in the middle of the EU quarters. So, here we go.

If anyone wonders why on earth Brussels ended up being the seat of the EU and the “capital of Europe”, you’re in good company. The fact is that the EU doesn’t quite know either. The formal decision was taken as late as in 1992.

Since the very beginning in 1957, there hade been the usual squabbling about who should be given the honours to host the institutions. France, Germany, Luxembourg, or somewhere else? The inability to take a decision meant that the institutions were housed wherever they could find lodging. That is one of the reasons why the EU Parliament ended up having its sessions in Strasbourg, France: they got to borrow the premises of the Council of Europe, an organisation that has nothing to do with the EU and should not be confused with the European Council.

Confused? It gets worse.

Belgium decided to lobby hard to get the institutions there, and eventually in 1968 built the EU this neat little colossus in shining grey concrete, called the Berlaymont. The EU (which was then known as the EEC) was thankful and put its Commission in it. Without buying it.

However, on one fine day in 1991, someone discovered that the building was full and flowing over with asbestos, a neat little fibre good for both preventing fires and causing lung cancer. The very next day, the Commission consequently moved out to another building nearby. Meanwhile, the entire Berlaymont was to be gutted.

That’s about the time when I first saw it in real life. EU reporting in those days continued to include images of reporters in front of this building. So I came there on rainy day in 1995 to have a look for myself… only to find the entire thing empty with the exception of the odd construction worker.

The fact that there were only a few workers in sight should have set off some alarm bells. Unfortunately, neither I nor those footing the bill got the message until someone suddenly checked their calendar and realised that quite a number of years had gone by.

In fact, it was only in 1996 that they came up with the final plans on how to do the work. Thus, it took five years only to produce the blueprints. Must have been some mighty drawings.

By then, the consortium in charge of the work had assumed the optimistic name “Berlaymont 2000″, but don’t you think that nine years were enough to complete it.

Someone else counted the costs and that wasn’t very fun reading either. By then, the EU had finally agreed to pay for the renovation by buying the building at last, which cost the Commission exactly 552,879,207 euros. The land the building stands on was purchased for an additional 1 euro; I am not sure whether or not that is included in the above figure. (But I assume that there were fierce negotiations over those last seven euros.) To be paid over 27 years.

How did they end up in that mess? Well, for a start, they couldn’t just knock what was now being known as the “Berlaymonster” and start all over again, because the entire area is a Swiss cheese perforated with road and rail tunnels. (Having demolition cause the horrible excuse for a train station next to the EU quarters cave in and implode would have been a tremendous gain for mankind, though, but that’s beside the point.)

But there was also talk about fraud and mismanagement on part of the contractor, who turned out to have been bankrupt from the very start – and, according to some reports, financially connected with the building where the Commission was being held hostage. (Now there’s an incentive for procrastination.)

It wasn’t until 2004 that the Commission could finally move back in. By then, the EU had worked its way through four Commissions, including the one that had moved out.

What the about 3,000 people working there found was quite a hi-tech spacecraft, though. Blinds have been fitted all over the facade that swivel automatically depending on the sunshine, the climate control is beyond description, and they’ve even managed to put a bit of paint on it here and there.

One of the stranger features, though, is this boat-like add-on on top of the wing closest to the Schuman roundabout. This is where the Commissioners meet every Wednesday morning. I sometimes wonder if its shape is intended to enable it to double as a lifeboat in case global warming and melting polar caps finally drench the low countries up to the 14th floor where it sits. Maybe that was what got them to start talking about climate change after all.

In the four floors underground, we, the lower standing life forms known as journalists scamper around in search for news in the undergrowth. Speaking about symbolism, you might say, although we are pampered with some of the best press services imaginable.

The only problem is that the Commission employs another 18,000 people, who cannot be fitted into this billion-euro thingy. That’s why they occupy another 60 buildings around town… and counting, as the EU grows.

Worse still, this is not the largest EU building in town. The Council has a castle across the street that’s about twice the size, the Parliament (which, remember, holds most of its sessions in France and has its secretariat in Luxembourg) has recently built an ever-swelling behemoth close by, the size of which I have still yet to comprehend, and only the other month was there yet another office block opened in the same area. Etc, etc, etc.

So… there’s probably reason to say “to be continued”.

Time for Easter now… have a happy one and let’s hear again next week.

Scatter Chatter

The European Commission’s more than 21,000 employees are spread out over a total of 61 buildings in the Brussels area. I had reason to ponder on this fact today as I was marching increasingly flat-footed across the Maelbeek area in search of the office where you renew your press badge – the gates of which, that is, all of us foreign journalists must enter sooner or later. (I have been there before, so I only got lost once on the way.)

The office in question is quite a walk from the area where the main action is, but since parking in this particular part of town is as easy as picking the lock of the Gates of Dawn with a dead herring, you are wise to resort to good old legwork.

What I cannot fathom, though, is that such a main security function has been located well away from the buildings it is to protect. There is probably some logic there too, which I have yet to discern.

The 27 Commissioners and their main staff are, however, safely tucked together in the main building, Berlaymont. This is a behemoth with quite a story, which I shall write more about later during ths week.