In the run-up to the rejection of the Lisbon treaty in Ireland, European leaders were fond of saying that there was no plan B in the event of a "no" vote. That was because the treaty itself was a plan B, thrown together after the European constitution was rejected by voters in France and the Netherlands in 2005. After that double rebuff, European leaders spent months sifting through the wreckage of the constitution to separate all the practical reforms from the elements that suggested a nation-building enterprise such as a European flag and anthem. Concrete changes were put into the dense and unreadable 287-page Lisbon treaty. Now that this too has been rejected in a plebiscite, the options are complicated.
Eurosceptics claim that some of the Lisbon treaty can be implemented under existing powers. But this applies only to low-key initiatives. The important innovations require a new treaty because they change the legal basis on which the EU operates. For example, the creation of a new, more powerful foreign policy chief combines the current post held by Javier Solana with that of a European commission vice-president—a fundamental change in EU architecture. Similarly, changes to the voting system and a decision to endow the EU with "legal personality"—the right to sign international agreements—require treaty change. And, as we now all know, to get a treaty change all 27 member states have to agree.
So what now? The pressure applied by France and Germany to press on with ratification is a transparent effort to put Ireland in a minority of one. That would force the Irish to try to negotiate concessions and vote again. Ireland's response has been to play for time. Even if it is willing to hold a second referendum, it cannot say so immediately after a "no" vote. It has, however, been careful not to rule out the possibility of a second vote, and, by October, the Irish may be in a position to say what concessions they need in order to stage a rerun. The very minimum solution—"explanatory declarations" spelling out that Ireland would retain the right to neutrality, to set its tax rates and control abortion policy—is unlikely to be enough because these in fact offer nothing new.
Another possibility is to revoke plans to slim the size of the European commission, so that Ireland would retain the right to send a commissioner to Brussels. Significantly, this could be done without changing the treaty, providing the European council decides to do so unanimously. Later this year a division may emerge, with some, in Germany and the Benelux countries for example, wanting to offer Ireland the minimum necessary while making it clear that a second referendum "no" would mean some form of isolation. Others, like Britain, really do not want to press the Irish to vote again, unless it is pretty clear that they will say yes. London would not lose too much sleep if the treaty died a slow death, though it knows it is not in its interest to be the first to kill it off. It is more alarmed about the prospect of a second Irish "no" and the threat of consigning Ireland to an outer tier of the EU. That is because, once deployed, the threat of exclusion could be used again in the future—maybe against London.
The Brits are European after all
Amid threats to set up inner and outer cores of Europe, evidence emerges that the British may be more European than anyone thought. In May, a deal was struck on an EU directive guaranteeing rights to temporary workers. Under the law, countries can avoid giving temporary workers the same rights as their permanent colleagues from day one only if there is a deal among "social partners"—the unions and employers' representatives much beloved of former commission president, Jacques Delors.
While in public the British government protested strongly about the planned legislation, in private it drew up the first agreement between the TUC and the CBI in decades. This gives British firms 12 weeks' grace before implementing equal treatment. The main casualty was the luckless Irish government, which counted on Britain helping to block the legislation but, like everyone else, forgot that social partners exist in Britain. With no agreement of their own, the Irish will now have to give their temps full rights from day one.
Jamie easy-on-the-eye
Over at Nato HQ, the public relations team has something to celebrate: their communications head, James Appathurai, has emerged as a sex symbol. A Canadian with Tamil ancestry, Appathurai is shaven-headed, lean and equally at ease in English or French. He's the closest you get on the political-military circuit to the thinking woman's crumpet. "Jamie Appathurai?" gushes one female television producer in Brussels. "You mean Jamie Easy-on-the-eye!" But while Nato's top spin doctor braces himself for the arrival of female underwear in his in-tray, the macho world of Nato is also digesting some more unsettling news. Word has reached Appathurai that in his native Canada, he has become a minor gay icon. Though a married man, Appathurai doesn't wear a wedding ring. This policy is, as they say at Nato, up for review.
