Dragon Slaying

When England were in the process of qualifying for Euro 2004, I wandered into the centre of Oxford with a friend to watch their final group game, against Turkey. It quickly became apparent we hadn’t gone to the most suitable pub for the occasion, when the crowd broke out into a raucous chant of No Surrender to the IRA.

The anti-bigot in me wanted to point out that St George was, in fact, Turkish. Thankfully, the part of me that believes in self-preservation thought better than that idea.

I mention this because Nosemonkey has written a wonderful post about St George, and why, in fact, he is the perfect symbol of an England that wants to play a role in Europe and the wider world. Well worth a read.

Salvaged from the Dustbin

Here’s a few general blog links that might be of interest – the weekly Britblog Roundup, hosted this week by Mr Eugenides, and the biweekly Euroblog Roundup, hosted by Siberian Light.

I’m also blogging at Oval Office 2008; should have a piece or two up there later, which I will link to here.

The Aesthetics of Nazi Architecture

Bryan Ferry has been castigated recently, for his comments regarding Nazi architecture.

According to press reports, the 61-year-old told the Welt Am Sonntag newspaper last month: “The way that the Nazis staged themselves and presented themselves, my Lord!

“I’m talking about the films of Leni Riefenstahl and the buildings of Albert Speer and the mass marches and the flags. Just fantastic – really beautiful.”

Ferry has since apologised, but this hasn’t stopped campaigns for him to be dropped as the one of the public faces of Marks and Spencer. Nor has it stopped people who are unable to look at the past objectively from peddling their outrage in the press. Victoria Coren writes in today’s Observer:

A few days later, amid calls for him to lose his lucrative modelling contract with Marks & Spencer, the donkey-brained singer has apologised, explaining that his remarks were made ’solely from an art-history perspective’.

Why stop at art history, Bryan? If we’re going to praise the Nazis, let’s really praise them. Those guys were seriously high achievers. They weren’t just racists, they were incredible racists. They didn’t just kill a few Jews, gypsies, Russians, Poles and homosexuals, they killed millions of them. They weren’t just a bit sniffy about handicapped people, they actually conducted experiments on them. They built up their camps to an impressive pan-European chain – the Costa Coffee of torture! Credit where credit is due.

It should go without saying that any right-thinking person considers the Nazi regime abhorrent. It shouldn’t be necessary to have to enumerate the reasons why it is abhorrent, and why society should be alert to make sure that fascist movements don’t rise again. At the same time, however, that doesn’t mean that every single thing that the Nazis did was abhorrent and should never happen again. Nor does it mean that there aren’t aspects of the Nazi record in power that we can look at and think of as a genuine achievement – getting the German economy to experience such growth so soon after hyperinflation and the Wall Street Crash took some doing. There are all sorts of debates and arguments about the propriety of the means that they used to achieve those ends. But that doesn’t mean that the ends can’t be viewed objectively either.

I would have thought that the case was even easier as far as Nazi iconography goes. For however much art is reflective of the social principles of its creators, however much art reflects political attitudes of its time, our first reaction is always to appreciate the aesthetic quality of the piece of art before us. When I first saw Turner’s The Fighting Temeraire, or Bill Reid’s The Raven and the First Men, my reaction had nothing to do with the hidden themes in the work (although in both cases there are many). They took my breath away simply because they were beautiful to behold. Both works of art convey in their images great craftsmanship, and invite further reflection on humanity in general. That is why I still cherish looking at them. Yet were it not for the “wow” factor, I wouldn’t have pondered further on them at all. And the same is perhaps even more true of architecture.

Is it possible to separate aesthetic beauty from political content? Coren asserts in her article that “In the case of Thirties German iconography, it is nearly impossible to divorce the two.” Yet I would be amazed if Coren thought it at all remarkable to question the artistic merit of the Colosseum. How does she think that was built, if not for the exploitation of labour on a massive scale? There are aspects of the Renaissance that weren’t all that pretty – religious conflict on a continental scale, for example – yet that doesn’t stop us hailing the artistic achievements of those who were a product of that ferment. It is perfectly possible to hail a work of art as brilliant while despising those who created it, or the political philosophies that they espoused.

