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From James Naughtie on a recent visit to the Netherlands:
It was inevitable that a visit to the Netherlands would be followed by a ritual piece of humiliation on-air. How do you pronounce Scheveningen, without sounding as if you鈥檙e just clearing your throat after failing to deal with a particularly lively little herring? And what about s鈥橦ertogenbosch? At least I was able to say 鈥淣ee鈥, like most of the Dutch did on Wednesday.
This was an improvement on my performance around the time of the Danish referendum on Maastricht many years ago, when I was presenting the World at One and prided myself on saying as often as possible 鈥淣ej鈥, the word for No. I desisted when a kindly listener of Danish extraction rang the programme to point out that I was causing convulsions among expatriate Danes because my pronunciation made it sound as if I were referring to an intimate part of the female anatomy. I stopped immediately, concerned that I might be breaching some guidelines on taste and decency. In any case, it鈥檚 ludicrous to try to sound too local.
I鈥檓 driven to distraction by football commentators who insist on saying MEE-laan instead of Milan. If they want to sound Italian they should put an 鈥渙鈥 on the end anyway : for the same reason we never introduce Caroline Wyatt as our correspondent in Par-ee. We do draw the line at referring to Livorno as Leghorn, however, in the manner of some post-war English gentleman with battered leather suitcases on the ferry from Marseilles, though I confess that I would like to be able to refer to Tiblisi as Tiflis once again. As for Mumbai instead of Bombay鈥on鈥檛 ask. It takes us back to Brian Redhead, Peking and Beijing (and old Wade-Grey and his Chinese- English system) a battle from long ago, fortunately forgotten by most of us.
But back to old Amsterdam. The Netherlands referendum was remarkable. For the first time in that country the argument sounded much as it might do here. Instead of worrying about some particular clause in the constitution they were talking about the direction of the EU. It became quite clear sometime on Wednesday night, when the scale of the No victory became obvious, that this was much more than a narrow win that might be countermanded by a string of victories elsewhere. It was entirely predictable that within 24 hours the Luxembourg government would be panicking about polls that showed a swing to the No side, and that in Denmark the polls would switch quickly from a big Yes lead to an advantage for the other side. Try as he might, Jose Manuel Barroso in Brussels 鈥 鈥淐arry On Ratifying!鈥 鈥 couldn鈥檛 make it sound as if it was anything other than a disaster for the architects of the constitution. No politician could miss the signs : the people were on the move.
In Amsterdam itself, there was that strange election-day feeling of calm, as if nothing at all was going on. The streets seemed normal, the Dutch rush-hour being as measured an affair as a Friday night in Achiltibuie. There were no screaming cavalcades, few posters, no campaigners with leaflets. Most people voted by computer anyway, but the lack of atmosphere was deceptive. Underneath there was a kind of European revolution in progress. Egged on by the French, the voters were determined to call a halt. It will be blamed in some quarters on the anti-immigration rhetoric of the far right, but that won鈥檛 do ; this was a more fundamental protest.
Before going across to the Hague, we tried to find a suitable caf茅 in which to meet voters. We found one. It lies just behind the Concertgebouw, one of Europe鈥檚 finest halls, and you won鈥檛 be surprised to know that there we found a good and talkative collection of voters. Before the performance of La Traviata ended we found a passing team of footballers who gave us the benefit of their view : a majority were yes voters, but unenthusiastic. The interesting comments came from the players who have voted no, not because they opposed the EU 鈥 or even more integration at some time in the future - but because they felt it was all going ahead too fast, without proper explanation to those who felt they were being left behind. That seemed to catch the general mood. As ever in Holland, there was the advantage of everyone having perfect English (though I did have the extra advantage of our producer, Wietske Burema, whose roots are somewhere in the bulb fields, who could warm things up nicely with a blast of ear-splitting Dutch and generally create a welcoming atmosphere). Wietske also performed the sterling service of producing one cousin who led us round the streets on bikes (a word of advice 鈥 never try to record a script while cycling on wet cobbles with a tram coming the other way) and another in The Hague who found a rich source of antique gouda cheese, of which I鈥檓 very fond (after it鈥檚 about seven years old it tastes magnificent with a beefy red wine鈥ut I digress). We chattered for an hour or so to a great collection of voters who all told a similar story 鈥 a spreading unease about 鈥淏russels鈥, the Euro and the leadership of the EU. When the Traviata audience poured out, the story stayed the same.
One member of the audience, however, didn鈥檛 speak to us. The Queen herself was there. When we saw the outriders waiting we realised that it was a Royal performance. So we lurked for a while. Out she came. For a moment the mad thought came into my head that we might advance, ask if Violetta鈥檚 death scene had touched the spot, and then slip in a crafty question about the referendum. Happily, wiser counsels prevailed, and we were able to get to The Hague without spending a night in the cells, even though I鈥檓 sure that in that most civilised of cities they play Beethoven quartets to the inmates and serve a good breakfast of fresh herring and a perky gouda before you step up to pay your fine.
Instead, it was off to the administrative capital (I know, I know - Amsterdam is the real capital) for the next morning鈥檚 programme, which was interrupted by various street-cleaning contraptions and an expresso machine that seemed to have gone off its spin cycle, but which nonetheless progressed smoothly in a hotel caf茅, to the amazement of those unsuspecting guests who arrived down for breakfast to find me trying to speak on a dodgy line to Switzerland to a 91-year-old veteran of the early days of the Common Market (and who was magnificently lucid) and welcoming sundry Dutch politicians to our paper-laden, croissant-strewn table in the corner. But what a good story it was : a genuine landmark in the recent history of the EU, and a moment to be taken seriously. Now only ten days away 鈥 the European summit in Brussels, and soon afterwards the start of the British presidency taking us through to December.
Tony Blair finds himself in the chair for what may be one of the most important negotiations to take place in the EU since our own accession in the seventies (the referendum confirming our membership happened thirty years ago this weekend) and one which may set the course for the continent for years ahead. We鈥檒l be trying to get under the skin of those discussions and trying to do what the voters complain so many leaders have been failing to do 鈥 explaining what鈥檚 going on.
In the end, it鈥檚 what we鈥檙e supposed to do, even if the Queen of the Netherlands isn鈥檛 available for interview.
Jim
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