In Pjazza Repubblika, still popularly known in the neo-colonial psyche as Pjazza Regina in Valletta, a small motley crowd met to celebrate Europe Day as if it were a calendar highlight that literally brought the whole continent to a standstill. In truth, in most member countries of the European Union, people just got on with their normal business of the day, no doubt oblivious to the wishy-washy commemoration that officialdom had deemed appropriate for the general merriment of the people.

But if on any given day of the year we are more Catholics than the Pope, then we certainly have to be more European than the dough-faced burgher wimps of Brussels. After all, what Caesar couldn’t do, what Charlemagne couldn’t do, what Innocent III and Hitler couldn’t do, they might finally be able to pull it off – i.e. the unification of that portion of the earth’s surface known as Europe.

What took a country years to accomplish, armed with only machine guns and a few trillion dollars, it has taken the squabbling, babbling tribes of Europe almost three millennia of wars, migrations, crusades, plagues, pillage, partition, diets, dumas, duels, vendettas, incursions, invasions, intrusions, regicides, switching sides and genocide to accomplish in a still very loose way.

But in adversity, the Maltese seemingly always have to put on a brave face, even at a time when surveys have already shown the extent of local regret since the announcement of the result of the Yes-No referendum. Therefore, some of them dutifully trudged their way to the capital for a bit of fun and fanfare at what was kinkily dubbed Café d’Europe. But have you seen the picture of the occasion in the media? Never has there been a more forlorn and downcast group of people photographed together trying to look happy who could not even manage a proper collective smile. The best possible definition of the picture is better contained in the popular, highly cynical Maltese saying about l-angli tal-festa, those sweet, innocent-looking smiling angels that are cruelly, albeit painfully, hooked from their buttocks to the wooden carriers of statues of village patron saints and other religious effigies.

There, right under the scrutiny of the rotund figure of the foreign monarch who symbolised both the old Empire and Malta’s colonial past, and who was renowned for her reserved haughtiness and remembered for her famous expression “We Are Not Amused”, they met. One could not really tell from the old queen’s countenance, embellished as it is by several coatings of pigeon deposit, whether she was enjoying the farce or not.

It seemed on the day, though, that most European Union ambassadors on the island had other things on their mind rather than the solemn commemoration. They were in fact conspicuous by their absence. But the organisers must have been terribly excited to have in their fawning midst members of the Arab and non-EU diplomatic corps. A good cup of coffee is not to be missed, let alone the other goodies.

In fact, the members of the diplomatic corps and some of the luckier journalists, who managed to obtain/be granted/usurp a place on the tables covered in bright pink tablecloths, seemed a trifle keener to indulge in the European goodies – complete with pink and blue bottles of Champagne – rather than follow Gorg Mallia's lacklustre rendering of a Maltese stereotype, Peppi from Bubaqra, who attains his Nirvana, and possibly his first orgasm, after his trip to Europe. The Road to Damascus was a pot-holed cul-de-sac in comparison. However, this very predictable story line was lost on the distinguished crowd as it was busily devouring the ever-changing delicacies....

At long last, somebody noticed the hungry looking bystanders and sumptuous trays of wonderful pizza were served to these onlookers some of whom must have muttered: “Ah, at long last; we got something out of Europe...” to which some wit, a few metres away and no doubt envious of the chairs, the goodies and the pizza, retorted: “Easy there! Better check who is footing the bill for Europe's latest Cafe'. Is it you or is it me? Or is it all of us?” Or was the bill sent to Brussels, caught as it must have been in the tremendous furore of these great festivities?

Smartly dressed girls then came out to distribute pencils, recipe books, notebooks and EU badges to the passers-by, quite reminiscent of the American CARE days when Maltese families filled the pavements in sad and dismal queues for the free butter and cheese required to keep us good Christians in good spirits and away from the dirty sins of equality and social justice. But overall, this time it was much nicer. The CARE ladies usually had moustaches and unshaven legs.

I am informed that an invitation had been sent asking people to write their own short stories of Europe, which would in turn contribute to the Story of Europe. Inspired by Europe’s diversity and variety, the submitted stories would then go into a collection with those from 27 countries (including Romania and Bulgaria) for a final selection to be published.

As the blissful notes of Beethoven’s Ode to Joy filled the Valletta air, the crowd was happy and ready to disperse. Some though, perhaps the more cynical on such a memorable day on the European calendar, were tempted to give a rousing rendition of Roger Woddis’ famous eighties ditty in the Spectator.

“Gloria, gloria, Europhoria!

Common faith and common goal!

Meat and milk and wine and butter

Make a smashing casserole!

Let the end of all our striving

Be the peace that love promoted.

With our hands in perfect friendship

Firmly round each other’s throats!”

Suddenly, Victoria was all alone again. A pigeon zeroed back down onto her stone head as the bemused waiters started cleaning and removing the empty bottles and plates. With weary, little golden stars in their eyes, they could hardly wait to get home. That’s where a reality check could be carried out in peace.