Blond Bond

The next James Bond, Daniel Craig, is apparently a very good actor. I have this from an unimpeachable source, my friend Cynthia who goes to the theatre a lot and has seen him on the stage. I saw him in the film “Munich” where he played a hit man and was quite deliciously ruthless. I can’t wait for the new Bond movie, which is apparently in the making as we speak. I feel Craig could be the best Bond since Sean Connery. I do hope he has an attractive little speech impediment, too.

Another chap who has apparently expressed a desire to play Bond is Robbie Williams. I have to say he has the smouldering good looks. He’s a bit young at the moment, but I think when he’s a bit older and has been to acting lessons he could make a fine Bond. He’d have to get rid of the Stoke accent though. That’s one speech impediment too far.

I have on occasion been compared to Rosa Klebb, usually by Harold when I was compelled to rein him in from a particularly excessive bout of lunatic behaviour. Quite flattering really, not quite on a par with the Divine Margaret whose gimlet eyes could freeze a gin and tonic (usually Denis’s) at 50 paces, but quite an accolade nonetheless. Bert had no idea who Rosa Klebb was. I had to show him a copy of Der Spiegel before he would accept that she is in charge of Germany.

I wonder how they’ll get on against Argentina next weekend. I have a feeling my England v Germany final might have to wait until 2010.

A Political Football

France, aka ArsenalManutdChelsea, managed to get through to the next stage without Cissé or Zizou. Some of their players have such soppy names. One of them is called Lilian, for heaven’s sake. And almost all of them play in England. A few years ago there was a friendly match between England and France played at Wembley. Most of the French team arrived by taxi.

I'm on my soap box again about creeping globalisation, but it’s even permeated football now. The manager of the Japanese team, who is from Brazil, was caught out on camera singing along with the Brazilian national anthem. And excuse me, but one of the Japanese squad looked suspiciously non-Japanese. I suspect we’re sliding towards the Zola Budd syndrome in football. I think we should be told. I was even more astonished to see the French Prime Minister moonlighting as manager of the Argentinian squad. Mind you, the way things are in Paris right now, it might be just as well to have another string to his bow.

Is it no coincidence, surely, that Brussels should choose this particular moment to release a new 160-page report about EU’s attempt to stick its nose into the regulation of football, a process kicked off (so to speak) by the “infamous” Bosman Rule of 1995. No, ladies, this is not a variation on the offside rule. It’s all down to the Belgians again. I haven’t got time to explain it now, I’ve got legs to wax and a soufflé in the oven, but it’s all in Wikipedia. Suffice it to say that once the Eurocrats get possession of the ball, in future World Cups we could end up with just one team for the whole of Europe. (Now there’s something to keep you gentlemen busy: name your European dream-team. No, there are no prizes, it’s just to keep you quiet for half an hour.) Just imagine an EU-regulated football squad: poor teamwork, language difficulties, time-wasting, posturing, diving, cheating, ignoring of yellow cards, backhanders, inflated salaries … quite unheard of in the present game.

A long and happy life

Charles Darwin's tortoise has just died aged 175 years. The same age as Belgium. Spooky, no?

Here is a picture of Charles Darwin's late tortoise. I think a minute's silence would be appropriate. I wonder where it will be buried. And what music will be played at the funeral.

I think Eric Idle's "One foot in the grave" might be appropriate.

Forza !

Italy appear to have won the World Cup, to judge by what was going on in the centre of Brussels late this afternoon. The entire Italian community of BXL was out in their cars blocking the main artery, Boulevard Anspach, between Gare du Midi and Place de Brouckere, which I suppose is the nearest thing Brussels has to the Champs-Elysees, hooting and waving flags. The centre of town came to a standstill, the cops were out in force looking fed up, a few shy Ghanaians joined in the fun, and a morose North African man gazed miserably and said "There's going to be a war". If they win the Final, Brussels will explode (along with many other cities outside of Italy). I will certainly be down there to join them for a celebratory drinky, although I suspect it might be difficult to get a pizza that night.

