What the EU needs in this time of crisis is more speeches.
So here is BM's reply to pomme de terre Barroso's grand 2012 State of the European Union
cut-n-paste job address to MEPs this week.
The accent, as you ask, is from a pre-Carolingian Low-Frankish dialect.
Full text below. No embargo...
My fellow Europeans.
What a year huh?
Only a year ago, our currency was teetering on the brink. Greece's position in the euro was in question.
Our very institutional make-up as a union was showing more cracks than a European Parliament ceiling.
Now here we are a whole year later, just as far up the fecal river and still no sign of a paddle.
And the problem with spending too long knee deep in liquid excrement is you start to get used the smell.
The initial gag reflex of several years ago when we were first hurled unwittingly into the mire has worn off.
We can't even muster the disgust anymore to shake a pooey fist at the people who got us here in the first place, as they stand on the riverbank endlessly dithering over whether to throw us something that might float or something that probably won't.
It strikes me there are two dangers for the year ahead.
The first is that there'll be an ultimate casualty. The balsawood raft that drifts out to us won't take the weight, and someone will drown.
Only then will those on the riverbank put together a proper rescue operation, build new sturdy bridges, put up a decent fence to stop us falling in again, and do something to stop people shitting in the river in the first place.
And yes, I'm aware this metaphor is under some considerable strain right now, but I'm pushing on.
The other danger is that, just maybe it'll turn out that one of the few somethings they throw us will turn out to have an element of buoyancy to it.
Sure, we may go temporarily under as we all pile on. We may even swallow a bit of raw sewage and suffer a bout of diphtherea for a while afterwards.
But maybe, just maybe, everthing's going to turn out kind of OK in the longer run.
You know, like with ALL the other EU crises.
So then, there'll be no ultimate casualties disappearing into the feculent depths. But there'll also be no proper rethink. Those who made the flimsy raft that by some fluke saw us to shore will take the credit, and tell us everything will be all right from now on if we just hold hands a little firmer.
And we'll continue as before. Lead by the same people, along the same slippery riverbank, armed with nothing but a misguided sense of optimism, and a bottle of Febreze.
Parce que ca, je crains, c'est l'ordure des choses.
Til next year.