For those who want to be Eurocrats...

by San Shopanza

In 2004 the EPSO (European Personal Selection Office) announced the recruitment of "administrators" from my home country. So I applied for the job.

Almost a year after I had sent my application file (the preparation of which took me 3 months since they obviously needed everything, from my birth certificate to my life permit), I received the good news...I couldn't believe it! My application had passed the pre-selection procedure! And with only 53.678 competitors left!

The 'concours'
So I prepared myself for the written selection test, the so-called 'concours'. I bought all the books and learned everything by heart.

When I say everything, I mean everything. I knew all about the EU, its history, its policies, its personalities. I knew all the European leaders, the Commissioners, the heads of the European institutions. I knew about their tasks, their past, their families, their friends. I knew their favourite food and their sexual preferences. So I was ready!

And then came the day of the 'concours'. Since we were so many, the exam took place in Brussels' Heysel Stadium. We had to arrive 2 hours before because of the registration. I had to queue in an enormous line for 1 hour and then I had another hour to find my place. Not an easy task with 53.678 seats.

Meanwhile, a guy on a podium was yelling rules of conduct down on us. He had a megaphone and told us what we were not allowed to do. Since we were not allowed to do anything I decided to name him 'Concentration-Camp-Erhard'.

It seemed surreal: Concentration-Camp-Erhard yelling at 49.999 competitors (3.679 didn't come, which made me really happy - my chances of success had increased without my doing anything). He was also yelling at around 50.000 spectators on the tribune (many family members and friends had come to cheer and support those close to them). All this intermingled into an incredibly loud, but indistinct noise. Above the stadium an airy mist was forming from our body heats.

Concentration-Camp-Erhard opened the 'concours' by shooting in the air with a real gun. The crowd started howling and we, the competitors, opened our envelopes containing the questions.

I must say it went quite well for me, compared to those who had to give up: many fainted ( 49.978); one shot himself on the podium with Concentration-Camp-Erhard's gun (49.977 - I still think he wanted to bluff and assumed the gun was not real).

Yet what really disturbed me was that incredible noise coming from the spectators, together with the continuous wailing of the ambulance sirens. I have had slight audition problems since that day.

It also became a little chaotic with the thunderstorm. We and the papers were totally soaked by the pouring rain and one of the competitors got hit by a lightning bolt (49.976). This caused a certain panic. 20 were trampled to death ( 49.956) and Concentration-Camp-Erhard had to shoot 5 to restore order (49.951). My chances were increasing by the minute.

The test was easier than I thought. The only 2 questions I couldn't answer were the date of Commissioner Verheugen's plastic surgeon's conviction for alcoholism at work, and the name of Commission President Barroso's pet guinea pig. Damn it! I thought the guinea pig's name was 'Snoopy'. In fact it was 'Pooky'. (As to the plastic surgeon, I honestly didn't know he had been convicted. I have never understood what he had done wrong.)

Imagining becoming a European civil servant
In the following months after the exam, I couldn't stop imagining what would happen if I passed the 'concours'. My name, I dreamed, would be added to that famous EPSO-list, and I would be ready to be employed by any Head of Unit in one of the institutions.

Yet in order to be recruited, I would have to get the attention of at least one Head of Unit. So I would have to stalk around his office in flashy clothes, call him at home in the middle of the night, jump before his car, run naked through his garden... It could be a long wait. And one would have to stick one's head and swirl it around deep inside.

But then I imagined the day I would be hired. Me becoming a European civil servant! Wow!

I saw myself in a huge office surrounded by beautiful East and South European female colleagues all looking either like Carmen Kass or Penelope Cruz. And I would be responsible for something great, like protection of the environment. I would be some kind of hero, some kind of 'environment Frodo' fighting against the industrial 'Saurons'. And I would become the most famous civil servant of my unit, of my department, of my Directorate General.

I imagined how I would even become a Director General. No, not a Commissioner, but a Director General. Commissioners still have to pretend they are nice. Not Directors General. Have you ever seen a Director General? It is difficult to spot one because they are as rare as Komodo dragons. And they look like dragons too. Like them, Directors General don't have natural enemies; they become very big, very self-confident and even dangerous to humans.

Broken dreams
But then, a sudden answer from EPSO abruptly ended my dreams. I had failed the 'concours'. I had missed it for 'Pooky'.

I must admit, it almost destroyed me. I started drinking over night and in the mornings. Unable to give up my civil servant dreams, I went to cafés close to EU buildings to watch the elite, those who would know Barroso's Guinea pig's name, walking to their offices.

You can't imagine how I envied them. "Why couldn't I be one of them? Bloody, bloody 'Pooky'!" I thought.

After a while however, when I was about to turn into a Guinea pig killer, I noticed that many of the civil servants, who went to work in the morning, didn't really look happy. On the contrary, most of them actually really seemed depressed with empty faces. How could it be? They worked in an international environment, earned loads of money and drove the standard European-civil-servants-cars, the Volvos. "You must be endlessly happy with that!" I internally screamed.

The true meaning of being a European civil servant
But continuing my daily observations, I slowly began to understand:
European civil servants didn't have huge offices; they had tiny little Guinea pigs' cages.
European civil servants were not 'environment Frodos'; they worked on the harmonisation of Guinea pigs' sizes.
European civil servants didn't get rightly promoted; they had either the wrong nationality or the wrong friends.
European civil servants didn't have interesting lives; they were eternally exposed to non-danger and couldn't even die in car crashes; they were driving Volvos.
European civil servants didn't have the fundamental freedom to choose another occupation; they needed European civil servants' salaries to keep up with huge house loans and Volvos.
Female European civil servants didn't look like Kass or Cruz; they looked like that Komodo-dragon-lady from the show 'The Weakest Link'.

This understanding made me free and alive again. I was happy, stopped drinking and found a job as a postman. "Who the hell wants to become a European civil servant?" I thought...

It was totally unintended when, recently, I had another glimpse at European civil servants' salaries and allowances.

Instantly, I started studying for next year's 'concours'.