Why is it wrong to admire Speer’s architectural plans for the capital of Germania as a model of grand town planning, yet acceptable to consider the Colosseum a wonder of the world? The answer must surely lie in the proximity of the Nazi regime to our modern age. While we are still in the presence of those who survived the Holocaust, while the international political projects of Europe still have as their key reference point World War Two, while those born in Germany after the war can still remember the national embarrassment of Hitler’s Reich, our emotional reactions to anything connected with Nazism are strong. That, in many ways, is a good thing, if it guards against the rise of any similar regime in the future.

But it is not a constructive way of looking at the past. We cannot hope to gain anything from a study of the past if we are too quick to categorise things as “good” or “evil”. It is possible to create things of real, lasting beauty through evil means. We should be proud to say that we reject the philosophy that led to many of the creations of the Third Reich. But that shouldn’t stop us from recognising that they are, in themselves, beautiful.

The Dangers of National Mythology

If there is one thing that the persistent debate over gun control demonstrates, it is that there is a real danger to collective memory. The icon of the National Rifle Association is not an AK-47, nor, indeed, any kind of gun that would be used today. The weapon that Charlton Heston dares the gun control lobby to pry out of his “cold, dead hands” is a revolutionary musket. For those who argue for an unrestrained right to bear arms, the issue is tangled up with those blinding promises of the Declaration of Independence – the rights to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. The right to bear arms is not a matter of simple policy, as it was in Britain after Dunblane, or in Germany when a disgruntled pupil shot 18 pupils at a school in Erfurt in 2002. For those who shout the loudest, it is a birthright, inseparable from a free press, freedom of religion, or the right to trial by jury.

The Second Amendment is one that is problematic for anyone who wants to untangle the history of the gun in America. It is the only part of the cherished Bill of Rights to have a preamble: “A well regulated militia, being necessary to the security of a free state, the right of the People to keep and bear arms shall not be infringed.” In recent years, the two parts of the amendment have been seen as an either-or choice. Either the amendment was intended to provide for the upkeep of a militia, or it was intended to guarantee the freedom of the populace to arm itself.

The necessity of having an armed populace was easily evident in 18th century America. The USA did not occupy almost an entire continent as it does today – it was surrounded by hostile powers (Britain in Canada; France to the West; Spain held Florida), not to mention Indian tribes who frequently attacked American settlers on the frontier. The possession of a gun was often the only way to defend one’s property. Moreover, a militia prevented the necessity of a standing army (which Americans despised), and having militia under the control of states, rather than the federal government meant that any developing emergency could be dealt with by a force raised more or less in the area affected by attack.

For all that the freedom referred to in the Second Amendment is nowadays linked to the right to bear arms, historically it made most sense in the context of a militia. It was only through defence being a duty of the virtuous citizen that republican government could be upheld. If government was to defend itself by hiring mercenaries (whether native or foreign), that meant the ultimate power a government could hold – waging war – was controlled not by the people but an institution. And so, in 18th century America, the right to bear arms was just as much a civic duty as a civil liberty. As Saul Cornell points out in his work, the freedom to brandish a musket occurred at the same time that all able-bodied men were required to train and serve in the militia.

Clearly, then, the historical context in which the Second Amendment makes sense is no longer applicable to the modern day. The defence of the United States is no longer carried out by militiamen – indeed, the modern Minuteman Project that is intended to deter illegal border crossings gives an image of militia as a rag-tag bunch of ideological freelancers. In fact, the militia of the early republic were often well-organised and well-trained fighting forces with strict rules of conduct. Yet the job of being a soldier, particularly with rapid increases in technology, has now been contracted to full-time professionals and the National Guard.

There’s more to write about the developments in the interpretation of the Second Amendment both in legal and political discourse, but what is undoubted is that the vision that permeates both sides of the debate is a perversion of history. The right to bear arms means something different today to what it did when Madison proposed the amendment to Congress, and the several states ratified it.

The promises of the American Revolution have an incredibly strong pull – for Americans and non-Americans alike. Not only are the promises of life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness attractive in their own right, but the documents in which the key promises are contained are written so powerfully that they have an almost intoxicating effect on the mind. Yet just because something has been written down does not mean that it represents reality. It is the strength of those promises, their irreducable link in the minds of Americans with freedom, that has the strongest impression on the mind however. The words, the societal norms may have changed their meanings, yet their link with the past cannot be broken. 

It is a trick of the mind that leads to the difficulties faced in the gun control debate today. How can words written plainly on a piece of paper change their meaning? But times change. The danger of not studying the past is that laws can last longer than people – and most especially in a (written) constitutional system. The present is even more fraught with danger when the veneration of a political system is so great that it bceomes almost untouchable – that, by linking something with the Founding Fathers, it becomes ‘good’ in itself, rather than because of any intrinsic merit. Society, laws, people are never frozen in time – they move forward with inevitability. The events of the past do not have that luxury – and that makes it essential that we do our best to understand them, and not allow them to become frozen in the modern mind.

