End of the road (maybe)

A prescient man, and presumably one time stagiaire, once said all good things must come to an end. Well, my journey aboard the EU train-eeship has reached its destination, although that’s not to say I plan to get off just yet. Unfortunately, due to the fact that EU political life closes down in August, there is nobody to try and buy my metaphorical ticket from yet, and so bide my time I must. It is also unfortunate that I am not overly familiar with the demographics of the readership of this blog, assuming I am even able to use the plural, but if there are any inhabitants of the 21-30 age range then I can give my highly unrevered stamp of approval to this experience. To be quite frank, if only someone told me before what I know now, but alas I am not and will not be the last person to make this exclamation with my arms held aloft, tears falling down. What they should start doing is getting schools to institute alumni programmes, where alumnus aren’t necessarily ask to contribute anything other than their time and thoughts to the next generation. Littleover Community School, if you are reading this, it would have helped, but at least there’s always tomorrow. But little Louis, my unnaturally tall friend, if you are reading this then just remember that there’s nowhere you can’t go, once you decide where it is.
So, to the question I continually try and put off, what next? Most likely, a little R and R, plus a wait-and-see approach combined with application overload. Maybe even making use of a free ticket to join thirty thousand loyal fans see the Rams hammer Doncaster right back into the lower leagues. What I can’t seem to avoid are reminders of City life, with days-in-the-life-of-traders on Radio 4, friends calling me up to tell me they are starting to dabble in the stock market and generally people having kids and just getting more settled than me. Given the fact that half of my old desk have either been made fired or made redundant because of a merger with another bank, I’m unlikely to be able to retravel that same road even if I wanted to. So onwards we march, like some soldier climbing out of his trench, wandering through no-man’s land, but with a welcome sign just right around the corner, if he can just get the dust out of his eyes to see it.

CSI: Brussels

It would have been a crime had I stayed here and not done at least a little exploration outside of the capital, hence last week when my Bulgarian friend told me about the Gent Jazz Festival (it is beginning to feel like Belgium is the jazz capital of the world) with a line up including Buena Vista Social Club, the famous Cuban group, I decided that I would make the thirty minute train ride with him. A noticeable trait of Belgians, as vociferously expressed by my Bulgiarian colleague in the middle of the concert tent, with the aid of his homemade family brew, is that they tend to lack passion, a lack of real engagement with the performers at events like this, which I can verify seems to be true. They just don’t appear to be made that way. Instead they are more a conservative bunch on the whole. It was a marvellous performance nonetheless, and afterwards my drunken friend made valiant efforts to persuade punters to let us hitch hike back to Brussels (being midnight and no trains left to catch) or tell us ‘where the party is’. It turned out to be a fortunate thing that not a single person claimed to be going back to Brussels, as we were then forced to sample Gent nightlife until the first morning train. If you ever go out in Gent look for the bar where there is a large mural of Jesus inside. It must be in the guide books, but if it isn’t then too bad because I certainly do not remember the name. One thing to note is that if for some reason you have acquired a bicycle when you traversing Gent then wait until the city lights go out at 6AM to ride it unless you want a Belgian criminal record. So I am reliably informed anyway.
Although how strictly they enforce that rule I don’t know, but if the Brussels police are anything to go by then you might be forgiven for riding slightly roughshod over the law. At a house party last week panic struck as the local boys in blue pulled up outside. Most revellers were probably starting to envision the end of their burgeoning careers as they were forced to open the door in extreme nervous anticipation of Sergeant Plod’s reaction to what was going on in inside, but instead they were greeted with a polite comment along the lines of ‘Hi there, we know you’re just having a party, of course we used to do such things when we were younger [chuckles], but would you possible be so kind as to close the windows, please?’
I am not trying to entice any elements of the criminal fraternity to relocate to Brussels in light of this discovery of compassionate policing, but it is just one more tick on the ‘reasons to stay’ list which I am mentally compiling as I move ever closer to the end of my traineeship. At least there is no reason to stay in August, when it is a dead zone because most EU people are off recharging their batteries with their families, so I am still to decide what I will be doing in that period give the likelihood of dedicated employers check my applications whilst sipping Martinis in Capri. What will it be, back to Blighty and London, where you have a metro (understandably no-ones comprehends what a ‘tube’ is here) with no relaxing music while you wait, forced companionship with the armpits of odorous short-sleeve travellers with the 18.24 from Waterloo that they absolutely must get and damned be anyone that gets in his way? Or will I try and maintain this European adventure, somewhere, somehow? All will be revealed…to me in my dreams I hope.

The end is in sight

Everything changes, and everything stays the same. With the end of the traineeship nearly in sight, parties are less frequent, but talk of jobs and what you’re going to do after the end creeps into elevator chat.

