TOP 10 HANDSOME BASTARDS OF 2006

What on earth do the media think they are doing releasing a picture like this of Saddam just before he was topped? He looks like a movie star. He could have played alongside George Clooney in Syriana. If this doesn’t make him a martyr and icon nothing will. It won’t be long before we see Saddam T-shirts, lighters, posters, shopping bags. He is a Che Guevara for the older woman. He died with dignity, and looked handsome in death. I suppose if you are a Kurd you might not quite see it that way, but it just proves my argument that if Hitler had looked like Maximilian Schell we’d all be speaking German now.

Here are 9 more handsome bounders you might or might not want to meet on a dark night.

The new Bond: he's hard ....

The original back door man - back door of no.10 that is

A kiss from Zizou could knock you for six
Would you go out for sushi with this guy?
The Special One
(just to annoy Man Utd supporters)

Gorgeous George, a real pussycat
(or is this Des Lynam?)

He has caveman appeal.

My special friend
(he reads my blog you know)

Mahmoud Ahmadinejad - crazy name, crazy guy!

Have you got anyone you'd like to add to my Rogues Gallery? Male or female. Alive or dead. They've got to be evil. Or at least fairly nasty. And very attractive.

YOU DON'T HAVE TO BE BRITISH TO LIVE HERE, BUT IT HELPS

I have been in Brussels just long enough now to start feeling cravings for Branston Pickle and Marmite. I don’t know why, because I never liked them to start with. But there’s something about expatriate life, especially if you don’t return to Blighty very often, that makes you reinvent the Britain you imagine you left behind, which is invariably much nicer than the Britain you really did leave behind.

I have done the whole immersion thing in France, which only had the effect of making me aggressive and lacking in a sense of humour, although on the plus side, I’ve never gone out with shoes and handbag that didn’t match since. I have decided against it this time. In the words of Dame Shirley Bassey, I Am What I Am. I am an English laydee, and henceforth I shall live like one, whichever part of the world I find myself in.

So after installing satellite TV, thereby enabling me to stay in touch with popular culture at home – the great lacuna in English language teaching in Belgium is the absence of Ant and Dec from school curricula – I decided to make the pilgrimage to Stonemanor, the British store situated in a beautiful old manorhouse on the north-east outskirts of Brussels. In order to do this I had to take a bus from the De Lijn company, which is Flemish. Yes, they even have separate bus companies here. I noticed with interest that the De Lijn bus was more spacious, comfortable and clean than the STIB buses. Make of that wat u wil.

On alighting from the bus in the spick and span Flemish village of Everberg I permitted myself a slightly superior smile, rather proud that “our” store was not in some godforsaken corner on the wrong side of the canal. On the Saturday before Christmas the car park was full of Range Rovers and the store was full of families in matching Barbour jackets stocking up on last minute supplies of Tikka Masala seasoning and Andrex. It was like another world, where well-dressed Eurocrats gently steered their little Tarquins and Freyas towards the traditional sugar-free Christmas treats and Jonathan Ross burbled inanely over the loudspeakers. The expats had come out en famille, many of them accompanied by an elderly relative obviously “out” for the Christmas hols. This was perhaps not a good idea, some of the old dears were looking decidedly cardiac after working out the prices on their calculators. I had a frisson when I saw an elderly gentleman in a beige cardigan asking “HOW MUCH??” in horrified tones. Dear Harold will always be with me in spirit.

This was not the England I remembered, where merry cries of “Brandon! Put that vodka bottle back or Fackin Farver Chrissmas won’t bring you another ASBO!” and “Chardonnay! Gitowvereeyah!” filled the air in my local Tesco. I drifted down the aisles, eyes wide with wonder, wondering where such gentle, well-dressed, well-spoken people could hail from. Another planet, where ITV did not exist, perhaps?

Readers, I had a moment of madness. I bought fresh cream, Mr Kipling mince pies, fig rolls, chocolate digestives, sausage rolls, Heinz tomato soup, bacon, sausages, Tetleys tea bags, After Eights. There was even a cheese counter, where I couldn’t resist some Stilton and a piece of “Scrumpy” (as I had invited the eponymous itinerant eco-warrier for Christmas lunch - my contribution to Making Poverty History). It was rather pungent but surprisingly strong.

