Padraig Flynn clasped my hand. For once he got to the point. He had been hearing all sorts of stories, all sorts of rumours. He had checked them out with his best contacts in London.The very best. But he still found it hard to believe: "Are you really Manneken Pis?"
I hesitated. The handshake tightened, the watery-blue eyes glistened in anticipation. The Irish commissioner for social policy was not to be denied. Yes, I replied, sheepishly.
All those cheap shots about the Flynnstones, peat bogs, and the Irish economy chuntering along like a leprechaun on steroids flashed through my mind. An apology to a nation wronged began to take shape.
The commissioner smiled, munificently. Naturally, he would tell no one. A matter between the two of us.
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it is two years almost to the day since I assumed my dual identity as Manneken Pis. As a nom de plume, it could not be more appropriate. What has always fascinated me about the Manneken Pis statuette near the Grand Place in Brussels is that the water keeps flowing-despite the fact that tourists insist on covering the cherubic creature in their national dress. London bowlers, Mexican sombreros or Moscow furs-it makes no difference. The piss pours forth in a sustained and glorious bout of self-release. The real Manneken suffers no blockages, no agonising over the next deadline, or the next rebuke from a Eurocrat who has heard about a reference in Prospect but cannot find a copy-still a hot item in downtown Brussels.
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of course, there are plenty of writers who have sought inspiration from the Manneken Pis. Bernard Connolly is one of the more unlikely. Connolly is the European commission economist sacked 18 months ago for publishing a brilliantly hysterical polemic against economic and monetary union. The book's title was The Rotten Heart of Europe. The dust-jacket features our little friend peeing on a map of Europe, a gentle arc of urine splashing down somewhere south of Berlin.
Connolly has taken his case to the European court of justice where it is due to be heard shortly. The endearingly batty thing about Bernard is that he believes he has a case at all. How many other institutions would allow one of their employees time off to write a book which savages policy agreed by the 15 EU governments and executed by the European commission itself?
Connolly compares his former employees to the KGB. But if the renegade economist had worked in the Soviet Union, he would have been carted off to the Lubyanka. Instead, his bosses at the commission allowed him to work in a sensitive position supervising the European monetary system for almost two decades, knowing that for at least half of the period he was completely disillusioned with official policy. This is a case for the Keystone Cops, not the KGB.
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on one matter, Bernard Connolly does have a point. People are precious in Brussels. Too precious. There is none of the rough and tumble of genuine political capitals such as London or Washington; none of the atmosphere of trading blows during the day and sinking differences over a drink at night.
The Brussels correspondent is viewed here as part recorder, part collaborator in a life-work known as la construction europ?enne. I still remember a friendly Portuguese journalist asking me shortly after I arrived in Brussels five years ago whether I was "for or against Europe." When I said I was neither, she expressed shock. But you have to take a position, she insisted.
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peter ludlow, head of the Brussels-based Centre for European Policy Studies who has made fleeting guest appearances in this column, has taken up the theme. He thinks an authoritative study of how Brussels handles the media and how the media handles Brussels is long overdue.
Almost 1,000 journalists are accredited to Brussels, well on the way to the number covering the White House. Summits such as the recent bash in Amsterdam attract more than 2,000 hacks. Next year, the British presidency could see many more attend the councils in the countdown to monetary union.
Ludlow bemoans the lack of authoritative news analysis and the failure of language to capture the hybrid that is the EU-neither superstate nor Europe of the fatherlands. He also frets about the shift in the balance of power away from the reporter in the Brussels bureau in favour of "head offices," which inevitably promote the domestic angle over the European perspective.
Ludlow's call for a study of European media coverage is, of course, a pitch for more handouts from the commission. No problem, Peter; but make sure you analyse Prospect's coverage. It was the first news magazine to run a diary from Brussels. Alas, in the future with a new Manneken Pis. Au revoir.