The scary thing is how eager some of these people are, because having worked for a few years before this traineeship, struggling to wake up at half past five in the morning on a daily basis, I know the workplace can be nothing to look forward to.

I find myself beggaring belief and wanting to bang my head against a wall as I hear colleague after colleague scream in delight at their acceptance into A European Lobbying Firm.

But, when you’ve just spent the last few years in poorly paid internship after another, as plenty of my cohorts have, a proper, real, full-paid job is a god-send. Who knows, maybe after all this moaning I will end up joining them, which really would be ironic. Or maybe I’ll remember why I came here in the first place and stop delaying that chat with my head of unit.


The Europeans, as is probably not well known or cared about back home, tend to spend a little more time in education than us Brits, and they’re more involved in programs like Erasmus so they spend more time in the rest of Europe developing their knowledge of international breweries and simultaneously developing the languages that are so highly valued in institutions within the EU and other international organisations.

Of course I’m not going to bemoan the lack of seriousness with which my school took language education, but I will think about seeking legal advice about how I can rectify my future earnings as a result of it.

So that idea to scrap the oral element of GCSE language examinations in England will obviously be a great aid to all those future students who have the ambition to work in such organisations in our increasingly globalised marketplace.

Of course, what I should be talking about is the impact of the Irish ‘no’ vote on the political feeling here, but I’ll stop now, before this turns into an advertisement for a broadcast on Radio 4, which incidentally, only rivals the local station ‘Nostalgique’ (100.1 FM) in its equivalent quality output.

It must be the only radio station in history that really does play hit, after hit, after hit…
And all this talk of climate change at the G8 summit, but unfortunately there has been no change of climate in Brussels, where the rain has returned with no let up (and the umbrella thief striking me yet again).

It made playing the final of the stagiaire football tournament slightly more tricky, what with it being played on astroturf, but I’m happy to report that yours truly scored to give team 100% Catenaccio a 3-1 victory, a display of attacking football that truly contradicted its namesakes, and left the opposition only able to offer their hands in congratulations.

If I achieve nothing else of any significance in my time here, I will at least have a Clausura Football League medal to take home and proudly hang on the mantelpiece.

Public transport

In Derby you go to the train station and they quote you somewhere around sixty pounds for a return to London (they even stopped giving free tea and coffee on Midland Mainline – what more sign could you need of a credit crunch?).

In Brussels you rock up at Gare du Midi station and they charge you forty euros (around thirty pounds) for a return to Amsterdam on the Thalys network. I even forgot my passport and didn’t have to worry about it as I travelled to another country, a definitely very un-British experience.

So while you were pondering whether you might just take the National Express instead, off I went to the orange city, mixing it with the locals as they beat Italy 3-0. That’s all I have to say about the Dutch capital, in the interests of brevity and diplomacy. Suffice to say the orange men were less jubilant on Sunday night when the amount of honking on the streets made it appear as if Moscow had moved to Brussels for the night. At least I didn’t see anyone getting clubbed over the head, a nice continuity of non-violence which I am hoping is not just a coincidence during my time here (although I have probably just guaranteed that I will be writing next week’s piece with a drip sitting in A&E).

Faites de Musique also took place this weekend, where amongst other things ‘musicians’ are allowed to just set up on any street and play to their heart’s content. In the Parc area revellers were treated to a huge concert, Hollywood Pornstars being among the best performers. We also accidentally walked into an ambient little jazz place in Saint Gery, The Music Village, and caught the last set by the Marc Demuth Quartet (featuring Sofia Ribeiro, finalist in the Brussels International Young Jazz Singers 2006) which was a real treat. Apparently there are Young Talents Concerts every Wednesday.

Which all just goes to show there is always something going on in this not-so-dreary place, contrary to what I had expected before I arrived. If you’re a real policy wonk then there’s plenty to keep you busy. This morning, admittedly as part of work, I was finally treated to an audience with the Commissioner himself (Mandelson, not Gordon). The man certainly knows his stuff.

With all of the units underneath his charge, he has to. Also, tomorrow morning you can find a discussion on politics and security in Afghanistan, and in the evening the former Thai Prime Minister is giving a talk as part of the Amartya Sen Lecture Series. Unfortunately I have a French exam tomorrow and my football team, Catenaccio, is currently flying high at the top of the table and we are due to play the team behind us, so my priorities will have to be juggled. If it’s anything like last week’s game then we’re going to see more bruising and more cursing, as stagiaire diplomacy is put aside in the interests of testosterone satisfaction, which I am more than happy to do my part and simultaneously represent my country in, despite the perplexing comment by an opposing German player last week of, ‘Dude you are so English’, presumably referring to my inability to accept the blatant fouls, penalty claims and petty whingeing that we were subject to.