Stonemanor is not just a food store. Oh no. Upstairs is a whole floor of greetings cards, childrens books, and stationery. On the second floor is a whole floor of FURNITURE. Beds and so forth. Because foreign beds don’t quite cut the mustard. And their pillows are all the wrong shape. You can’t beat a good wholesome British mattress for a good night’s sleep and none of that continental hanky panky.

The queue for the checkout was long, but the cashiers (who didn’t appear to speak a word of anything other than English) were marshalling shoppers in that quiet but firm way so beloved of the British armed forces. “No,” one cashier explained patiently to a couple who were obviously foreign and shouldn’t even have been there, “there is ONE queue, and three checkouts. When it is your turn you step forward. Until then, you wait in the queue.” Without raising his voice or even wagging a finger, he refused to be swayed, bribed or threatened. The foreign couple slunk away with their basket to the end of the queue. I silently (the British way) applauded him. That is the sort of no-nonsense people management that makes us so efficient. I quietly hummed “Land of Hope and Glory” as I waited in the single queue, waiting to step forward when my turn came.

I staggered out with bulging shopping bags, a rictus grin of delirious happiness on my flushed face. I had found the England I always imagined! A land of wealthy, plummy (apart from the Oirish), expensively dressed, orderly couples with 2.4 well-behaved if slightly overfed children, a gas guzzling 4x4 and a dyspeptic granddad. I’ve come home!

REINDEER AND RENNIES

Brussels really gets into the Christmas spirit big-time in the last week’s run-up to the holiday. I have paid several visits to the Christmas market in the last week, where le tout Bruxelles was eating, drinking, shopping, drinking, eating, drinking … spontaneous parties were breaking out in pubs all over the town centre, and many people had adorned themselves with Christmas decorations. ‘Tis the season to be jolly … a troupe of about 20 lunatic Frenchmen dressed up in a variety of jumble-sale outfits (a couple of Santas de rigueur for the season) and equipped with an impressive collection of trumpets, trombones, saxophones, a tuba and a couple of sousaphones were entertaining the crowd. The Reims University Medical Faculty Fanfare (brass band) – aka Boules de Feu (Balls of Fire) – for it was they - were knocking out corny old dancehall and big band favourites, jazzed up with gipsy, klezmer, latino, Arabic, reggae or Balkan rhythms bashed out on a couple of portable snare drums. The result is a BIG sound with no amps (who needs amps when you’ve got a 20-piece brass section?), but tons of chutzpah, pizzazz, and pure joie-de-vivre. They even attempt some approximate dance routines, and the overall effect is of an energetic bunch of talented lunatics who have escaped from the asylum via the pub. The nearest British equivalent is Madness, with a dash of the Pogues. I hope you're never taken ill in Reims if this lot are manning the emergency ward. They might not patch you up, but you’d die laughing.

Then ensued the onslaught that is the annual Christmas visit of Vera and Cyril Slapp. This year they were au fait enough with Brussels to be let loose on their own and even made it up to Antwerp, although apparently didn’t get as far as the Christmas market there, as Vera couldn’t get past the diamond shops. Vera is very fond of the old mulled wine, or vin chaud, which Cyril, deaf sod that he is, thinks is pronounced “Banjo”. We sampled a variety of Banjos, including an Estonian variety which certainly warmed your toes, and even ventured into the realm of flavoured Genever (or Jennifer, thank you Cyril). Apart from drinking and shopping for England, the main focus of the Slapps Christmas Visit is eating. We ate at old favourite Chez Léon, where the onion soup is to die for. We also had two stonking meals at Bij den Boer, by the Christmas market, and at La Roue d’Or, just off the Grand’ Place, which I shall be reviewing for Tippler’s rag so am not going to give away much here, apart from the ginormous dimensions of the caramelised ham hock which Vera demolished. She’s only a little woman but she’s a JCB digger with a knife and fork in her hands. She was so engrossed in her food that she even forgot to goose the waiter as she usually does.

In between Banjos we sampled chocolates from various establishments. We sampled Leonidas and Corné Port-Royal, Galler and Godiva, Manon and Mary’s (the Queen’s favourite chocolatier) (the Queen of the Belgians I mean, not QE2). They tried fresh strawberries dipped in chocolate as well as some made of marzipan with flavouring that recalls Opal Fruits. It is so divinely decadent to pop into a chocolate shop at nearly 11 p.m. after a huge meal and buy a half dozen exquisite morsels to help you make it up the wooden hill.

