Juncker tells it like it is: the EU 27 will not be divided.

Theresa May is in Tallinn, David Davis touring Benelux. There is a terrible failure in the ranks of possibly the worst British government in history to believe that secretly the other European nations believe the same as they do: that the EU is an awkward joke and that nation-states are really all that matters. It is as if the UK has had its eyes closed for more than 40 years and its Europhobic press have been allowed to rant on about 'dictatorship' which in their eyes, and those of the politicians, seems to mean anything they can't totally control.

The rumour that Davis thought it would be possible, the day after the referendum, to fly to Berlin and do a 'deal' with Germany, if true, only reveals how little rudimentary understanding he had of the European ideal. Obviously he never had any sympathy.

The idea that 'they need us more than we need them' was always based on the concept of British exceptionalism, which suggested that other countries in the end always recognise that 'Britain is right', even when it's wrong.

Its greatest manifestation was in the frequent Brexiteer mantra 'the Germans will still want to sell us their cars'. They will, But the cutting point is that the British will still want to buy them, and will buy them. Nobody is talking about trade sanctions. The difference is that they will be a lot more expensive. I remember bringing a VW Golf from the factory at Wolfsburg in 1985, pleased with the price until the WTO tariff of 10% cut in a year later. Then, as usual, the £ collapsed against what was then the DM, and at the prospect of future cheap cars vanished. But I still bought them.

The Single Market ended all that, and if Britain had had the gumption and bravery to join the € we would have had price stability even today. Brexiteers will be rolling their eyeballs and prattling on about Greece and Spain. But Greece has learnt a lesson from the €: you can't spend money you don't have. A lot of the British public, neck high in hock to their credit card issuers and banks, would do well to learn the same. Yes, it hurts, but if you get it right in the end, the pain was worth it.

Meanwhile Spanish GDP is soaring, and unemployment is falling (at last, admittedly). To my deep regret, I fear Britain is incapable of learning any lessons from Europe, because the belief that it knows best is built into the national psyche. The hope that the USA, which has for decades regarded the UK as little more than a pawn to be kept in the back pocket in case reinforcements in a war were needed, has already proved otherwise with Donald Trump's economic warfare against Bombardier, which could yet have unimaginable results in damaging the economy in Northern Ireland, where a lot more is at stake.... but that is a topic for another day.

commoneuropeanhome: Rebirth

commoneuropeanhome: Rebirth: After two years of intermittent dormancy depressed by UK's ill thought out Brexit referendum and its still looming tragic consequences, this blog is at last coming back to life with my own attempts to make sense of what Europe's future entails, as far from possible (which probably his nowhere near far enough) from the aims of ambitious and self-centred national politicians.

It was the summer of 1987 and the attack helicopters were sweeping low over the fields of southwest Germany; beyond the hedges the rumble of approaching tanks could be heard. Two armies were about to clash. Their composition was ominously familiar - French and German - except that for once both were on the same side.

Operation ‘Kecker Spatz’ (Cheeky Sparrow) was widely feted in both countries, with a field day for cartoonists. The Germans portrayed French President François Mitterrand and German Chancellor Helmut Kohl (then at the height of their ‘bromance’) sharing wine instead of bayonets and bombs.

French newspaper Libération showed tank commanders hugging, the French saying ‘With you we’d never have lost Algeria or Indochina’, the German wryly responding, ‘Nor Alsace or Lorraine.’

The operation was considered the starting point for a European Union army, even though both sides knew they would face British opposition. But within two years that was irrelevant: the mock enemy had been a Warsaw Pact army, and by the end of 1989 the Warsaw Pact was falling apart.

In the decade that followed, Germany was reunited and the former Warsaw Pact countries, including unimaginably the Baltic states which had been part of the Soviet Union itself, were falling into Nato’s arms and joining the EU. It was seen as consolidation of Nato, not a threat to it, a sign of Cold War victory.

Last week, however EU Commission president Jean-Claude Juncker formally called for renewal of plans for an EU military with headquarters in Brussels, just down the road from that of Nato. He stressed that this was ‘no threat’ to Nato, but insisted a main incentive was to avoid wasting money on duplicate structures.

