The melodrama of the Council of Ministers
by our secret columnist in Brussels
15 January 2012
Is taking the best part of two decades to decide on the definition of chocolate really a suitable way for the Brussels elite to spend their time? Our resident satirist Schadenfreude thinks not
The Council of Ministers meets. The cast is 29 ministers, supported by their satraps, of whom some are Brussels-based, others visitors; the president, also visiting, supported by his people and by the secretariat-general of the council: the commissioner, supported by the director general; and sundry others. The simultaneous interpreters are installed in their booths. The room ushers are ready to distribute papers and, shortly, coffee. Starting time is 10am, but is usually up to half an hour later.
The circulated agenda is adopted, along with matters already decided and needing only formal approval. Discussion of the substantive points begins. If everybody spoke for five minutes, it would take two and a half hours to get round one item and the lunch break would be fast approaching. One popular theory is that ministers are pantomime artists, the real work having been done by the faceless men and women who are their acolytes. On this theory - the bureaucrats of Brussels, transnational in the commission and council, national in the delegations, do the donkey work and serve up shadow decisions; leaving only trivia for their bosses to work on. In this light, the so-called democratic credentials of a ministerial meeting are a façade. The scribes fix it up. And the French call it "the treachery of the clerks".
But are the bureaucrats really such free spirits, guided only by their own prejudices? If you step back from the council chamber, what is on the agenda is the outcome of instructions - which the lower orders have received from their headquarters and which they have worked on with the aim of reaching agreement. The 28 permanent representatives are not identikit clones. Some enjoy substantial autonomy - based on their knowledge, experience and reputation. They belong to the Romantic School, prevalent in, for example, Italy. Others, among them like the United Kingdom are bound closely by the instructions, which have gone through the mill in their HQs. If they think their instructions are barmy, they can say so and argue against them.
Some council discussions are unimaginably tedious. It took the best part of two decades to agree on what chocolate is. The British version was low on cocoa content and high on vegetable fat. The continental product was 'more chocolaty'. The British product could not then be sold as chocolate. There was a suggestion that it could be branded as "vegelate". It took many years to decide what an architect is. Some of the outcomes are the stuff of comedy. How bent is a cucumber? But before the UK joined the European Economic Community, it had its own statutory definition of the permissible curvature of the vegetable. As Lord Terbbit once rhetorically asked - why is some soft fruit marketable on one fixed date, but not on the following day? There must be some reason, possibly to inflate demand for the produce.
When the meeting is over, it comes to the highlight of the ministerial day - the press conference. Ministers explain how they fought for the national interest against entrenched opposition. If they lost, they brush it out by insisting that they "left our partners in no doubt about the strength of our case". Listeners do not know any better until they hear a different story from another participant. The rule is that everybody scores "game, set and match" every time. Councils also meet informally, as guests of the presidency country. They discuss business, but cannot and should not take decisions. The welcoming president lays on hospitality and entertainment of the Morris-Men type. It gives him or her good publicity in the local press, unless the editors prefer a dose of sarcasm.
The Council of Ministers meets. The cast is 29 ministers, supported by their satraps, of whom some are Brussels-based, others visitors; the president, also visiting, supported by his people and by the secretariat-general of the council: the commissioner, supported by the director general; and sundry others. The simultaneous interpreters are installed in their booths. The room ushers are ready to distribute papers and, shortly, coffee. Starting time is 10am, but is usually up to half an hour later.
The circulated agenda is adopted, along with matters already decided and needing only formal approval. Discussion of the substantive points begins. If everybody spoke for five minutes, it would take two and a half hours to get round one item and the lunch break would be fast approaching. One popular theory is that ministers are pantomime artists, the real work having been done by the faceless men and women who are their acolytes. On this theory - the bureaucrats of Brussels, transnational in the commission and council, national in the delegations, do the donkey work and serve up shadow decisions; leaving only trivia for their bosses to work on. In this light, the so-called democratic credentials of a ministerial meeting are a façade. The scribes fix it up. And the French call it "the treachery of the clerks".
But are the bureaucrats really such free spirits, guided only by their own prejudices? If you step back from the council chamber, what is on the agenda is the outcome of instructions - which the lower orders have received from their headquarters and which they have worked on with the aim of reaching agreement. The 28 permanent representatives are not identikit clones. Some enjoy substantial autonomy - based on their knowledge, experience and reputation. They belong to the Romantic School, prevalent in, for example, Italy. Others, among them like the United Kingdom are bound closely by the instructions, which have gone through the mill in their HQs. If they think their instructions are barmy, they can say so and argue against them.
Some council discussions are unimaginably tedious. It took the best part of two decades to agree on what chocolate is. The British version was low on cocoa content and high on vegetable fat. The continental product was 'more chocolaty'. The British product could not then be sold as chocolate. There was a suggestion that it could be branded as "vegelate". It took many years to decide what an architect is. Some of the outcomes are the stuff of comedy. How bent is a cucumber? But before the UK joined the European Economic Community, it had its own statutory definition of the permissible curvature of the vegetable. As Lord Terbbit once rhetorically asked - why is some soft fruit marketable on one fixed date, but not on the following day? There must be some reason, possibly to inflate demand for the produce.
When the meeting is over, it comes to the highlight of the ministerial day - the press conference. Ministers explain how they fought for the national interest against entrenched opposition. If they lost, they brush it out by insisting that they "left our partners in no doubt about the strength of our case". Listeners do not know any better until they hear a different story from another participant. The rule is that everybody scores "game, set and match" every time. Councils also meet informally, as guests of the presidency country. They discuss business, but cannot and should not take decisions. The welcoming president lays on hospitality and entertainment of the Morris-Men type. It gives him or her good publicity in the local press, unless the editors prefer a dose of sarcasm.
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