If the European Union were a person, it would be the sort of chap who, having spent decades meticulously arranging his own funeral, decides to expedite the affair by setting himself alight in the middle of a crowded square—while earnestly insisting to onlookers that the flames are a bold new form of central heating.
The EU, bless its bureaucratic heart, has always had a knack for turning ambition into self-immolation, and its current trajectory is a masterclass in the art of collective suicide, executed with the kind of grim determination that might make even a Scandinavian noir protagonist wince. Let us, then, take a leisurely stroll through the smouldering ruins of this once-noble project, pausing occasionally to marvel at the sheer audacity of its self-inflicted wounds.
First, let’s consider the EU’s approach to innovation, which can best be described as a sort of regulatory strangulation so thorough it could make a boa constrictor blush. The EU has long prided itself on being the world’s leading producer of red tape, a feat it has achieved with the kind of zeal usually reserved for religious crusades or competitive knitting.
A Venn diagram of global leadership, as one clever X user pointed out, places China at the helm of drones and batteries, the U.S. dominating Big Tech and biotech, and the EU proudly reigning over… regulation. Yes, while the rest of the world busies itself with pesky things like invention and progress, the EU has devoted its considerable energies to crafting rules so labyrinthine that even Kafka would throw up his hands in despair. The result? A continent where innovation doesn’t so much flourish as it gasps for air, crushed beneath the weight of a thousand compliance forms. If the EU were a schoolteacher, it would be the one who fails every student for creativity, then wonders why the classroom is empty.
But stifling innovation is merely the appetiser in the EU’s banquet of self-destruction. The main course, served with a side of sanctimonious virtue, is its social welfare system—a bloated, teetering edifice that even the most optimistic actuary would describe as a fiscal death wish. The EU’s member states, in their infinite wisdom, have spent decades constructing a welfare net so generous it could double as a hammock for an entire continent.
It’s a system that promises cradle-to-grave security, which is all very noble until you realise the cradle is overcrowded and the grave is arriving ahead of schedule. And then, as if to test the limits of this already unsustainable generosity, the EU decided to fling open its doors to millions of migrants from sub-Saharan Africa and beyond, inviting them to join the party. Now, I’m all for hospitality, but there’s a difference between offering a guest a cup of tea and handing them the deeds to your house while setting the furniture on fire.
The 2015 migrant crisis, as documented by the ever-reliable Wikipedia, saw over a million souls arrive on Europe’s shores, many fleeing war and poverty in Syria, Afghanistan, and the Western Balkans. A noble cause, to be sure, but the EU’s response was less a strategy and more a kind of panicked improv theatre. Rather than integrate these newcomers with any semblance of foresight, the EU instead allowed its welfare system to become a sort of all-you-can-eat buffet, with predictably disastrous results.
A 2022 Bertelsmann Foundation study found that Europeans are now evenly split between viewing migrants as a potential economic boon and a cultural burden—a sentiment that might have been less divided if the EU hadn’t treated integration as an optional extra, like a side salad you forget to order. The public, meanwhile, has taken to the streets and the ballot box, their confidence in the EU plummeting faster than a lead balloon in a hurricane. Political polarisation has soared, asylum policies have tightened, and yet the EU persists in its delusion that this is all part of some grand, unifying vision.
And then there’s the matter of crime, which the EU handles with the same deft touch one might use to juggle flaming torches while blindfolded. The original post on X, penned by the ever-charming Joey Mannarino, paints a lurid picture of Paris as a city where tourists can’t step off a train without being accosted by a Congolese migrant with nefarious intent.
Hyperbole, perhaps, but not entirely without foundation, a 2023 study by the European Institute for Crime Prevention and Control noted a post-2015 uptick in crime rates in some EU countries, though it wisely cautioned against drawing a straight line from migration to mayhem. Still, the perception of chaos has taken root, fertilised by right-wing media campaigns that, as a European Social Survey study found, have been “uniquely aggressive” in places like the UK. In Italy, Spain, and Britain, the narrative of cultural threat looms large, while the EU’s response has been to tut disapprovingly and carry on as if nothing is amiss. One might admire the commitment to denial if it weren’t so breathtakingly reckless.
But the pièce de résistance of the EU’s self-sabotage is its headlong rush into green energy—a noble pursuit, to be sure, but one executed with the kind of foresight usually associated with a toddler wielding a chainsaw. Spain and Portugal, those sun-drenched darlings of the Iberian Peninsula, have been particularly enthusiastic converts to the gospel of renewables, a decision that looked splendid on paper until the lights went out.
On April 28, 2025, a massive power outage plunged both nations into darkness, leaving millions without electricity, from Madrid to Lisbon and even parts of south-west France. Spain’s electricity demand plummeted from 27,500MW to 15,000MW, a stark testament to the fragility of a grid that has bet the farm on wind and solar while neglecting the boring but necessary business of backup systems. The European Commission, ever the voice of calm in a crisis, assured everyone that there was “no evidence the outage was intentional,” which is rather like saying there’s no evidence the Titanic hit an iceberg on purpose. Ursula von der Leyen promised to “coordinate efforts,” a phrase that in EU-speak translates roughly to “we’ll form a committee to discuss forming a committee.”
The fallout was as predictable as it was grim. Metro stations turned into pitch-black labyrinths, the Spanish parliament ground to a halt (not that anyone noticed), and ordinary citizens were left to fend for themselves in a darkness that felt metaphorical as much as literal. Reports trickled in of people dying for lack of access to electricity—a tragic but inevitable consequence of a system that prioritises ideology over functionality. If the EU were a doctor, it would be the kind who prescribes amputation for a paper cut, then wonders why the patient isn’t grateful.
So why, one might ask, does the EU persist in this madness? Why do its leaders continue to double down on policies that have turned the continent into a cautionary tale? The answer, I suspect, lies in a toxic cocktail of hubris and denial, seasoned with a dash of ideological fervour. The EU has always fancied itself a beacon of progress, a shining example of what humanity can achieve when it sets aside petty nationalism and embraces a higher purpose. But in its zeal to transcend history, it has forgotten the messy, inconvenient realities of human nature—realities like the need for economic stability, cultural cohesion, and, yes, a reliable power grid. The result is a continent that is not so much uniting as unravelling, its grand experiment in supranational governance teetering on the brink of collapse.
And yet, the EU’s leaders soldier on, undeterred by the chaos they’ve wrought. They rig elections, as some X users allege, and override national sovereignty with the casual arrogance of a colonial governor. They censor inconvenient truths, ensuring that their citizens remain blissfully ignorant of the historical lessons that might save them—lessons about how liberal policies, unchecked, can lead to societal breakdown. They cling to their vision of a borderless utopia even as their cities burn, their welfare systems buckle, and their people turn to populism in desperation. It’s a spectacle both tragic and absurd, a slow-motion train wreck that would be almost comical if the stakes weren’t so high.
In the end, the EU’s greatest tragedy may be its inability to laugh at itself. If it could muster even a fraction of the self-awareness that Clive James brought to his own critiques, it might yet salvage something from the wreckage. But alas, the EU is not known for its sense of humour. It prefers to march grimly onward, a martyr to its own ideals, while the rest of us watch in horrified fascination. So here’s to the European Union, that grand, misguided experiment in hubris: may it find a way to extinguish the flames before the whole edifice burns to the ground. Or at the very least, may it learn to appreciate the irony of its own demise.