The EU already has a loose structure of 18 ‘battlegroups’ of about 1500 men each drawn from member states, but these have yet to see action and have no common headquarters. Juncker’s plan would change all that.

The plan has been on the drawing board for over a year, but was kept under the table in the fear it would influence a UK vote towards Brexit. That is now settled, and the EU leaders, will have discussed it at least informally when they met without the UK in Bratislava, Slovakia, on Friday.

One of the key advantages to be touted for a European Army would be a fixed force able to guard the frontiers of the Schengen passport free zone, a particular concern, given the past few years’ influx of refugees. This will be even more pertinent as the refugee exchange agreement with Turkey looks increasingly likely to fail.

Turkey is a concern in other ways too: despite Recip Tayyip Erdogan ‘sclaim that he suppressed a coup against a democratically elected government, his government has behaved increasingly autocratically and suppressed freedoms the EU - and Nato - is supposed to uphold. 

Turkey’s reliability as a Nato ally has also come into question after its erratic reaction to Russian operations in Syria, first shooting down a Russian aircraft, then welcoming President Vladimir Putin as an ‘ally’. 

French support for an EU army is already strong, but could depend on next year’s elections. Former President Nicolas Sarkozy, who is intending to stand again, formally brought France back into Nato’s military command structure in 2009, after an absence of 43 years.

Nonetheless, despite having been a founder member of Nato, there has continually been suspicion in France about the alliance’s domination by the US. This came to a peak in 1966 when General de Gaulle closed NATO headquarters, then located in a suburb of Paris, and forced thousands of US troops to leave the country. 

Sarkozy, if elected, would be unlikely to reverse his earlier decision, but he would also be extremely unlikely to oppose a parallel EU military structure, in which France, with the largest standing army and as the sole EU nuclear power, would be the dominant partner, easily overshadowing Germany for once.

The Germans on the other hand, fed up with being criticised within Nato for not contributing more men to operations outside Europe, would be more than happy to participate in a military force confined to a defensive role within EU borders. That would chime with the quote attributed to the great ‘peacemaker’ Chancellor Willy Brandt, that war should ‘never again begin from German soil.”

The attitude of other countries is less certain. Spain enthusiastically joined Nato in 1977 after the death of dictator Francisco Franco, but also retains a certain  wariness of a US ‘cavalier’ attitude to military adventures. In particular the Spanish have never forgotten the 1966 incident when two US B-52 bombers refuelling over Spanish soil collided, dropping four nuclear bombs near the Spanish fishing village  of Palomares west of Malaga.

Luckily the weapons were not primed - had they been, large parts of Andalucia and Murcia would have been wiped out - but the village was bombarded with flaming metal from the aircraft, non-nuclear bombs on board did explode, and a vast area was contaminated with nuclear material. As recently as October 2015, US Secretary of State John Kerry promised 50,000 tonnes of remaining contaminated material would be removed.

And then there is Ireland. The Republic is officially neutral and although it has a policy of cooperation with Nato, it has refused to join the organisation and popular opinion is strongly against. As one of the EU’s most enthusiastic members, which was quick to adopt the Euro and converted all road signs to kilometres, it is unlikely to opt out of any new EU structure. 

Irish troops already participate in the ‘Battlegroups’ structure and have signed up on the rosters - to date never deployed - along with Finland, Estonia, Latvia,  Lithuania, Croatia, Belgium, Luxembourg and the Czech Republic. It is highly unlikely not to sign up to a common command. 

There is no question of supplanting Nato overnight, particularly for those countries bordering Putin’s Russia, but an EU army that would arguably give them a standing force along that border, if at present primarily concerned with migration, would be considered reassuring. 

The writing is on the wall, but for now nobody is quite sure what it says. 

 Europe is not just a continent but a state of mind

When Michael Gove and Boris Johnson said ‘nobody feels European’ they were speaking for themselves. I do feel european. I grew up without a sense of one particular national identity, and have spent most of my life trying to avoid one

Gove, born in Scotland, may genuinely feel ‘British’, but he looks and talks like an archetypal Englishman, albeit of an older generation; Johnson, for all his cosmopolitan roots - American-born and with Turkish ancestors - favours the blustering bonhomie of claret and clubland London.

