In July 2024, a European Union law came into force requiring plastic bottle caps to remain attached to their bottles. The regulation was widely mocked by social-media jokesters and Silicon Valley billionaires alike. This, people said, was Brussels at its worst: bureaucrats micromanaging, treating citizens like children who couldn’t be trusted to recycle a cap.

What went almost entirely unreported was the evidence behind it. Plastic bottle caps have been identified, across decades of coastal cleanup data, as among the top items found littering European beaches. Small, light and made from a different plastic than the bottle itself, the caps float independently once separated, travelling far longer distances than the bottles they came from. They are far more likely to be swallowed by seabirds, fish and marine turtles who mistake them for food.

Now consider what happened next. After lobbying against the rule, some of the world’s largest beverage companies redesigned their caps and adapted. But companies such as Coca-Cola also did something revealing: while they trumpeted the design of the new caps as a sign of their unwavering commitment to sustainability, they maintained the detachable ones virtually everywhere else. Not because the physics of plastic pollution differ across continents, but because no other country, be it the US or in Asia, has passed a national law requiring the change.

The bottle cap story is a parable for a larger fight playing out at the highest levels of European politics. One side claims that EU rules are the problem: a self-imposed burden of standards on business that slow Europe down while the US and China race ahead. The other says those rules are not a handicap but a source of power, the only instrument a continent without a single government possesses to shape its own economic future while protecting its people and the planet.

At present, the first camp is winning. The political coalition behind it is broad, stretching from Brussels to Berlin, Warsaw and Rome. The argument sounds on the surface entirely reasonable. From that diagnosis follows a programme of “simplification” championed by the European Commission led by Ursula von der Leyen: cuts to environmental protections, digital rules, consumer and food safety requirements. Standards that Europe spent two decades building are being rolled back, all in the name of competitiveness.

There is one problem at the foundation of all this. The diagnosis is at best questionable and at worst wrong.

The red tape explosion that would allegedly account for the widening growth gap with the US is a fiction. The OECD’s latest data shows that the regulatory burden on European business has arguably risen only modestly over the past 15 years.

Even the landmark 2024 report by Mario Draghi, the former chief of the European Central Bank commissioned by the EU to diagnose Europe’s economic weaknesses, cannot substantiate the claim.

The report’s most-cited figure, that more than 60% of EU companies saw regulation as an obstacle to investment in 2023, turns out on inspection to mean that only about 25% identified it as a major obstacle. This share has since risen but a larger proportion of European businesses remain concerned by other obstacles, such as energy costs. More importantly, Draghi’s central demand was not for a less regulated Europe, but a more coordinated, better-funded and strategically capable one.

And even if you accept the diagnosis, the proposed cure – deregulation – barely makes a difference. The European Commission’s own estimate of the annual savings from its entire simplification programme – the legislative packages at the centre of this agenda – is €12bn, or roughly 0.07% of EU GDP.

Europe’s productivity problem is real. But the caricature of a continent collapsing under regulation is not. Much of the apparent US-European growth gap reflects population growth, purchasing power, working hours and the very different social bargain Europe has chosen to preserve. This suggests that Europe does not need to become the US to become more competitive.

Dismantling Europe’s regulatory framework does not merely fail to deliver growth. It surrenders something that Europe has spent decades building. Consider what the targeted rules actually do. When the EU forced Apple to open its App Store to rival app developers and payment routes, Apple complied – at least in Europe. This reveals how EU digital market rules are not costly tick-box exercises, but the actual reason European consumers now have choices – in apps, in payment and platforms – that consumers in the US still lack. The wider European rulebook is also why Google, Meta and Amazon face limits on how they combine, harvest and monetise Europeans’ data. Weaken them, and US platforms – and their tech billionaires – gain even greater control over Europe’s markets and people.

The timing of this push for deregulation is not a coincidence. The Trump administration formally designated Europe’s digital rules as trade barriers, threatened punitive tariffs if Brussels refused to weaken them and demanded their rollback as a condition for any deal on steel and aluminium. The deregulation agenda playing out in Brussels is precisely what Washington has been demanding through every available lever: weaker European rule-making, greater access for American firms and a continent less able to offer an economic or even ideological alternative to the US model.

Europe’s rules are not necessarily constraints, but at their best, they are instruments of power. They shift the burden of collective choices away from individuals and on to the companies best placed to bear them. That is why those companies so often oppose them and why, once the rules exist, they usually comply.

The bottle cap is still attached to the bottle in Europe. The question is whether Europe retains the will to be itself – a political project that uses rules to protect its people and shape global markets – or whether, in the name of competitiveness, it surrenders that power to exactly the interests that want that power gone.

Ken Paxton, the Donald Trump-backed Texas attorney general, triumphed over incumbent John Cornyn in the Republican primary runoff for senator. His victory signals that even a scandal-plagued candidate can win over the deep red state with the support of the president.

“After a public service career lasting more than four decades and 18 consecutive campaign wins, tonight we’ve come up short in this primary runoff,” Cornyn said shortly after the race was called. “I’ve always supported the GOP ticket. I intend to do so again this general election.”

The race had wide implications for Trump’s strength heading into November’s midterm elections, where Paxton will now face James Talarico, a Democratic pastor and state legislator whose message of peace and populism has attracted much attention. If he wins, Talarico would become the first Democrat in more than 30 years to win statewide office in Texas.

Midterm elections often serve as a referendum on the sitting president and tend to help the opposing party. This year Democrats are favored to win the House of Representatives, though a supreme court decision that decimated the Voting Rights Act could allow for more Republican-leaning districts and complicate the picture. The race for Senate remains in flux, though candidatessuch as Talarico, Graham Platner in Maine, as well as purple states such as Ohio and Michigan, could upset the Republican lead.

Texas, which Trump won in 2024 by a gaping 14 percentage points in 2024, remains a conservative state, and the Republican primary was a testament to hot button issues – from religion to economy – that animate the base.

First elected state attorney general in 2014, Paxton sought to position himself as a national leader on the far right, launching some of the first criminal investigations in the US over abortion bans and gender-affirming care for transgender youth. He also led a lawsuit attempting to overturn Trump’s loss to Joe Biden in 2020, an effort the US supreme court rejected.

Brandon Rottinghaus, a political science professor at the University of Houston, said: “Paxton was Donald Trump before Donald Trump was. He was in the vanguard of the Tea Party movement, which was a major spur for the Maga movement nationally.”

But Paxton comes with significant political baggage, and national Republicans worry they will have to spend significantly more with him as the nominee. Paxton was impeached in 2023 after being accused of corruption, and reported to the FBI. He was later acquitted in a trial in the Texas senate, where his wife was a state senator but not allowed to cast a vote.

Paxton was also indicted on charges of felony securities fraud that could have led to a prison sentence, but the case was dismissed after a 2024 pre-trial diversion agreement. And last year his wife of 38 years, Angela Paxton, filed for divorce “on biblical grounds”, citing adultery.

Cornyn, meanwhile, has had a less incendiary tenure, but sought to win over Trump diehards with his own conservative bona fides, and even introducing a bill to name a future highway after Trump. But Cornyn, a prominent figure in Republican politics who was nearly chosen to be the Senate majority leader, became the latest target of Trump’s retribution campaign. In a Sunday social media post, Trump said Cornyn had been “VERY disloyal” to me and implored voters in Texas to “REMEMBER!”