Guns Don’t Kill People, People Do

There’s a number of things that I want to write about regarding the tragic incidents at Virginia Tech on Monday. I don’t have quite enough time to do them full justice at the moment, but I do want to commit to writing a few preliminary thoughts. It didn’t take long at all before the news of the massacre in Blacksburg sparked off a heavily political debate regarding the right to bear arms. It’s only natural that such a debate is re-ignited at a time like this, but at the same time, I can’t help but feel that it’s counter-productive.

The fact, as regrettable as it is, is that someone who is sufficiently determined to cause the sort of carnage seen on Monday will be able to get their hands on some kind of deadly weapon. It’s only those with significant mental health problems who do cause such tragic occurrences. And, unless the world is suddenly going to stop arms production and concrete over its existing weaponry, then these things will occur. Moreover, even if guns were banned, similar atrocities could be caused with all kinds of other weapons – some (like knives) easier to stop; others (like poison gas or bombs) even more potentially deadly and indiscriminate in their effects. Suggesting that gun control would stop these atrocities is a false argument; it might make them harder, but people as disturbed as the Blacksburg killer evidently was will find a way. Moreover, gun control in Britain, tightened further since the Dunblane tragedy, has persecuted those who want to use guns for legitimate recreational purposes whilst doing little to stop their increased use in organised crime. Laws, particularly general laws made in response to particular circumstances, can have unintentional consequences.

The other difficulty in thinking about gun control at a time like this is that it is easy to see our cultural norms as “superior” because tragedies like this seem less common; because the carrying of a gun in America is visible and, in many cases, almost ubiquitous. That doesn’t mean that portraying Americans as backward or wrong for their desire to carry guns is fair; nor does it mean that legislation that makes perfect sense in a largely urban European setting can fit easily upon gun culture in America. Yes, American belief in the freedom of gun ownership is very definitely an exceptionalist part of their character. That doesn’t mean it is per se wrong. Goldie Lookin’ Chain may have been satirical when saying guns don’t kill people, rappers do. But guns don’t kill people on their own – they need someone pulling the trigger.

Saul Cornell, in his superb recent book “A Well Regulated Militia” (which I’ll refer to later in the week, too), writes:

It is unrealistic to imagine a gun-free America. Nor is it realistic to expect Americans simply to accept that inordinately high levels of gun violence are simply the price of freedom. 

As hard as it is to not have a knee-jerk emotional response when you consider the human tragedy that unfolded in the classrooms of Virginia this week, there is a real need to step back from the emotional excesses of the debate. Gun control advocates must be careful not to portray all gun users as evil. The vast majority aren’t. Nor should the gun rights lobby be averse to having to prove a little more about their background, and have a little more regulation on what guns they are allowed to use. After all, just as the desire to use guns is perfectly legitimate, so are anxieties about not being on the receiving end of a stray bullet. The debate needs a little bit of perspective.

I guess it won’t surprise you to learn that I think a bit more thinking historically about the subject would go a long way. But that’s something that will be discussed later in the week here.

American Travel Narratives

Ever since the founding of the American Republic (and some might argue from the earliest days of colonial settlement), visitors and natives alike have travelled the United States of America in search of the US National Character. Perhaps the most eloquent summation of the search comes in one of its earliest attempts Hector St John de Crevecoeur’s Letters from an American Farmer. Letter III is entitled “What is an American?” It is a question that no-one, native or outside observer, has yet found a satisfactory answer to.

There is something about the American Dream that is intoxicating – its promises of freedom and progress almost inextricably intertwined. It finds its expression in all kinds of nooks and crannies, from Frederick Jackson Turner’s frontier thesis to Michael Howard’s invocation of a ‘British Dream’ early in his tenure as leader of the Conservative Party here in Britain. And yet pinning it down to something more tangible is a somewhat more tricky task.

A whole host of writers, then, from Alexis de Tocqueville to Bill Bryson, have travelled across America hoping to divine some insight into the nature of democracy, into the paradoxes and oddities of such a large, diverse nation. It goes without saying that they all bring their own personal hopes and dreams with them in their narratives; it goes without saying, also, that they were travelling in remarkably different times.

