(©Words and Music by Paul F. Cowlan)

A loose-knit community of independant european nations is an obvious and desireable concept, but the purblind, throttling Bureaubeast that is presently self-generating itself in Brussels makes Juggernaut’s mples with a wilderness of ‘Red’ or ‘Golden’ misnomers, then clearly it’s ..... cue for a song!

A dear old lady had a little fruit tree
With the juciest apples that you ever did see.
She ate them herself and she gave them away,
and anyone who tasted them would always say,
“They’re like sunshine, honey and new-mown hay,
and they really are exceptional apples.”

Then one of these fruits was tasted by
a Eurolooney bureaucrat sitting in his high-rise office
in the heart of a big foreign town.
He gauged and he measured and he wrote things down,
and he worked out the figures, and he gave a frown
and called for his secretary.

Then two civil-servants and a man with a saw
came and cut down the tree in accordance with the law,
and when the little old lady began to cry
they kindly explained the reasons why.
“The size and shape of your apples is wrong.
The colours don’t match, and they taste too strong.
And they’re not on our list and so they’re not among
our Eurolooney categories.”

Welcome to Eurolooney, a bureaucrat’s paradise,
where everything is neat, and everything is sweet,
and everything is very, very nice.
Uniformly practical and uniformly dull;
with rules to cover everything,
from apples to the shape of your skull.

“So apples like yours may be all very fine
but they’re asymmetrical and the cores are out of line.
The Law’s quite clear how apples should look,
it’s all written down in our reference book.
And if they happen to taste like a cotton-wool pad
sprayed with insecticide, well that’s too bad,
but they must look right. You ought to be glad
of our ’Quality Control’ protection.”

“In a land like our’s we’ve lots of rain,
unlike Italy or parts of Spain,
but Euro-loos will all be the same,
using six standard litres of water
to flush your standardized waste away,
in standardized pipes, to a standardized bay
where the level of permitted pollution may
be to Eurolooney specifications.”

“And in just a few years you will opt for the genes
of your future progeny from medical machines
where the eggs and sperms are preserved, with reams
of scientific information.
And confidential counsellors will guide your choice;
eye colour, hair colour, level of the voice,
height, weight, IQ, girls and boys,
to the Eurolooney ‘Family Standard.’”

Welcome to Eurolooney’s financial paradise,
where every member state has the very same rate
of interest, and every single price
is in Eurolooney currency; London, Paris, Rome.
And the shops and the brands in all the different lands
are the same as you can find at home.

Well the years went by, the old lady died.
Her cremation, of course, was standardized.
And if anyone recalled her little apple tree
they would say, “Well, the taste of its fruit, you see,
it must have been exaggerated.  How could it be
any different from our cotton-wool apples?”

Hail to Eurolooney!  Standardized and bland.
Identikit utopia, the promised ‘Yuppieland.’
Where nothing’s individual and everything’s the same.
A Bureau-Euro-cretinous dream.

And we’ve only got ourselves to blame.