All together now, let's sing the EU national anthems ... ahem

With enlargement of the European Union approaching, we should remember how pitifully little we know of our European confreres. I yield to no one in my ignorance of European history. My geography's not that much better but don't get snooty with me because yours is worse. How do I know? You don't get the back page of The Independent without knowing things like that. Look, I'll prove it. Get a piece of paper and a pencil. Now draw a map of Europe.

Ha! See? You don't even know all the countries, let alone where they go. You haven't put in Lichtenstein or Luxembourg and Finland's not there, and that's not Slovenia, for goodness sake, where's Slovakia! And what have you got on Poland's borders! Ha, frankly: Ha, ha, ha! Heaven knows what national anthems tell us, but we might as well have a look at them, in an effort to get to grips with our new neighbours.

As we know, the British national anthem was written in French, in France by a Frenchman about a French monarch. "God save our gracious King" was first addressed to Louis XIV. Britain's adoption of it suggests an admirable degree of Euro-enthusiasm before it became fashionable.

"Confound their politics," we sing of foreigners generally, "Frustrate their knavish tricks." High-minded people take a dim view of those lines but the sentiments were mild by the standards of the time, perhaps even pacific.

Denmark has two anthems, a respectable one and a real one. The Fotherington-Thomas version adopted in 1844 goes: "A lovely land is ours, With birches green about her, Encircled by the sea, her hills and vales are manifold." Unforgivable. The other one is far more expressive of the national spirit. Written by Johannes Ewald in 1780 it goes: "King Christian stood by the tall mast in smoke and mist; his sword was hammering so hard that the Swedes' helmets and brains cracked.

"Then sank every enemy stern and mast in smoke and mist. 'Flee!' they screamed, "Flee as flee can!' Who can stand up to Denmark's Christian in battle?" That's a national anthem Pym could have been proud of. But they were all at it then, even Belgium. "O beloved Belgium, sacred land of our fathers, Our heart and soul are dedicated to you," (that can't be right). They go on: "Be our goal" (oh, Belgium) "in work and battle". Battle? Belgium? Bad Belgians! The Netherlands enjoyed more modern (for which, read mealy-mouthed) lyrics, albeit written in the 16th century. "William of Nassau am I, of Germanic descent," it goes, "true to the fatherland I remain until death." It's not at all clear which fatherland is referred to.

Isn't that eccentric by any national anthem standards, yearning to be living somewhere quite different? And line four contains the humblest statement in any national anthem: "To the King of Spain I have always given honour." Hmmm. Perhaps the tune makes up for it.

Hang on, Poland may have made an even humbler assertion: they sing: "Poland has not yet succumbed." Well done, Poland, very good about not succumbing (they must be using the word in some private sense). They go on: "We've been shown by Bonaparte, Ways to victory."

There were other teachers available at the time. The lessons may have had some effect on their experience of sovereignty (12 years' independence in a millennium).

The Czechs ask a plangent question, but not one particularly suited to a national anthem: "Where is my home, where is my home?" they go. Then there's an esteem-boosting description of themselves: "Of clear mind, vigorous and prospering [sic], And with a strength that frustrates all defiance [double sic], That is the glorious race of the Czechs, Among Czechs is my home." Yes, in transient workers' hostels in Germany.

I don't see why we shouldn't scoff at the Germans after what they did to our Prime Minister, ganging up with the French again to put off the reform of agriculture until 5050. They sing when they can: "Unity and right and freedom for the German fatherland. Let us all pursue this purpose fraternally." That's a good idea, they must have thought, how well that expresses our national purpose. Cain could not have put it any more fraternally to Abel.

The eastern European nations don't seem to have very robust anthems. They don't tremble quite as much as Iceland but we brutal Britons can't help observing a certain diffidence in such as these:

"God bless the Hungarians. Give them happy years. These people have expiated the past and the future." Or: it could be "for pity's sake don't invade us, haven't we've suffered enough?"

Or, again: "This Slovakia of ours has been fast asleep until now, But the thunder and lightning are encouraging it come alive." Do let us know when you've managed to get out of your pyjamas.

Sleepiness is quite a problem in those parts: "Awaken thee, Romanian, shake off the deadly slumber, The scourge of inauspicious barbarous tyrannies."

Which is why they produce so many inauspicious, barbarous tyrannies of their own, to practise on.

Let's see how they do with the European Commission.

Image of war and peace

When we drive round Hyde Park Corner and glance up at the top of the Wellington Arch we notice a dramatic, equestrian statue. There are four stallions pulling a war chariot. At the back of the chariot, a winged woman stands looking down, making a large, graceful gesture, clearly blessing the driver's trampling of the country's enemies.

It's amazingly dramatic, full of violence and conquest. The woman is the spirit of War, by the look of her, the spirit of English warfare, of victory; she's some sort of Boudicca and her proud indigenous horses are crushing Roman interlopers. The sculptor seems to have been in the cavalry, and indeed this turns out to be the case.

It's a splendid evocation of international relations prior to the First World War.

The ensemble is called the Quadriga, and the horses are reproduced full size in Piccadilly Circus. You can look at them closely there: the detailing of the horses' teeth; the genital sheath like a portable cannon; the flying hoofs; the wild manes.

But this isn't half the story. When you look more carefully at them in their natural habitat (which isn't easy as the arch on which it sits is 100 feet high) inconsistencies start to appear. The driver of the chariot is actually a boy, he's 10 years old and wearing an odd sort of slack-jawed expression. He's no charioteer. And the reins are slack, which is at odds with his role. He's not controlling the horses, they're rearing up of their own accord.

From the notes in the booklet (buy it in the little office inside the arch itself), it turns out our first impression is the opposite of what is actually going on. The horses aren't trampling the enemy, they're pulling up in mid-charge. The driver's jaw is dropping with astonishment, he doesn't know what's going on; it's all out of his control. He is unaware of the being that has descended into the cab behind him.

She's no Boudicca after all, nor the spirit of victory, she's the angel of peace, carrying an olive branch; the war is over. It is her silent, spiritual power that is pulling the horses out of the charge.

Her grave, kind face is an Edwardian vision of woman's goodness. And the child is bewildered, frightened even. He doesn't understand peace at all, except that he probably doesn't like it much. It's what art used to be like.

Humphries' words to live by

Barry Humphries has an autobiography out; we must all read it, of course. But first, my favourite Humphries joke. In his character of Les Patterson ("the part of me that didn't stop drinking") he wrote a Christmas book called The Traveller's Tale.

In it, the lecherous, food-stained quangocrat described someone who disagreed with him as "an ugly old lezzo with a face like a half-sucked mango".

He also asked his secretary pointedly whether she believed in God. The secretary said she didn't precisely know about the existence of a personal deity but she did think there was something up there. "And there was !"

No? Oh well, then, please yourselves.