Brussels City Council has done up the Grand’Place again in fine form. The huge Christmas tree is decorated in blue and silver with galloping silver reindeer. The light show and electronic music kick off every half hour or so, coloured spotlights playing on the lacey architecture of the Hôtel de Ville and the guild houses, while lasers strafe the night sky and ghostly reindeer shapes gallop across the facades. At the end of each little session a barrage of bubbles is released, which catch the coloured lights and give the effect of multi-coloured glass baubles floating up into the sky. Little children chased them excitedly, as did Vera Slapp. What I admire about that woman is that varicose veins and fallen arches have never dimmed her childlike enthusiasm.

The Slapps had barrelled off on the Eurostar back to the Cotswolds laden with shopping, and I was already feeling decidedly jaded, but bravely hitched up my support stockings and tootled off to Waterloo last night for a Christmas party hosted by a Belgian colleague from work and her husband. Most of the guests were French, with me and a Polish man making up the numbers. The French were in fine fettle and after a few glasses of wine were showing their appreciation of the British. I was treated to the French rugby fans’ version of God Save the Queen, and plenty of good-natured ribbing. Jacek leaned over at one point and whispered, conspiratorially: “I’m glad you’re here, it keeps them off the Polish plumber jokes.”

I'm just off to stock up on Rennies. I wish you all a peaceful Christmas holiday, and a good digestion.

SAUCISSONAL GREETINGS

I got a Christmas gift from my employers.

It was a sausage.

A Spanish chorizo, to be precise. And two bottles of Spanish wine. My colleague and I all got the same, and great hilarity abounded throughout my office as some of us hadn’t had a sausage in quite some time.

Sausages are produced in virtually every European country, indeed worldwide, in various forms, and each country is justifiably proud of their technique and dimensions. The excited chattering of my colleagues on receiving this generous gift transcended the language barrier, and length, thickness, meatiness, curve, shape, aroma and colour of each country’s respective pride and joy were discussed. Sausages were compared from different EU countries – or should I say Member States. I myself am partial to a bit of black pudding, although if I can’t get my hands on that I’ll happily chomp on a nice juicy German Bockwurst between a couple of toasted buns.

My Belgian colleague favours the Ardennes sausage, which is small but very hard. Her French boss was bragging about all the varieties of French sausage – Toulouse, garlic, andouillette, saucisson. It is well known that the French use donkey meat in their saucissons which hang up in the supermarkets. Hence the expression “hung like a donkey”. In France you also find the exotic Merguez mutton sausage from North Africa - which is is hot and spicy and bright red. My Polish colleague spoke proudly about his country’s national treasure, the kabanos, which is long, thin and bendy, best smoked and enjoyed after a few glasses of vodka.

The Italian Corridor gesticulated noisily about their salami, with lots of expansive hand gestures to indicate length and girth. I think one or two of them were exaggerating just to impress the ladies. I smiled to myself, thinking of Bert. He, being German, is the sausage king, the Furst of Wurst, if you will, with more varieties than you can dip in a bucket of mustard. Bockwurst, Bratwurst, Münchener Weisswurst, Frankfurter, Leberwurst, Berliner Currywurst, Wiener … there is a Place Wiener in Brussels, but since the extension of the 94 tram route we no longer have the pleasure of seeing trams with the name “Wiener” on the front, much to the chagrin of our American friends who used to find it highly amusing for some reason.

I expounded to my Eurocomrades upon the UK's second-favourite national dish: although considered not the full shilling by our continental neighbours (especially the French, who re-label them as “preparations de porc”), a sizzling hot British banger is the best way to start the day. I especially enjoy one with some stuffing at Christmas, or lying in a fluffy bed of mashed potato smothered in thick gravy. I remember many a happy evening ended with a saveloy after a night down the pub, back in my younger days. I did not dwell on the chipolata, which is not our greatest export, but when I described the Cumberland sausage, with its great loops, they all expressed admiration, one of the Italians applauding and crying "Bravissimo!"

Should you not have a supplier of sausage handy and wish to try making your own, I found this useful recipe on Allrecipes website, courtesy of Cheryl Wisniewski, for which you will require a firm hand and a supple wrist.

