The constitutional crisis in a core EU member-state is, of course, unfortunate. But Belgium's difficulty is Ireland's opportunity. Which is why I propose that we take advantage of the current confusion there by unilaterally refusing to eat Brussels sprouts this Christmas, writes Frank McNally.
I've checked all the statute books. And so far as I can see there is no law anywhere - contrary to what our parents may have implied - that says we have to eat these things in December. It appears to be a mere moral obligation, the origins of which are long forgotten.
I blame the early Victorians, who sponsored the fledging Belgian state at around the same time they were patenting the traditional Christmas. My guess is that the sprout became synonymous then with "Little Belgium", the defence of which was to be a key part of imperial strategy for a century afterwards.
That theory aside, I believe modern consumers have been conned into thinking that sprouts are a good cause generally. In a world dominated by larger vegetables, these bonsai cabbages are seen as plucky underdogs. And admittedly, they are cute.
It is our lamentable weakness for anthropomorphism that allows cynical caterers to get away with serving us so-called "baby potatoes" - those soap-flavoured foreign imposters that have driven real spuds out of the restaurant business. Wake up, consumers! Those are not baby potatoes. They wouldn't get any bigger even if they hadn't ended up on your plate.
But back to sprouts. I admit my feelings towards these vegetables may be influenced by a childhood trauma, beyond the usual one of being forced to eat them. The fact is that, for sheer hardship, the worst part-time job I ever had was picking Brussels sprouts on cold December mornings.
It should be an idyllic memory, and in some ways it is. I remember the frost-covered stalks glistening in the winter sun. I remember too the excited chatter of the harvesters afterwards, making clouds of steam in the chill air as we queued for payment with our knobbly net bags. But in between these two memories was the bit where we separated the sprouts from the stalks, and that's where the suffering came in.
The frozen sprouts clung to their mother plants with the determination of passengers hanging on to an upturned boat. You had to prize them off individually; and when you heard the "snap", you sometimes had to check it was the sprout, and not one of your fingers.
Frequently you would have to plunge your hands under your armpits for a few moments to stave off frostbite. Gloves - of any sort thicker than the household rubber variety - deprived you of the dexterity required. And rubber gloves were useless to stop the cold.
Of course, the ultimate cruelty of sprout-picking was that, when it was over for the day, other sprouts would be waiting for you at home on the dinner table - soggy and squishy, the very antithesis of the things you had struggled with earlier - to exact revenge.
The country that has been without a government for almost 200 days now has given us many fine things. Unfortunately, it has not always given them with the same generosity as it did the sprout. Take beer, for example. Belgium makes some of the world's finest beers, especially the varieties brewed by Trappist monks. But you will struggle to find these in Irish bars, and the best are not sold outside Belgium at all.
Why? Because the monks have mixed feelings about their involvement in the alcohol business, which was an expedient forced on them by the French Revolution. Some have embraced the marketplace. Others square the trade with their consciences by resisting the market's attempt to make them bigger. "We sell beer to live and not vice versa," one brewery director told the Wall Street Journal recently, adding that expansion "would interfere with our job of being a monk".
It must be a matter of regret to many people that Belgian monks were not more centrally involved in the early cultivation of the Brussels sprout. If they had been, the vegetable would now be a cult product, available only from selected greengrocers. There would be 7, 8 and 9 per cent varieties. And they would certainly not be on everyone's plate this Christmas.
Apologists will say that the vegetable is not bad, merely misunderstood. That cooked properly, with butter, garlic, or whatever you're having yourself added, it is unrecognisable from the horror you and I know. But one senses the dark hand of the sprout lobby here. I have heard similar claims for the truly inexcusable beetroot - another vegetable once compulsory in Ireland (in salads) before the order was mysteriously lifted about 1979.
An added claim for the sprout (although this seems to be the case with every self-respecting vegetable these days) is that it contains a unique anti-cancer compound. Against which - if it is true - must be set a notorious side-effect. There is no need for us to be graphic here: suffice to say that the Brussels sprout is a well-known contributor to global warming.
If we unilaterally stopped eating sprouts this Christmas, I doubt that there would be catastrophic consequences - not with Belgium already in disarray. The constitutional crisis there will resolve itself in due course, perhaps in the process producing a better sense of export priorities. Then maybe we can express solidarity with whatever new political entities emerge, just by drinking beer.