I was born in Northern Ireland. At the age of six I was put in a short-trousered suit, an orange sash draped around my neck and held the tassle of a banner of King William crossing the River Boyne as we marched to Finaghy Field on the outskirts of Belfast to honour the Protestant ascendancy.

I did it not out of any conviction - I was six - but because the bands were fun, and because my grandfather, who had been an Ulster Volunteer and then fought at the Somme, was a master of an Orange Order lodge. It was what was expected of me.

Later, in my teens, enthusiasm for the Twelfth of July parades waned, as I realised ‘King Billy’ was just a local drunk in fancy dress struggling to stay on his horse, and that those martial tunes barely concealed an undercurrent of sectarian superiority enforced by the threat of violence.

I and a few friends retired to shelters on the blustery beachfront far from the crowds, smoked a joint if we could get hold of one, and told ourselves we didn’t really hate Catholics. How could we? We hardly knew any. When I finally did get to know some, I realised we had lots in common. Religion never entered our discussions: we talked about sex and drugs and sport.

So what nationality was I? I had cheered on England as a child in the 1966 World Cup final, but only because there was little alternative. Despite the legendary George Best, Northern Ireland never got anywhere. ‘Northern Irish’ was more a negation than an affirmation, a definition of what I wasn’t, not what I was.

I had a UK passport, but in Northern Ireland the adjective ‘British’ was laced with sectarianism, an identification with the Protestant ascendancy I socially belonged to but had nothing in common with. As soon as I turned 18 I had my first chance to vote almost immediately, in a referendum, on the border between ‘northern’ and ‘southern’ Ireland.

With a heavy teenage heart I spoilt my ballot: we all knew the six counties of ‘Ulster’ had been gerrymandered back in 1920-22 to guarantee a pro-Union Protestant majority. Nothing much had changed: the referendum was a con-trick intended to reinforce the status quo, not to question it.

My next chance to vote, as it happened, was also a referendum: whether or not to remain in the Common Market, the embryonic EU. I was 19 and voted enthusiastically ‘yes’. Our accession to the EU - Britain and Ireland at once - seemed to create a new alternative to ‘national identity’: European.

The myth about ‘Brits’ being bad at languages has never seemed to apply in Ireland. My grammar school taught French, German and Russian - I did them all - and a few of us took Spanish ‘O-level’ on the side at the local girls’ school.

By the time of the Europe referendum I was at Oxford, in the midst of a brief flirtation with Englishness, enchanted by the architecture, punting, jugs of Pimms and stripy blazers (Brideshead was showing on TV). The linguist in me rounded my vowel sounds and for a while adopted an exaggerated ‘Oxford accent’.

Then I discovered the rest of my world. I flew to Paris and hitched through Germany, Belgium and the Netherlands, our ‘fellow’ European countries. I took Interrail to Italy, Austria, Greece and Yugoslavia, got robbed, and had to hitchike home barefoot (they had taken my shoes as well as InterRail ticket, passport and money). All I had was £10, a loan from the British consulate in Zagreb, half of which they took back to pay for an emergency passport.

I got lifts from Turkish Gastarbeiter heading for Germany who fed me on tomatoes, watermelon and flatbread, and Belgian tourists who took pity on a young man dripping in the rain at a German Autobahn service station. They gave me money for the ferry fare.

When I finally got back to Britain late at night, I had to sleep in a shelter near Dover docks: not one English car would stop to give me a lift. But, despite the robbery I was convinced: Oxford was my city, but my ‘country’ was Europe. Radcliffe Square took its place alongside Place de la Concorde in Paris and the Piazza San Marco in Venice.

My first job was with Reuters, British-based but internationalist in outlook, with a German editor. I was posted to Brussels as a trainee and covered the European Commission, travelling down to Strasbourg for meetings of the European Parliament.

Later I was posted to East Berlin, was in Warsaw for the rise of the free trade union Solidarity, the first real revolt against Soviet rule, and then, working for the Sunday Times, in Prague, and Budapest to see the fall of communism, Checkpoint Charlie the night the Berlin Wall came down and Romania for the fall of Ceausescu.

By the end of 1989-90 it seemed as if a brave new world really was on the cards. Only in the distant background was there a faint, irritating rattle from the right-wing ranks of the British Conservative Party about ‘Europe’, in a tone that suggested it was a dirty word rather than something to celebrate.