Ingredients:

• 3 pounds pork shoulder, trimmed and cubed
• 1 clove garlic
• 1 tablespoon salt
• ground black pepper to taste
• sausage casings

1. In a medium bowl, mix together the pork, garlic, salt and pepper. Place on a clean smooth surface and knead, knead, knead for at least 10 or 15 minutes. The longer you knead it, the more tender your sausage will be.
2. Soak the sausage casings in water for 1 or 2 minutes. Rinse the casings by sliding over the faucet. Slide the casing all the way up onto the spout of a sausage stuffing funnel. Press meat through the funnel into the casing carefully so that no air bubbles get inside. Sausages should be plump. Twist periodically to form links.
3. Place sausages in a large pot with enough water to cover them. Bring to a boil, then reduce heat to low, cover the pot, and simmer for 1 hour and 15 minutes. They can be frozen after cooling. Use as you would store bought Polish Sausage.

What more can I say? I think Cheryl's said it all. I wish you much satisfaction, whether you enjoy your sausage alone or with a friend. I am looking forward to tasting my Spanish sausage, which I will savour, slowly, while admiring this photograph of a tasty Spanish morsel.

MEIN GOTT

Stephen Hawking said on the BBC the other day: "What people call 'God' is the embodiment of the forces of nature." You sort of understand what he means when you open the curtains in the very early morning and see this.


And then it makes you think of something else. An uncanny echo of this:



The German flag.

Is this a message? Do my German homework, perhaps.


This is what I see when I wake up too early:



Takes the sting out of not being able to get back to sleep.


Below, in the dawn's early light, EU headquarters' lights are already blazing, the red tape machine firing up for another day's nitpicking.

SAY CHEESE

I regret to say I haven't had time to prepare a dissertation for your delectation today, so I'm going to post some of my photographs of the Christmas market to keep you amused. I like taking photographs, even though I find those silly little digital cameras too small and light to resist my heavy (and, on days such as this, after the bloggers' Christmas extravaganza last night, I must confess a slightly shaky) hand, and remain faithful to my trusty old gas-powered Samsung AF Zoom 1050, which requires me to leg it down to the developers and wait three days, but does produce fairly decent pictures which I can then scan in. Last night over the canapes and champagne I was enviously eyeing the Twat's fancy digital SLR whilst striking a pose, but when he told me how much it had cost I choked on my Dom Perignon. If anyone can recommend a digital SLR with some basic options (variable shutter speed, changeable lenses, that sort of thing) at a reasonable price (or better still, buy it for me) I would be most grateful.

Fish shop Brussels style (note the glass of white wine)

Anyone recognize that gorilla?

St Catherine's Church from the Christmas Market

Not Bangkok - Brussels' Chinatown with Christmas lights

Are they expecting power cuts this winter?

Brussels' Rocking Santa

SCOUTING FOR TALENT

When out and about on public transport, I often see groups of Scouts setting off on an Adventure, or coming back from one, with muddy knees and woggles akimbo. They are usually groups of Cub Scouts accompanied by one or more older Scouts, all in uniform, usually boys but the occasional girl. The older Scouts are teenagers of an age where, in the UK, they would be wearing hoodies, £100 trainers and baggy jeans with the crotch between their knees, but these lads are quite unselfconscious in their long shorts (in summer), neckerchiefs in the trendy new scouting colours and proudly sporting their badges. They actually look quite good, as only continental boys can. The little ‘uns look up to the big 'uns and follow their instructions obediently. British boys of the same age would rather do time in a juvenile detention centre than be seen by their mates dressed like that and shepherding a bunch of seven-year-olds.

Before you accuse me of ogling young men’s legs, let me tell you a sobering story. This summer a 17-year-old Scout was murdered at Brussels Centraal Station on a weekday afternoon by a couple of teenage hoodlums who were trying to rob him of his iPod at knifepoint. Everyone instinctively thinks of him when they see these responsible young fellows with their charges.