But I'm still keeping an eye on Ghana.

Nostalgia ain't what it used to be

Three cheers for the W.I. ! After the stunning nudie calendar which inspired a successful film starring the ageless Helen Mirren, they have now gone on the warpath against excessive packaging. I wholeheartedly approve. Apart from the fact that a plastic carrier bag is the height of scruffiness (unless it’s a green and gold one, and even then), all that plastic is really clogging up the planet’s arteries. I am old enough to remember when milk came in a returnable glass bottle, and fruit and veg were weighed out on scales with metal weights and poured into one’s wicker basket by a florid gentleman who would oftimes throw in one for luck. I am starting to sound like Prince Charles, or John Major, with his warm beer and cricket on the village green. I am listening more and more to the test match on Radio 4, even though I don’t know my LBW from my silly mid on. I find it soothing.

I am a relic from a gentler, more organic age. I empathize with the Edward G. Robinson character in a much underrated 1973 film called “Soylent Green” in which real food and the simple pleasures of nature have been usurped by a faceless military-industrial complex which feeds people unknowingly on the ground-up remains of human corpses dyed in various colours and pressed into tablet form. So far, so unappetizing. Euthanasia is encouraged as soon as people are no longer productive, and special centres are set up for the elderly to go and turn themselves in, their sacrifice rewarded by a gentle chemical-induced death surrounded by a 360° screen showing a sort of “Look at Life” (remember those?) film of the Earth as it once was, accompanied by Beethoven’s 6th symphony (aka the St Ivel butter advert).

I wondered what I would choose for my “dernière séance”, were I given a choice ? Woodstock maybe, or the Stones Steel Wheels concert of 1998 in Imax. What would you choose for your final reel, readers? You should write it down somewhere, you never know, truth is sometimes stranger than fiction.

Now, where did I put those frozen spinach chips again ….

Blogger's Droop

Some of my fans (oh all right, ONE of my fans) (the other one) has scolded me for not blogging often enough. Goodness, there are just not enough hours in the day. How the mighty have fallen, I am not the lady of leisure I once was, and a girl has to make ends meet. I have a (oh, this pains me to say the word) -- JOB. I work on the fake jewellery counter in a well known department store. A bit like Mrs Slocombe, but without her pussy. Travelling takes up an inordinate amount of time in Belgium due to the lamentable public transport services and the fact that I live in a green and leafy, but somewhat remote, part of the city. Weekends just fly by, what with buying shoes, reading the Sunday papers and a little light housework once a quarter.

My forte was traditionally restaurant reviews. My previous blog Wayne-Boughs’ World elicited paeons of praise from A.A.Gill and Michael Winner. Jamie Oliver once kissed the hem of my flowery dress. Now I’m a single girl again, ironically I don’t get out much. Millicent Tendency only drops in now and again when she’s in town militating, and we almost always seem to end up in Chez Léon, which you can only review once. Mussels are mussels, when all’s said and done. Bert is a frightful old tightwad and never takes me anywhere except to Commission cocktail parties where the canapés are free. I have been out with a couple of Greek ladies after the belly-dancing class, Tamara Salata and Doll Mades, but frankly what can you say about Greek food? It’s all bits and pieces. So as a result I’m at a loss for a suitable temple of culinary delights to review. Perhaps if there’s a gentleman in the Brussels area with a clean dinner jacket and lots of luncheon vouchers (and it would help if he looks just a little bit like George Clooney) he’d like to help out a damsel in distress and invite me to Comme Chez Soi? I'll pay the taxi.

The Return of Blofeld

On Saturday morning, with something of a hangover due to going out with some very dubious company on Friday evening, I teetered up to Delhaize on my newly rehabilitated high heels pulling my shopping trolley, sporting my Vuarnet giant blackout glasses and looking a bit like Tina Turner after three pints of Special Brew, through my leafy suburb of Brussels (I won’t name it for fear of bringing on the Peter Mayle effect), the peace and quiet shattered only momentarily by the sound of my gin bottles crashing into the bottle bank.

