The Ab Fab Four

After meeting up on Saturday in Paris with Allora Gobbi, the Merseyside Madonna, and her two lady companions, we arrived fashionably late at the Stade de France and managed to completely miss the support act which was some outfit called Razorlight. Never heard of ‘em. There then followed a very long interval during which we, the crowd, amused ourselves by trying to get a Mexican Wave lined up on three levels. We had almost got it completely synchronized by 9.15, and had almost forgotten why we were there. Then, just as the daylight started to fade, the lights on the stage blazed up, some dry ice puffed out, fireworks exploded, and the Fab Four opening the proceedings with “Jumping Jack Flash”. I was a bit disappointed with the crowd, who remained seated for quite a long time, clapping along sedately like an OAP singalong, but they warmed up as the evening wore on. The average age of the audience is so old nowadays that it takes most of them ten minutes to stand up and even longer to sit down.

The old darlings did not disappoint. Keith Richards was no more incoherent than usual after his recent coconut-harvesting accident and ensuing brain surgery, and got a long standing ovation for not being dead. A wag in the audience had brought along an inflatable palm tree which was wagging about in time to the music. Sir Mick Jagger is undoubtedly still the star turn. His level of fitness is phenomenal given his age (63 last week). He danced, he pranced, he strutted, he twirled, he pirouetted, he pouted and sang and talked in French for two solid hours – and after all that still managed to run from one end of the 100-metre wide stage to the other. He waggled his still-pert bottom most suggestively on several occasions, showing off a taut, flat tummy. The man is a miracle of nature and an inspiration to all of us who have no intention of growing old gracefully. I still have the sore hips as a memento of the evening and a hint of immobility yet to come.

The rest of the weekend was a whirl of taxis, shopping, eating, shoes, drinking, admiring riot policemen, shoes, pretty shiny things, sitting down, handbags, terrorizing café waiters, and more shoes. After Saturday evening’s dinner at Vagenende, on the boulevard St Germain (slightly disappointing, and not cheap), we went for a late-night boat trip down the Seine. This is the best way to see the monuments of Paris which are lit up in spectacular style. The boat had an extraordinary number of Chinese tourists on board, and the recorded commentary was in Mandarin as well as French, English, German and Spanish. It was a very hot night, and for miles the banks of the Seine and the bridges were packed with people sitting, drinking, dancing, smoking dubious substances, singing, kissing, or plotting the downfall of the government. It was like one huge party. I have seen it time and time again, and it never fails to entrance. We passed a number of disco boats blaring loud music and on one occasion we all joined in with “YMCA” – even our Chinese friends knew all the actions!

We arrived back on dry land just before midnight in time for the penultimate “sparkle” – every hour on the hour until 1.00 a.m. the Eiffel Tower sparkles like a cheap Christmas decoration for ten minutes. Our oriental friends loved it and a barrage of camera flashes gave the Twinkly Tower some serious competition. I think it’s quite tacky frankly, but it matched Allora’s shoes, and rounded off the evening with a flourish.

This afternoon our respective trains carried us away from the Gare du Nord, to the audible sighs of relief of the café waiters of Paris, still nursing their stinging buttocks and remembering with terror in their eyes the visit of the Ab Fab Four.

It's only peace & quiet but I like it

It was so hot yesterday I had to take refuge in the forest. The Forêt de Soignes happens to be at the end of my street. It is idyllic and barely frequented during the week, so after a bit of a lie down with Evelyn Waugh and 40 winks, I sat on a bench in the evening sunlight by a small lake surrounded by trees, dragonflies buzzing the lily pads and a couple of ducks having a noisy splash-about, with not a soul in sight. It was like being an aristocrat and having your own huge private estate with fishing rights. I felt like Marie-Antoinette, without the sheep. I remembered a remark by one of my Polish friends in Warsaw, who said: “When I see all the beautiful Polish fruit and vegetables on the market nowadays, I feel rich.” There are treasures in life that are free, and we mustn’t take them for granted.

Luckily the heatwave is due to ease off tomorrow, as I am taking the train down to Paris for a weekend of girly giddiness with Allora Gobbi, the Madonna of Merseyside, and her gels. Next week I’ll report on my fifth hearing in thirty years of the - by now - oldest rock ‘n’ roll band in the world. The Rolling Stones are one of life's not quite so free delights. In fact, with the trip to Paris in June for the concert that was cancelled, this has turned out to be quite an expensive exercise. Sir Michael Jagger will therefore forgive me for not sending him anything for his 63rd birthday yesterday. It seems he picked himself up a little birthday present in South America anyway. Such stamina! The man makes one proud to be British.