These Belgian boys and girls will grow up with experience of taking responsibility for younger children, and I imagine many of them might well become teachers. In the UK there is a recruitment crisis in the teaching profession. Partly because of all the checks that have to be done before you can work with children, but partly I suspect because young people no longer have any experience of looking after their juniors. They are not allowed to, for one thing, as parents will not let their precious little Tarquins out of their sight unless they are accompanied by a couple of middle aged female vicars with a defibbrilator. And so the crisis builds on itself, as the numbers of graduates entering the teaching profession diminishes, the class numbers grow, the kids get more out of control and irresponsible and less likely to go into teaching themselves. The pressure to be “cool” is such that being identified as a Scout, especially after your voice has broken, is worse than being identified as a lout. It seems the only badge British teenagers are proud to wear these days is an ASBO.

I often complain about Belgium being stuck in a time warp, but sometimes I’m quite glad it is. I have a feeling it will eventually go the way of the UK. But for the time being it’s worth putting up with reliving the 1970s for the pleasure of seeing a young man’s woggle.

WHERE EGOS DARE

Bert, or Baron Heinrich von Fuchs-Langezeit zu Neanderthal to give him his full honours, is not one to hide his light under a buschel. Sorry, bushel. Not for him the role of the caring nobleman disguising himself as a peasant, the better to understand the suffering of his subjects. Bert operates more along the lines of Ludwig II, the extravagant 18th century King of Bavaria. He puts the manic in Germanic. He turns arrogance into an art form. He is L’Oréal Man (“Because I’m verse it!”). He could almost be French.

At the moment he is ordering me about like Captain Von Trapp with Julie Andrews. Honestly, I think he thinks I work for him. Fetch this, do that, unzip the other. “Listen, Schatzi, I’m not your secretary,” I said to him the other day. “If you want to send me some flowers, you have to phone the florist yourself.”

I have compared him on occasion to a number of Teutonic megalomaniacs, from Attila the Hun to General von Klinckerhoffen, with touches of Michael Schumacher here and there (at traffic lights, for example). He does everything with an irritating perfectionism. He has the precision of Jürgen Klinsmann, the determination of Boris Becker, and the phone number of Claudia Schiffer’s hairdresser. He is even vaguely related to the British Royal Family, his ancestry being situated on the outer reaches of the Saxe-Coburg-Gotha line. He is 1,976th in line to the throne, or thereabouts. He keeps an ermine robe in his wardrobe, just in case.

I found the following extracts in my favourite book which could have been written about Bert.

“ … adventurer, ex-hippy, good timer (crook? Quite possibly), manic self-publicist, terribly bad at personal relationships, often thought to be completely out to lunch …”

“… he had seen the whole Universe stretching to infinity around him – everything. And with it had come the clear and extraordinary knowledge that he was the most important thing in it.”

This is from the late Douglas Adams’ seminal meisterwerk “The Hitch Hiker’s Guide to the Galaxy”. This book is far more than a comic science-fiction story. There are some universal truths in it that will be handed down to future generations alongside Shakespeare and Oscar Wilde. Such as the answer to the question about Life, The Universe and Everything being “42”. It’s blindingly obvious when you think about it. And a timeless piece of good advice: “Don’t Panic”. It’s as good as the Bible. (If you are Zed’s born-again nutter, don’t bother sending in a great lecture about blasphemy, the Bishop is a very good friend of mine and approves all my posts before they go up).

On my last re-reading, the scales fell from my eyes, and I realized that Bert was the embodiment of one of the key characters in THHGTTG. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Zaphod von Beeblebrox. Minus the second head and the third arm, of course, but otherwise his Westphalian alter ego.

With the emphasis on the Ego.

BLACK RUSSIAN

Last Sunday I went to see a film about a Mr Borat from Kazakhstan. I thought it was hilariously funny, and even more so afterwards when I was let in on the joke. Mr Borat, you see, is not his real name. Behind the luxuriant moustache hides Ali G. Remarkable that a black man has managed to convincingly play an Eastern European. His Russian was a bit peculiar and sounded more like Polish, and even Yiddish on occasion, but perhaps that’s the Kazakh dialect.

The writer of the screenplay, Sacha Baron-Cohen, is a nice looking young man, with a faint resemblance to Mr Borat, perhaps he's from Kazakhstan. He has a lesser-known relative, a cousin, I believe, called Simon, a psychology professor at Cambridge University, who has published a remarkable book called The Essential Difference. He has scientifically proved my pet theory that most men are autistic to a greater or lesser degree. This has come as a great relief to many women who thought they’d bagged a defective one. It’s an overall design fault, girls. God’s been working on an improved model but the best he’s come up with so far is the Hairdresser, which is big on empathy but can be disappointing in the bedroom. Look on the bright side, ladies. It could be worse. You could have bagged a Kazakh, like Mrs Borat.