One of the things I am currently doing with my spare time is reading (or, often, re-reading) these narratives to see what sort of picture of America they portray, and on what issues they differ. Have views of America stayed the same over the years (especially over the 20th century)? Did the hopes of 18th and 19th century writers come to fruition? From what sources does admiration of America flow most easily from?

So, over the coming months, expect to see a number of book review-style posts as I work my way through the books I have at hand. It’s part of my aim to make the list as eclectic as possible, with Americans and foreigners alike included, as well as journalistic and serious studies. If anyone has any suggestions for what I might like to include on my list, please feel free to make suggestions in the comments.

Jackie Robinson Day

If there is a guiding principle that informs my writing on this blog, it is that everything is politics. Indeed, it is in matters that superficially seem as far removed from politics as possible that you often get the most valuable political insights. One common mantra that is often repeated holds that sport and politics don’t mix. And yet sports clubs are more than just groupings of people that want to play the same sport – they form their own communities, with their own identities, with their own distinctive memberships. So while the ostensible aim of such clubs may be to play a sport, they cannot exist without revealing subconscious attitudes about the role of those mini-communities in a wider context.

 I mention this because April 15, 1947 is a day that is rightly celebrated in America. It was the day that baseball’s colour barrier was broken for the first time; Jackie Robinson making his debut for the Brooklyn Dodgers, and in so doing becoming the first black man to play in the major leagues. Robinson has righly become a hero in American society – for while it is unquestionable that a black player would have made the leap into the major leagues sooner or later, Robinson displayed all the qualities necessary to make it a successful move, in what was a thoroughly unenviable task. For Robinson could not just be an ordinary player, jobbing around the league. He had to be more than worth his place in the team, to demonstrate that he was giving something to baseball that could not have been provided by a white man. And all the time, he had to put up with some unbelievable provocation. Joe Black, who would later become a team-mate of Robinson’s at the Dodgers, recounted how teams used to sing “Ol’ Black Joe” at him from the opposing dugout. Black’s response was to throw a fastball at the head of the next seven batters he pitched at – as a means of showing them he wouldn’t be intimidated. Can you imagine if Robinson had shown such an attitude?

No, Robinson not only had to be an outstanding player in the league, but he also had to show the strength of character not to respond to such racial taunts. It is no wonder that Robinson remained an outspoken character after his retirement, calling for positions in management to be given to African-Americans, too. Even today, only a small percentage of major league teams are managed by black men; certainly far smaller than the number of black players.

Since his retirement, Robinson’s number, 42, has become iconic. On the 50th anniversary of Robinson’s debut, the Commissioner of Major League Baseball announced that the number 42 would be retired from baseball (that is, no player in the major leagues would be allowed to wear the number on his uniform). Symbolic, yes. Obscuring broader problems regarding racial integration, probably. Yet also an important sign of contrition from Major League Baseball; that their racial segregation was wrong, and that those who had the strength of character to fight it and create opportunities for so many others in the future should not be forgotten.

The number 42 has been the centre of attention this week, too, as Sunday marks the 60th anniversary of Robinson’s debut. Ken Griffey Jr., an All-Star outfielder for the Cincinnati Reds, asked the league if he could wear the number 42 for one day as a tribute – little realising that he would set a fairly large ball rolling. Authorities announced that they would allow any player who wished to wear the number to do so. Six teams, including the Dodgers, and a whole assortment of other players have since indicated that they will wear the number. This in itself has proved somewhat controversial – for many believe that having so many number 42s will dilute the impact of the tribute.

For what it’s worth, I think that it’s encouraging that so many people do want to wear the number – although I’m less sure that whole teams should choose to replicate the tribute, save for the Dodgers themselves. If it becomes something that’s seen more as an enforced decision rather than a voluntary tribute, then it does lose a lot of its power – as well as forcing recalcitrant members into a position they don’t want to take. One player explained his decision not to follow the trend by saying “I could never live up to Jackie Robinson.” Taking note of a special, remarkable occasion does not have to take the form of an outward display.

One thing that is slightly buried in much that has been written about the whole affair, however, is that the players that have chosen to wear 42 are almost exclusively black. One white player, Eric Byrnes, who expressed a wish to wear 42, was later omitted from other lists – and ESPN’s Baseball Today podcast suggested that may have been because he did not want to tread on the toes of a black teammate who wanted to wear 42 himself. I hope that’s not the case. If it is, then it shows that for all the strides that have been made as regards integration, there is still a huge way to go.

