As the man handling the EU's negotiations with Turkey, Olli Rehn, the commissioner for enlargement, cannot avoid having a slightly ticklish relationship with Recep Tayip Erdogan, the Turkish prime minister. But the two men have already found a topic they can bond on—that unfailing fallback for blokeish chat, football. As it happens, both Erdogan and Rehn have some claim to expertise. Rehn played in the Finnish first division in his teens and Erdogan was good enough to consider turning professional. Both men continued to play well into their forties. At their first meeting, Rehn asked Erdogan, "So is it true that they call you Beckenbauer?"—a reference to the legendary German captain and defender. Erdogan modestly assented and said that although he had played as a forward in his youth, he had now dropped further back to concentrate on a Beckenbauer-style libero role. When the Finn mentioned that he himself played in the number 14 shirt, Erdogan displayed an impressive grasp of European football trivia by instantly responding "So, you are Cruyff." Unfortunately, as all football fans know, Beckenbauer and Cruyff were legendary rivals. When Beckenbauer lifted the World Cup in 1974, it was after defeating Cruyff's Dutch side.
The cross-country skier
John Grant, Britain's ambassador to the EU, is also something of a sportsman—although his personal passion is cross-country skiing. Indeed, he complains that the forthcoming British presidency of the EU has forced him to defer his training for a particularly arduous race in Finland next year. The draining and solitary nature of cross-country skiing seems to fit with the ambassador's Scottish reserve. But those who have Grant down as a typical mandarin have missed his wackier side. Recent visitors to his office have been surprised to see a large bucket of sand on the conference table. Grant explains that this is an idea he picked up from a management book. Any of his underlings who feel that he is burying his head in the sand in the run-up to the British presidency, which begins in July, is encouraged to tip the sand on to the carpet. So far, nobody has.
The judo black belt
Being a sporty type is obviously now a prerequisite for getting on in Brussels. Perhaps the most alarming of the current crop of athletes is Dalia Grybauskaite, the Lithuanian commissioner in charge of the EU budget, who has a black belt in judo. Her conversational style, however, veers more in the direction of all-in wrestling. Indeed, her press handlers are so alarmed by her tendency to speak her mind that before a recent interview with your correspondent, they insisted not only that her comments must be off the record, but that no trace of what she had said must appear in the press. This is an unorthodox approach for press officers, whose job is generally to make sure that their boss's views are given an airing—even if only through background briefings. But it may be a wise precaution when it comes to Dalia the black belt. What she had to say was fascinating, amusing and shocking in equal measure. But— alas—I can tell you no more.
The dog-walker
One commissioner whose sporting activities do not appear to extend much beyond walking the dog is Peter Mandelson. The British commissioner has rather skilfully floated above the increasingly open conflicts within the commission. But that does not mean he is not playing a vital role in its political battles. As Mandelson's acolytes point out, he is one of the few commissioners to sit on almost all the commission's policymaking subcommittees. Some speculate that Mandelson is replicating his relationship with Tony Blair in the one he is now building with José Manuel Barroso, the new commission president. The idea is for Mandelson to turn himself into the indispensable adviser, the consigliere who is turned to in times of maximum difficulty. Barroso could certainly do with help and advice from somewhere. Although he is a man of intelligence and integrity, he looks increasingly weak and embattled. The French press, in particular, are writing about him with open contempt. They regard him as someone with liberal economic instincts who has been shoved back into his box by pressure from France and Germany. The commission's retreat over plans to liberalise Europe's service sector, and its abandonment of efforts to strictly enforce rules on public deficits, are cited as evidence. Le Figaro calls him the "prisoner of the Franco-German couple" and paints a picture of him as pathetic and isolated. Le Monde reckons that he is terrified to do anything that might antagonise the French in the run-up to their referendum on the EU constitution, now scheduled for 29th May.
Linguistic sensitivities
It is not just the French and Germans who have Barroso on the run. The Spanish and Italian governments have also weighed in after journalists noticed that commission press conferences have of late only been providing simultaneous translation into French, German and English. Letters of protest were sent to the commission, resulting in a decision to provide translation into another five languages—Italian, Spanish, Polish and Dutch, plus one of the other 13 EU languages chosen on the basis of rotation.