A number of bloggers also hide behind a fictitious persona. I find this quite sad. What terrible lack of self-confidence would induce someone to pretend they were someone else? It smacks of dishonesty in the extreme. I have nothing to hide, unlike some I could mention. That Aunty Marianne, for example, is nothing like her blog persona. In reality she is a wild-eyed gipsy who lives in a caravan with 14 mangy cats and sings Edith Piaf songs in the metro. Gorilla Bananas, par contre, is a most genuine gorilla and certainly not a man in a monkey suit, as some have intimated. He's even written a book! That experiment with the monkey and the typewriter worked eventually.

Talking of monkey suits, in honour of UpFront’s Bond Party this Friday night at Monkey Business, Rue Defacqz, let's hear it for the greatest Bond girl who never was … Dame Shirley Bassey. The voice. The frock. The wig. Did you know she is half Nigerian and half Welsh? I saw her once, back in 1976 or thereabouts, in a shopping mall in Estepona, buying a copy of the Daily Mirror. Fantastic legs. Duke of Edinburgh’s favourite pin-up apparently. All together now:

Diamonds are
Forevaaaaaaaahhhhh …..

Good Lord is that the time?

I realized with horror this morning that Christmas is a mere four weeks away, and set off in search of Christmas presents. This year everyone is getting something in the shape of the Mannequin-Pis. Even if I have to bake it myself. The Christmas lights are up on the Rue Neuve but there was not much of a Yuletide atmosphere, it was much too warm to get festive. There was a strong wind, but the temperature was 18 degrees Celsius! And we’re nearly December.

I'm not much of a one for Christmas, to tell you the truth. Much as I like tinsel and sequins, I dislike being marshalled into being jolly once a year on command, and usually end up going the other way entirely, being quite grumpy and miserable. More than usual, that is. This year, like last, I will be without Harold, which is one reason to be a bit more cheerful I suppose. At least there's less chance of the Christmas pudding having to be put out by the local fire brigade. (See Christmas 2001 in Warsaw).

The South American pan pipe band were playing soporific rainforest music in the Place de la Monnaie dressed up in the full wigwam, looking for all the world like a trio of extra large turkeys with their trimmings on, ready for Christmas dinner. Brussels sprouts optional.

As the light faded I wandered down the Galeries St Hubert where the Christmas decs this year are very minimalist. Last year they were bizarre in the extreme and slightly erotic. This year they are just plain onion-shaped glowing lanterns that change colour. Very boring. The chocolate shops in the gallery had their Christmas collections on display, but I bravely looked the other way. What I love about the shops downtown is the number of specialist shops selling just hats, or just gloves, or just walking sticks. You don’t find those in UK any more.

A number of bars were already serving “vin chaud” which in the present greenhouse climate is tantamount to serving mulled wine in the south of France. I do hope there’s at least a bit of frost for Christmas. I have spent many a festive season in tropical climes and I can tell you it’s not the same. Oh Come All Ye Faithful has to be sung at below room temperature otherwise it doesn’t sound right. Caledonian Societies still insist on doing full tartan Hogmanays in equatorial climes which is just plain bonkers. It’s far too hot and humid to do the Dashing White Sergeant with any gusto, and the mosquitoes get right up yer kilt.

I continued on to the Grand’Place where as usual there was something wacky going on. The nativity stable (which last year had real live animals!) was erected but not quite ready, it will open on the first day of Advent, 1st December. Night had just fallen, and to a soundtrack of dreamy electronic music a group of stilt-walkers in elaborate Venetian carnival costumes were trying to glide gracefully around, although it is not easy to glide in stilts on cobblestones in a Force 7 gale, albeit a warm one. It reminded me that after the gluttony and anticlimax of Christmas comes the lunacy of Carnival, when Belgium turns into Brazil minus the sunshine. On my way back I came across a carnival shop, stuffed to the gunnels with costumes, masks, wigs, what the French call “Farces et Attrapes”, magic tricks, false noses, that sort of thing. I brushed a tear from my eye when I saw a Zorro outfit, as it reminded me of Harold. I bought a little plastic dog turd to remind me of my dear lamented mythomaniac husband and his love of practical jokes. It's sitting on the mantelpiece as I write this. It's almost as if he were here with me.