No matter, we still won 5-3, so if we didn’t get to the Euro 2008 finals I will do my best to make sure we are represented in the Stagiaire 2008 finals. At least my German friend will have to find a new criticism to make.

On a final note, I wouldn’t be able to sleep if I didn’t make a mention of the unfortunate passing away of the actor George Carlin, who among other more notable achievements also played Rufus in Bill & Ted’s Excellent Adventure. George, you really did make a contribution to history. I think my ten year old cousin learned more about important historical figures watching that film than in four years of junior schooling, so I’ll be lobbying for an EU directive to have it placed on every national curriculum.

A rude awakening

If it’s not the bells that wake you up on a weekend, then it’s fishermen protesting against rising oil prices that do it during the week.
That’s what you get for living around the corner from the Commission buildings. For a minute I thought Belgium had won in the football given all the honking, and my immediate thought was how Belgium had qualified when England hadn’t, but then realisation dawned that the football hadn’t even started, and that it was far too early in the morning for victory honking.
I only learned the truth when I turned the corner to work an hour later, when I thought I had walked into south central LA, being confronted by an army of shield and baton wielding police, who seemed to outnumber the protesters in sight, shooing me away when I tried to get a closer look.
For a small city, Brussels must have the most well-manned and well-equipped police force I have ever seen in my life – they should send them to Iraq. God knows what they do when there are no protests, but they must punch the air in joy and crack their knuckles in anticipation when they hear there is one taking place.
From my observation I would also note that you don’t ever want to get in the way of a water cannon, which I thought was quite an ironic police tactic used on men who worked in the sea. At least all the flares gave it that true European football atmosphere. Not to denigrate the seriousness of what took place, but my most memorable moment was the sight of a one-man news network who gave the metaphorical finger to a CNN budget by reporting, filming and combing his hair with his portable mirror and tri-pod all by himself.
The football finally did get underway of course, and the pace of European integration has probably slowed in its wake. There will be a few diplomats cursing there way around Brussels these coming weeks as they are forced to attend functions rather than watch their team, although the Phillipino ‘Bayanihan’ performance at least was a treat to watch as I missed the first half of Italy-Netherlands.
Unfortunately I have managed to singularly worsen Anglo-French relations this week, almost getting into a fight with a Les Bleus fan while I drank my pint of ‘Judas’ as my finger uninterrupted his vision of what must have been a momentous event in that flat as a fart game when the referee blew for half time.
I also bumped into a French guy that I mistimed a tackle on in football last week. When he explained he had just come back from the hospital for a check up on his foot, I realised perhaps maybe I really had got a little carried away at the time, although I couldn’t tell whether he was being sarcastic or just the way he spoke English when he said “it’s getting better now” as he limped off.
A week would also not go by without another disorganised stagiaire event, the Italian national party taking place within the realm of a museum, Autoworld. Fortunately I managed to leave in time just to catch my coach to Paris at 8am on the European equivalent of National Express, Eurolines, at a bargain return price of forty euros. You can’t even get from Derby to London for that price, and next week I’m hoping to do Amsterdam on the train for a similar amount. I am hoping for a relaxing weekend, so I’m hoping there are no fishermen in sight.
I will be on the lookout for a portable water cannon in the meantime just in case.

The morning after the night before...