I never expected it would go on and on and on. Of course, it will be said - rightly - that I am part of the ‘metropolitan elite’ so disparaged by Nigel Farage, but I started out as a working class kid from a seaside town in Northern Ireland.

In contrast, my Oxfordshire friend Roger, who is approaching 70 and drives the horse and cart for a local brewery, is an adamant ‘Leave’ voter: he has never had a passport, and never even been as far as Scotland. He voted on something he had no knowledge of and disliked because it involved ‘foreigners’. The voice of ‘Little England’ at its littlest.

The Northern Ireland EU vote went along traditional sectarian lines: Protestant Unionist Antrim and East Belfast voting Leave, West Belfast and most of the rest of the province voting Remain.

Tim Martin of Wetherspoons and Labour MP Kate Hoey were prominent Leave campaigners primarily because both are Ulster Protestants who saw the Good Friday agreement and open border with the Republic as a forerunner to Irish unification. I suspect they would welcome the return of border controls, even if it revived the IRA. The Orange order marches this coming Tuesday will be their form of celebration.

I am dismayed, but not distraught. I have had an Irish passport for over 30 years, as do both my sons, not out of nationalism or a desire for unification, which I now wholeheartedly support, but because two European passports were better than one. As long as it lasted.

My British passport is now relegated to a drawer, never to be used again, at least until they put the drawbridge up, and even then. I ‘Remain’ European, and always will.

 Europe is not just a continent but a state of mind

When Michael Gove and Boris Johnson said ‘nobody feels European’ they were speaking for themselves. I do. I grew up without a sense of one particular national identity, and have spent most of my life trying to avoid one

Gove, born in Scotland, may genuinely feel ‘British’, but he looks and talks like an archetypal Englishman, albeit of an older generation; Johnson, for all his cosmopolitan roots - American-born and with Turkish ancestors - favours the blustering bonhomie of claret and clubland London.

I was born in Northern Ireland. At the age of six I was put in a short-trousered suit, an orange sash draped around my neck and held the tassle of a banner of King William crossing the River Boyne as we marched to Finaghy Field on the outskirts of Belfast to honour the Protestant ascendancy.

I did it not out of any conviction - I was six - but because the bands were fun, and because my grandfather, who had been an Ulster Volunteer and then fought at the Somme, was a master of an Orange Order lodge. It was what was expected of me.

Later, in my teens, enthusiasm for the Twelfth of July parades waned, as I realised ‘King Billy’ was just a local drunk in fancy dress struggling to stay on his horse, and that those martial tunes barely concealed an undercurrent of sectarian superiority enforced by the threat of violence.

I and a few friends retired to shelters on the blustery beachfront far from the crowds, smoked a joint if we could get hold of one, and told ourselves we didn’t really hate Catholics. How could we? We hardly knew any. When I finally did get to know some, I realised we had lots in common. Religion never entered our discussions: we talked about sex and drugs and sport.

So what nationality was I? I had cheered on England as a child in the 1966 World Cup final, but only because there was little alternative. Despite the legendary George Best, Northern Ireland never got anywhere. ‘Northern Irish’ was more a negation than an affirmation, a definition of what I wasn’t, not what I was.

I had a UK passport, but in Northern Ireland the adjective ‘British’ was laced with sectarianism, an identification with the Protestant ascendancy I socially belonged to but had nothing in common with. As soon as I turned 18 I had my first chance to vote almost immediately, in a referendum, on the border between ‘northern’ and ‘southern’ Ireland.

With a heavy teenage heart I spoilt my ballot: we all knew the six counties of ‘Ulster’ had been gerrymandered back in 1920-22 to guarantee a pro-Union Protestant majority. Nothing much had changed: the referendum was a con-trick intended to reinforce the status quo, not to question it.

My next chance to vote, as it happened, was also a referendum: whether or not to remain in the Common Market, the embryonic EU. I was 19 and voted enthusiastically ‘yes’. Our accession to the EU - Britain and Ireland at once - seemed to create a new alternative to ‘national identity’: European.

The myth about ‘Brits’ being bad at languages has never seemed to apply in Ireland. My grammar school taught French, German and Russian - I did them all - and a few of us took Spanish ‘O-level’ on the side at the local girls’ school.