The biggest significance of Robinson’s debut 60 years ago was unquestionably for the black community, and the new opportunities that he created. No longer were the Negro Leagues the limit of a talented black baseball player’s ambitions. But integration is only really achieved once race does not become a factor at all. Jackie Robinson, for enduring what he had to in fighting for what was right, should be a hero to all baseball players (and, indeed, an inspiration to us all) – not just to a smaller grouping. It would be a great symbolic act if the players wearing 42 of their own volition were of all races – that baseball is doing all it can to remove racial distinctions between its players. For while 42 may be little more than a number randomly assigned to Jackie Robinson, its cultural – and political – connotations are so much greater.

Finding A European Narrative

The 50th Anniversary of the Treaty of Rome has been and gone – and if you weren’t watching all that closely, you may well have missed it. For since the rejection of the EU constitution by Holland and France (and let’s face it, they were only going to be the first countries to reject it), there has been a general malaise in terms of European politics. In short, no-one seems to know where they want to go. Are ever-closer union and the expansion of the EU to include the Balkan countries (and possibly Turkey) really compatible strategies? Can open-border policies realistically hold when the EU contains such a wide variety and number of different economies? If closer union is to happen, on what terms can it possibly happen? No-one has any answers to these questions, and until some kind of consensus is found to deal with these issues, the EU is going to give the appearance of floundering; of lacking any sense of purpose or effectiveness.

Timothy Garton Ash is hoping to find a solution to this malaise. Earlier this year, in Prospect, he wrote:

We don’t know why we have an EU or what it’s good for. So we urgently need a new narrative.I propose that our new story should be woven from six strands, each of which represents a shared European goal. The strands are freedom, peace, law, prosperity, diversity and solidarity. None of these goals is unique to Europe, but most Europeans would agree that it is characteristic of contemporary Europe to aspire to them. Our performance, however, often falls a long way short of the aspiration. That falling short is itself part of our new story and must be spelled out. For today’s Europe should also have a capacity for constant self-criticism. …

By their nature, these goals can not fully be attained (there is no perfect peace or freedom, on earth at least), but a shared striving towards them can itself bind together a political community.

The problem is that freedom, peace, and law are all noble goals, but no-one would reasonably disagree with them. Diversity and solidarity may be slightly more contentious, but not by much. Certainly proposing a European narrative to be built around such abstract concepts will not work – for they need some practical manifestation if they are to have a real hold over the popular imagination. People will march for freedom, but only if they are experiencing or fearing oppression. People will march for peace, but only if there is a threat of war.

For in the absence of an “other” against which abstract ideals can be measured, those ideals those their meaning and their power. In a world without war, peace becomes normal. In a world where everyone is governed by the rule of law, the inestimable privilege of such a state of affairs becomes obscured. If a community is to be really successful, then it needs to have some sense of why it is different from others - not just why its members belong together.

This is not to say that abstract concepts are not powerful. History, and our own experience, shows us just how powerful they can be. Why else would America still rally behind a call for “life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness”? France’s national identity is founded on three concepts that are impossible to pin down. And yet these principles have proved enduring adhesives, over large and diverse areas, for two centuries.

Why should this be the case? Because in both cases, there was a coherent narrative in which the principles were made intelligible. Life and liberty means a hell of a lot more when you have been fighting a mercenary army raised to uphold colonial rule over you. Equality has a real tangible meaning when you have been denied power thanks to a political system that entrenched power in the hands of the King, the nobles, and the clergy. There simply isn’t a similar mythology for Europe. After all, the driving impetus behind the EU was the desire to make sure that tearing the continent apart through war was a memory consigned to a distant past. Yet while a dogged determination and a mantra of “never again” can influence decision-making, it will never become a defining, unifying bond between communities.

When the Euro was first launched, the banknotes were (rightly) derided for their asinine symbolism. In trying to find a design that would be suitable for all the member nations of the eurozone, the ECB managed to inspire no-one. The official explanation for the designs, found on the ECB website, is quite apt:

The bridges, which appear on the reverse side of the banknotes, are modelled on the architectural style of each period rather than on specific structures. If it were easy to recognise particular bridges, then certain banknotes would inevitably be associated with a specific country. Therefore, the bridges merely represent a period in European history by using a stylised representation. Bridges like the ones depicted can be found in many parts of Europe. The same also applies to the windows and gateways that appear on the banknotes.