I smiled indulgently at the single flag hanging out of a window in my street. A St George’s Cross, of course. I do not subscribe to this myth that all women detest football. I like a good body swerve as much as the next girl. However, there is a limit to my tolerance of the beautiful game, and I think I’ve got close to it. I switched on Radio 4 for some light relief. What caressed my shell-like ears? CRICKET! The dulcet tones of Henry Blofeld lulled me almost into a trance. He’s certainly mellowed since he was the villain in the James Bond films, hasn’t he? I wonder if he still has the cat.

Tora! Tora! Tora!

I’ve got World Cup fever now. I still don’t understand the offside rule, but I think the national anthems are spiffing. The Italians and the Brazilians sounded like they were singing a chorus from a Grand Opera. Makes “God Save the Queen” sound like a bit of a dirge.

There must be a better national anthem for sporting events. Something stirring, inspiring, glorious and triumphant, which will spur our boys and girls on to greatness, recalling past victories and filling them with pride and love for our sceptr’d isle, poetic and moving, motivating and energizing, dignified and solemn. Something with the gravitas of the Russians, the pomp of the Americans, and the flourish of the Champions League song (which always sounds like it finishes on the word “Lasagne!”).

How about “O come all ye faithful”?

Some people are on the pitch

Bert is of course away in Germany for the duration of the World Cup. Did you see him on the pitch at the opening ceremony? He was the fourteenth pair of lederhosen in the seventh row. I’m supporting several teams this year: Poland, of course, for old time’s sake. France, increasingly reluctantly (especially since the exquisite Mr Cissé now won’t be playing). Ghana, my outside chance. Australia, for the relatives in Queensland. Germany, because of Bert. Oh yes, and England. My money’s on an England-Germany final. And ve vill vin.

I have just done one of those 50-things-to-do-before-you-die things. Under pressure from Millicent Tendency, I have joined a trade union! I can’t tell you which one, but if you know anything about Belgian unions, let’s just say that green suits me better than red. I do hope they don’t have any more demos like last year. Walking through the centre of Brussels dressed in a bin-bag is not going to do much for my gravitas. And as for blowing a whistle – I’ll just rattle my pearls as loud as I can, that’s the best I can manage.

I’m obviously not a natural revolutionary, but my maxim echoes Voltaire – “I may not agree with what you say, but I will defend to the death your right to say it”. Well not DEATH, obviously. But the odd clenched fist and a bit of shouting. Let it not be said that I don’t know the meaning of the word solidarity.

Gagged for it

I owe Millicent Tendency an apology for mocking her claims that Big Brother is watching all of us. Vi Hornblower informs me that my blog no longer pops up on Google. Proof if any were needed that the shadowy Powers That Be are not only monitoring my piercing insights into life, marriage and the search for the perfect doily, but that I have been gagged!! I am on the phone to Amnesty International as I write this. How on earth can they perceive a fluffy kitten like moi as a threat to national security? This almost certainly has something to do with my post from last August “Women of Mass Destruction”. Or perhaps the mention of Omar Sharif in my birthday piece. (He is a Moslem, isn’t he?) I had been thinking about a holiday in Cuba, but not in an orange boiler suit, it really clashes with my colouring.

Au secours, readers! Free the Brussels one!

Hello Boys

I've just done my "celebrity face match" on My Heritage (as recommended by Raised by Chaffinches) and these are the nearest matches to my fizzog:

KYLIE !!!! (Down, boys)
Catherine Zeta-Jones
Kim Basinger


This would be good news, only the nearest matches to the rest of me are likely to be somewhere between Peggy Mount and Hyacinth Bucket. Still, you never know, might be somebody's idea of a winning combination.