My EU Presidency

Helen's was the face that launched a thousand ships, these are the faces that run a continent. Herman Van Rompuy and Lady 'Cathy-Casual' Ashton are the new crown heads of Europe and in some shady and deceptively un-democratic back-room deals it was these two faces of modernity that were slipped into the most powerful seats within a few hundred miles of London.

Basically, Europe is divided into two main camps; Christians and Social Democrats, and everyone agreed that each camp would have one of the two seats; Presidency and Foreign Minister. Since Ashton managed to cop herself the Foreign Minister's chair, it was decided by Europe that His Blairiness couldn't have the presidency or else there'd be two Social Democrats at the top and that would seem a little too much like the reformation.

Instead, the Belgian prime minister, who has had his job for a little over a year was put in the top spot and now we have two 'people' who look suspiciously like inbred bullfrogs in charge of steering this continent off it's tectonic plate.

I think what amazes me is the way they almost seem like an awkward married couple. Sure, she had an affair a few years ago and his minute of silent, stubborn refusal before they get down to the once-monthly dirty doesn't let her forget it, and she hates the way he breathes because it's been the soundtrack of her menopause, the empty void that was once filled with a child's laughter is now replaced with the rustling of his nose hair and makes her long for a phone call, the sound of the cat-flap, the beep of the tumble dryer, the chink of crockery. And he just wants to spend time in his garage, or working on the lawn because it's through occupying his life with monotonous, controllable, repetitive and menial tasks that he can block out the thing that haunts him in the night and every time he watches the television past 10 p.m.; the fear of change, of the new, of the fresh. The only fresh he wants is cut grass, short back and sides and salad.

They hate their lives and they long for the day that the Doctor will tell them that the blood their coughing up is a clear sign of the end. They also don't care who goes first, safe in the knowledge that even if they were the last one to head on down the Styx at least they'd have a few months without the grumbling of discontent that their desperate, lonely marriage has become.

So yeah, they're in charge of Europe, you know, Herman and Cathy from the bungalow next-door. At last! This is our chance to compete as a continent with America and they're comely, cultured, courageous and charismatic Apollo-esque President.

Bring it on.