The Leb Factor

This week I have been mostly watching Al Jazeera in English, broadcast from Doha, in Qatar. Far from being Bin Laden’s post office, they are a highly professional team of journalists from all over the Arab world and elsewhere. Many of them came from the old BBC Arabic Service, which was closed down a few years back, and have retained the erstwhile BBC ethos of honest and unbiased reporting. Familiar faces such as David Frost and Darren Jordon, ex of the BBC, now work for AJI, as does the highly decorative Rageh Omaar (rhymes with phwoaarr). The studio is almost identical to the BBC newsroom, the format very much along the lines of Sky News, only the focus is slanted differently. It’s not better than Sky or BBC. Certainly not worse. It’s just different. And, I think, necessary. The programming gives priority to stories from the Middle East and Africa, and a very necessary alternative approach to the Iraq war. They're not anti-American per se. They had trouble with other Arab governments before they had trouble with George Bush. There’s no commercial advertising, I have no idea where their money comes from. But they are banned in Bahrain, Jordan, Kuwait and Saudi Arabia – yes, that’s right, those bastions of free speech -- which indicates that they are nobody’s puppet.

There’s also the other small thing. There are a lot of nice looking dusky men with smouldering dark brown eyes on Al Jazeera. The Leb Factor is not to be sniffed at.

This week I have been mostly listening to Tinariwen. Their 2004 album “Amassakoul” is an excellent introduction to this bunch of unconventional Sahraoui Touaregs who, legend has it, formed as rebel soldiers in exile and rode into Nouakchott after the rebellion was over carrying their machine guns in one hand and electric guitars in the other. They are authentic “Blue Men” (with a couple of blue women) and wear traditional desert clobber on stage. Their music is proof that the blues originated in Africa. The hypnotic camel-driving rhythms of Oualahila ar tesninam overlaid with electric riffs and Ibrahim Ag Alhabibe’s growly bass vocals will blow a desert storm through your head, especially if listened to through headphones with the volume turned up. They apparently have a new album out this week which is going straight on my Christmas list.

And tomorrow Aunty Marianne and I are going to review an Arabic type restaurant for UpFront magazine, which is very exciting. So as not to be spotted, we will go in local garb. They'll never guess who we are.

The end of an era

On 1^st January 2007, Belgium and England will declare smoking bans in public places, including pubs, cafes and restaurants. These bans are already in place in Ireland, Scotland, Italy, Norway, and Spain. They will come into force next summer in Wales, and France will follow in 2008. Croatia passed the legislation but then changed its mind, but Albania brought it in this summer. Germany is thinking about it. Hungary has no plans to impose it, but they have the highest lung cancer figures in Europe. QED. The jury is still out on Greece.

This is not a self-righteous rant by a rabid anti-smoker, since I have been known to enjoy the occasional Sobranie myself. However, coughing one’s guts up at the bus stop is not very ladylike, so I have decided to make a serious attempt to renounce the weed. Zoe, herself an ex-smoker, is encouraging me by snatching the offending article out of my hand whenever she catches me at it. This has resulted in the occasional scuffle, and on one occasion I punched her on the nose, but it is for my own good so I forgive her. Tippler is very helpful too, in a less draconian way.

Bert has seen the writing on the wall and is going into training for 1^st January. Being German and a former substitute in the 1966 World Cup Squad, he’s going to be very methodical and determined about it, and has not only given up the gaspers but has taken up sport. He goes running in the morning, swimming in the evening, and plays squash at lunchtime. I hardly see him any more, and when I do he’s in a sweaty tracksuit. Ugh. He’s talking about doing the Brussels marathon next year. I suppose I might be able to help with the endurance training.

Blogger is getting on my nerves. Changing to beta has made it easier to fiddle about with the layout and whatnot, but I've lost my hit counter and despite cutting and pasting any number of bits of html, it's not appearing. So I'm losing track of how many admirers I've got. It's enough to give a girl an identity crisis. It's certainly not beta than it was. Hollow laughter.