Nothing specific that can invoke a thought of ‘Europe’, then. Just a series of bland, nondescript designs. What sort of Europe does that celebrate? Not one that will ever get people to come together with a shared identity, with a shared sense of identity. If European identity can only be distilled down to something so bland, then the EU’s entire purpose is surely doomed.

But this set me thinking. Is there anything iconic that really makes people of the EU? If the banknotes were to depict people, which figures could be considered truly great Europeans? For all that I have my own European heroes – Charlemagne and Gustav Stresemann, to name but two – any choice will most likely have a regional bias, and run the risk of treading on many toes. It is perhaps telling that of rejected designs for Euro banknotes that contained depictions of people, I was unable to identify many fo the figures (although that may have been the point, I suppose).

For the fact is that outside of a most general sense, the EU does not share a common history. And the expansion to the east has diluted what common heritage there is still further. Garton Ash, in Prospect, wrote that European conceptions of freedom were set against experiences of oppression.

Europe’s history over the last 65 years is a story of the spread of freedom. In 1942, there were only four perilously free countries in Europe: Britain, Switzerland, Sweden, Ireland. By 1962 most of western Europe was free, except for Spain and Portugal. In 1982 the Iberian peninsula had joined the free, as had Greece, but most of what we then called eastern Europe was under communist dictatorship. Today, among countries that may definitely be accounted European, there is only one nasty little authoritarian regime left—Belarus. Most Europeans now live in liberal democracies. That has never before been the case; not in 2,500 years. And it’s worth celebrating.

Indeed it is worth celebrating. But it is also worth noting that the experience of freedom is remarkably different in each of the member states. For Britons and the French, it is seen as a birthright, part of the very nation itself. France’s freedom, of course, was won in no small part due to the assistance of foreign nations. Germany’s was not so much won as imposed following a humiliating national defeat. I’m not suggesting here that Germany is, or was, a nation of rabid Nazis. But it is vital to remember that there was a negative and a positive psychological impact of freedom there. Comparing the fascist regimes of the Iberian peninsula to the communist dictatorships of Eastern Europe, moreover, is a somewhat lazy comparison. In Spain and Portugal, dictatorship rested on a national level; in Eastern Europe, it was the guiding hand of a foreign power that was responsible for communist oppression. We may all agree that the fact Europe lives under liberal democracy now is a good thing. But the concept of freedom means such different things to different people – and it is only as an abstract generalisation, rather than a shared feeling of the heart, that it can truly be said to unite Europeans.

I am reluctant to end this post on such a negative conclusion – that creating a European identity for the support of the EU is an impossible task. One, at the very least, that is beyond the powers of any top-down model to create. So I will posit this theory in conclusion – that while there may be no overarching European narrative, this is not necessarily a bad thing. The excesses of the European Union, the complex web of bodies that comprises its varied authorities, the seemingly mindless regulation, is at heart caused because the bureaucrats cling to the false notion that there is such a thing as a European in theory, whilst having to recognise national identity in practice.

This would then, in turn, lead to a concentration of activity on a European level on matters where supranational authority is most effective and necessary. The disagreeable spectacle of Europe’s leaders convening at conferences pretending they have common goals when their actions show the unequivocal opposite could be put to an end. As far as trade goes, it would mean the dawning of a realisation that while having common standards of measurement and quality is necessary for free trade to work most effectively, the regulation of the height of rocking horses is nothing other than counterproductive.

People can respect the need for supranational authority without coming to love it. Few would say that the United Nations rouses stirring feelings when they hear the mention of the name. Yet the principle of UN agreements being binding on its signatories is readily agreed to. So it could be in Europe too, where people could accept the idea of basic human rights across the EU, where the need to make decisions on matters pertaining to asylum and the environment on a larger scale than present was accepted – without any fear that there was a secret plan to erode national identity.

Only the most foolish, swivel-eyed loons could seriously believe that any EU country was Better Off Out of the European Union. While the trade of most European countries remains with members of the EU, nations will find themselves subject to complying with EU standards even if they have no say in the matter. But that doesn’t mean that the status quo is truly worth preserving. Realising that there can be no central European narrative that is accepted by a continent will be productive in its own way – forcing politicians and Eurocrats alike to recognise that efforts should be focused on the possible. For while the EU keeps charging down the blind alley of trying to define a unifying project, it will only appear floundering and weak. Just like any attempt to pin down exactly what it is that holds the people of Europe together.