The first person who enthused to me, some years ago, about ‘going into Europe’ went on to enthuse about green peppers. This gave a clue as to what the great British middle class thinks ‘Europe’ is about.
It is about the belly. A market is about consumption. The Common Market is conceived of as a distended stomach: a large organ with various traps, digestive chambers and fiscal acids, assimilating a rich diet of consumer goods. It has no mind, no direction, no other identity: it is imagined as either digesting or as in a replete, post-prandial states easily confused with benevolence of idealism.
The images vegetate in the British middle-class subconscious. This Market has no head, eyes, or moral sense. If you ask where it is going, or why, no-one knows; they give an anticipatory post-prandial burp (‘it will make us viable’) and talk about bureaucratic procedures in Brussels. It has no historical itinerary. It lies in a chair, hands on its tummy, digesting a pasta of Fiats, a washing-up machine meunière and (burp!) that excellent concorde thermidor which may not have been as fresh as it should have been.