By the time of the Europe referendum I was at Oxford, in the midst of a brief flirtation with Englishness, enchanted by the architecture, punting, jugs of Pimms and stripy blazers (Brideshead was showing on TV). The linguist in me rounded my vowel sounds and for a while adopted an exaggerated ‘Oxford accent’.

Then I discovered the rest of my world. I flew to Paris and hitched through Germany, Belgium and the Netherlands, our ‘fellow’ European countries. I took Interrail to Italy, Austria, Greece and Yugoslavia, got robbed, and had to hitchike home barefoot (they had taken my shoes as well as InterRail ticket, passport and money). All I had was £10, a loan from the British consulate in Zagreb, half of which they took back to pay for an emergency passport.

I got lifts from Turkish Gastarbeiter heading for Germany who fed me on tomatoes, watermelon and flatbread, and Belgian tourists who took pity on a young man dripping in the rain at a German Autobahn service station. They gave me money for the ferry fare.

When I finally got back to Britain late at night, I had to sleep in a shelter near Dover docks: not one English car would stop to give me a lift. But, despite the robbery I was convinced: Oxford was my city, but my ‘country’ was Europe. Radcliffe Square took its place alongside Place de la Concorde in Paris and the Piazza San Marco in Venice.

My first job was with Reuters, British-based but internationalist in outlook, with a German editor. I was posted to Brussels as a trainee and covered the European Commission, travelling down to Strasbourg for meetings of the European Parliament.

Later I was posted to East Berlin, was in Warsaw for the rise of the free trade union Solidarity, the first real revolt against Soviet rule, and then, working for the Sunday Times, in Prague, and Budapest to see the fall of communism, Checkpoint Charlie the night the Berlin Wall came down and Romania for the fall of Ceausescu.

By the end of 1989-90 it seemed as if a brave new world really was on the cards. Only in the distant background was there a faint, irritating rattle from the right-wing ranks of the British Conservative Party about ‘Europe’, in a tone that suggested it was a dirty word rather than something to celebrate.

I never expected it would go on and on and on. Of course, it will be said - rightly - that I am part of the ‘metropolitan elite’ so disparaged by Nigel Farage, but I started out as a working class kid from a seaside town in Northern Ireland.

In contrast, my Oxfordshire friend Roger, who is approaching 70 and drives the horse and cart for a local brewery, is an adamant ‘Leave’ voter: he has never had a passport, and never even been as far as Scotland. He voted on something he had no knowledge of and disliked because it involved ‘foreigners’. The voice of ‘Little England’ at its littlest.

The Northern Ireland EU vote went along traditional sectarian lines: Protestant Unionist Antrim and East Belfast voting Leave, West Belfast and most of the rest of the province voting Remain.

Tim Martin of Wetherspoons and Labour MP Kate Hoey were prominent Leave campaigners primarily because both are Ulster Protestants who saw the Good Friday agreement and open border with the Republic as a forerunner to Irish unification. I suspect they would welcome the return of border controls, even if it revived the IRA. The Orange order marches this coming Tuesday will be their form of celebration.

I am dismayed, but not distraught. I have had an Irish passport for over 30 years, as do both my sons, not out of nationalism or a desire for unification, which I now wholeheartedly support, but because two European passports were better than one. As long as it lasted.

My British passport is now relegated to a drawer, never to be used again, at least until they put the drawbridge up, and even then. I ‘Remain’ European, and always will.

British Influence

Terribly afraid we could cause a European disaster. Too may Britons have no idea how much our membership of the EU matters not just to our economy but to our standing in the world and, more importantly, to the concept of lasting peace in Europe. Today joined British Influence, one of few sane groups who might help stop us going off the wall! 

Blinded by the signs

Terrible feat UK walking backwards out of Europe. The campaign to stay in faces an uphill struggle. Have you noticed how for a decade now passport controls at UK airports say British AND EU passports as though British were NOT EU passports. Unimaginable in any other EU country.'German AND EU' I don't think so!!

I asked a border force official at Gatwick about this and she laughed and said 'they don't understand'. 'But you do,' I countered. 'Oh yes,' she smiled, 'but I'm Polish, we know we are in the EU!' 

Scary