Exhaustion is setting in as I write this, a natural consequence of being awoken at an ungodly hour as the bells rang at ten o’clock on Saturday and Sunday mornings, which is quite a disturbance when you only fitfully settled into sleep less than four hours beforehand.
It’s not just in my area, Schuman, where this loud proclamation of the arrival of morning takes place, because as it happened I had crashed at a friend’s place in Place Chatelain on Friday night after triple birthday celebration in Saint Gery and experienced exactly the same phenomenon.
I’m sure there is some reasonable historical explanation for the ringing of these bells but it’s time for an adaptation to twenty-first century Brusselian life that allows for a little lie-in without booming explosions ringing through your ears just as you were about to participate in whatever pleasurable dream activity.
I think I was still in the clouds of the party at a novel art gallery I had walked into that night on Rue Bailli, where the Merlot was practically on tap. My apologies to the Greek art dealer in attendance for the inordinate amount of blurb I spouted on my post-modern interpretation of this project. However, he did attempt to persuade me that it was one of the best DJs in Greece spinning the discs, so going on what I heard I assume Edith Piaf and Frank Sinatra must be all the rage in Athens nightlife.
It’s conceivable that I could still be experiencing the after-effects of Wednesday night football, when I unconsciously decided that I would demonstrate the physical aspects of the English game much to the consternation of my more fairer-mind European pals, producing a Newtonian reaction of equal and opposite force from the rival centre half on my left ankle. If that was a bad tempered match then I can’t wait to see what happens when the Euro footie kicks off next week, when our unique sense of ‘Europeaness’ will be severely put to the test. Fortunately I won’t be experiencing any of those emotions, as I am constantly reminded by representatives of small Eastern European states.
Anyway, the next morning the pain really set in and I barely managed to hobble my way to work with a limp of gangster-rap proportions. Yet another protest was taking place in front of one of the Commission buildings as I walked out of work at half past five. I suggest that particular group of protestors fire their lobbying advisers as at that time of day the only people still left in the building are cleaners and ambitious stagiaires.
Actually I should take that back. Even at around seven to eight o’clock you will still find plenty of fonctionnaire souls drifting around their offices (permanent civil servants). And to think that this is what I want to sign up myself up for? Well, as I’ve been saying it is interesting work where people work out of passion, and there’s always a lot at stake, so it’s understandable. But it certainly isn’t going to be easy – there are scant opportunities and plenty of able candidates.
All the talk in the office at the moment is about interviews as stagiaires attempt to make the transition into permanent employment. It’s all about getting exposure and your name and face in the open, so my plan is to print out posters with my name and face and tape them to every head of unit’s door and spam them with emails from my Hotmail address.
If none of that works then I’ll apply to be the guy that rings those bells, or sells umbrellas, as the rain is back out in full force, yet again.

Maintaining diplomacy during Eurovision

Not that this is turning into some kind of guide to food in Brussels but I'm happy to report the culinary part of this experience is getting increasingly more rewarding.

The rule is: supermarket food = bad, restaurant food = good.

If you're in Grand Place, the most touristy area of Brussels, there is a Thai place worth checking out in the Saint Gery area, just north of the main square, called 'Fanny Thai'. Don't worry I'm not trying to send you into any dodgy red light area, it really does good food. Generally Grand Place is a bustling place and there are plenty of cool hang outs.

The other cool destination seems to be Place Chatelain, located in Louise, which again has plenty of relaxed bars and restaurants to keep you busy. Try Mama Roman, an Italian pizzeria, and definitely try their buffala mozzarella and sun dried tomatoes slice.

Anyway that's enough about food. Last Friday night was my first proper stagiaire party, eight hundred people rammed inside Autoworld next to Parc Cinquantaire. You would think they might have discounted drinks for us trainees but instead we were forced to pay seven Euros just for a mixer.

My mistake was to walk in, see two Polish girls from my football team that I play with on Wednesdays, be the true English gentleman, and offer them and their friends drinks. Needless to say it was my last round of the night. The frolics didn't finish until the sun came out, which was the same theme the following night at Ethnic bar in Louise (fast becoming my favourite part of Brussels), where two American girls on vacation, friends of another stagiaire, paid witness to an act of gratification between two lovers that would get you arrested in any part of England.

I don't think it is a general phenomenon in Brussels, probably just a spontaneous reaction to the 'I'm so excited' song that was playing, although some people have already black markered it into their diaries to return there same time next week.

Work has been getting busier with my boss involving me more and more. It really depends on where you are placed as to how much responsibility you have, but you can always ask for more, they are more than willing to give it.

Finally the real weather is turning up here, so an umbrella becomes part of your anatomy every time you step out of your apartment. The worst thing is the humidity, although not approach Amazonian standards, is definitely on the muggy side of life and doesn't make metro travelling that pleasant, although it's about thousand times more comfortable than rush hour London, and they even have music on the platforms, normally a mixture of pop and classical.

Now that is one thing they should adopt in the English capital, but seeing as they haven't even got AC I expect asking for a sound system would be like asking for a Brit to take the Eurovision song contest seriously.

Talking of Eurovision, it was unfortunately the case that some groups of stagiaires had the audacity to hold a Eurovision evening, crowded round the box, glued to proceedings, almost verging on outbreaks of tears after the final results. I shouldn't name any names but the Greeks felt particularly hard done by as apparently they had sent their 'best' singer to take part, and still managed to come third, which probably doesn't say too much about the quality of their audio talents, although I managed to retain my Eurocratic diplomacy and refrain from saying that out loud, lest I be disinvited from the forthcoming Greek party.

I read the next day that Wogan can no longer tolerate all of the chicanery and bloc voting that goes on and will henceforth refuse to comment on proceedings, which drew a huge amount of joy from myself, something which was not understood by my Wogan-less Euro colleagues. I look forward to seeing the BBC take this international talent contest more seriously in the future, and getting Zippy and Bungle do the commentary. 'Oh Geoffreyyy!'