The Mediterranean island of Malta, a sun-drenched paradise of honey-coloured stone and questionable driving, has once again reminded Europe that it exists by accidentally detonating a significant portion of itself. A fireworks factory, presumably filled with enough gunpowder to launch a modest moon mission, has exploded in a spectacular fashion that would make even the most jaded pyrotechnician weep with envy. The result: a scene reminiscent of a particularly aggressive Guy Fawkes Night, complete with billowing smoke, twisted metal, and the unmistakable smell of regret.
Now, the European Union, that great bureaucratic behemoth that usually concerns itself with the curvature of bananas and the precise shade of passport blue, has been forced to confront a rather awkward question: how does a fireworks factory, a place where the primary ingredient is 'boom', manage to go 'BOOM' without anyone raising an eyebrow until the debris lands on a neighbouring farmer's prize-winning goat?
Let us examine the facts, such as they are. Malta, a nation that treats fireworks like some treat their morning coffee – with reckless abandon and a complete disregard for safety – has a long and proud tradition of blowing things up for fun. The Maltese fireworks industry is not so much an industry as a dare made manifest. For generations, families have passed down the secrets of packing explosives into cardboard tubes, often with the same level of precision one might use to stuff a turkey. And, shockingly, sometimes things go wrong.
This latest incident, however, has the added frisson of EU involvement. Brussels, in its infinite wisdom, has decided that this might be a good time to review safety standards across the bloc. A splendid idea, to be sure, and one that would have been rather more useful, say, before the last fifteen similar explosions. But better late than never, as the man said while his trousers were on fire.
The footage is genuinely alarming. Thick plumes of black smoke rise from the industrial zone, punctuated by secondary explosions that sound like a giant popping bubble wrap. Rescue workers, no doubt cursing their life choices, pick through the wreckage. The factory, a place that once held dreams of aerial chrysanthemums and dazzling comets, is now a smouldering crater. A tragedy, certainly, but one that feels almost inevitable when you consider the regulatory environment.
For the EU, this is a test. Can the Union actually enforce standards in a sector that has traditionally operated on a handshake and a prayer? Will Malta, a nation that views EU directives as slightly more important than the instructions on a bag of peanuts, finally take note? Or will we see the usual cycle of promises, committees, and photo opportunities, followed by another bang in a few years?
The answer, dear reader, is probably the latter. Because the EU's approach to safety often resembles a game of Whac-A-Mole: react to the crisis at hand, declare victory, and wait for the next one. In the meantime, the Maltese will no doubt rebuild their fireworks factory, perhaps with a slightly larger exclusion zone, and carry on as before. It is the way of things.
But let us not be entirely cynical. Perhaps this tragedy will be the spur for genuine change. Perhaps the EU will finally impose rigorous inspections, mandatory safety training, and a ban on the traditional practice of testing fuses with a lit cigarette. Perhaps. And perhaps I will find an airport lounge that serves a decent gin and tonic. We must all dream.
For now, we have a disaster, a live feed, and a series of questions that no one in Brussels is keen to answer. The factory is gone, the workers are injured or worse, and the goat is most displeased. The EU safety question remains, smouldering like a slow-burning fuse. Let us hope, for everyone's sake, that someone has the sense to stamp on it before the next inevitable explosion.