The things you see on your travels

Warsaw's answer to South Molton Street

Warsaw's Belgian restaurant (goose specially imported from ... FRANCE)

The proof that Mick Hucknall's career is over

How to hold on to your Pole

A new variation on Szechuan

Sects and Chopin

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A Hot Flash in Antwerp

As it was Belgian National Day today and a holiday, I took myself off for a day trip to Antwerp. And was Most Pleasantly Surprised. Antwerp knocks spots off Brussels. For a start, it feels like a real city, big and imposing and self confident. With a River. A River is very important. I think that’s why Brussels doesn’t feel like a proper city, it’s only got a canal. Antwerp has great shopping, loads of restaurants and bars, a Chinese quarter, the second biggest port in Europe, so lots of sailors …. and diamonds. Oh wow, has it got diamonds. They hit you in the face the minute you step outside the station. Sparkle, sparkle, sparkle, they went. Daphne, Daphne, Daphne, they called. Almost made me forget about chocolate. I earmarked a few pretty items for my next Big Occasion, or next husband, whichever arrives first.

Antwerp is also a mere 35 minutes by train from Brussels, and a day return set me back a whopping £4.50. I can’t believe I’ve been here nearly a year and no-one has told me what a fabulous place it is. The Twerps, as the residents of Antwerp are called, know how to keep a good thing to themselves.

It was horrendously hot today. To make matters worse, I fear I may have reached that milestone in a woman’s life. The hot flashes. Although it’s very difficult to tell in this weather. I shall have to wait until the autumn to know for sure. In the meantime I shall attempt to perspire daintily and always carry a couple of extra lace handkerchiefs.

The heat drove me into the Royal Museum of Fine Arts, where I cooled off among the Flemish Old Masters. The museum thought they’d jazz things up a bit by sprinkling the works of Antwerp-born “installation artist” Jan Fabre throughout the permanent exhibits. They were most incongruous, plonked in the middle of rooms full of 16^th Century Flemish masterpieces. One exhibit that stopped me in my tracks for a good few minutes was an incredibly lifelike model of the artist with his nose smashed into a (presumably fake) Old Master, the dripping blood forming a puddle on the floor in which he (or his effigy) stood in bare feet. I know what Harold would have said had he been there. However, it was so lifelike I couldn’t resist offering to drop an ice cube down his back. Some puzzled looks were exchanged with other visitors. Most peculiar. But is it art?

Nowa Polska

I am back from the Eastern front, eaten alive by mosquitoes but relatively unscathed by strong drink. The wedding was very pleasant, although quite unconventional by Polish standards. Civil ceremony, no speeches, no dancing, no drunkenness … but the young couple had the day they wanted, which is what counts. The bride looked lovely, her tattoo proudly displayed above her strapless wedding dress. I commiserated with her father, who is a fine figure of a man for his age, with a strong resemblance to both Stalin and Saddam Hussein. “Oy, Dasia,” he opined soberly, “Things were much better under Communism”.

He’s not going back far enough. Things were much better before Communism. There was more aristocracy in Poland than anywhere else before World War II. Everyone laughed at how all the Polish pilots in the RAF claimed to be counts. That’s because they really were. Counts. Warsaw claimed the title of “Paris of the East”. Mind you, so did Bucharest, Budapest and St Petersburg. I would have been in fine company in pre-war Warsaw, my noble breeding shining through, having my hand kissed by all those good-looking Polish officers in their tight breeches …

Sorry, where was I? The weather was fabulous, and Warsaw is looking good these days. The EU money is definitely filtering through. The young ladies were as lovely as ever and even the men were looking better. I don’t know if it’s because I am now footloose and fancy-free again, and therefore anything in trousers looks good, or perhaps it’s because the shaved head is finally fashionable everywhere. The Poles have always favoured it because it is cheap and manly. It’s like being in a whole country full of Mitchell brothers.

I won’t drone on too much about my adventures in the East, or there’ll only be Shyha still awake. Suffice it to say that it was a most enjoyable trip down memory lane, the ghost of Harold was nowhere to be seen (probably down in Kraków making a nuisance of himself) and I shall most certainly be going back again in the future, for a longer stay. You’ll have to wait for the photographs, as I still use a Kodak Brownie and have to wait for the film to be developed and scanned. Can’t be doing with those silly little digital things. They pick up the slightest touch of delirium tremens.

My only problem with travelling these days is flying. Now I deliberately did not use one of these budget airlines, which are only about 60 euros cheaper, and fly from some hellforsaken dump miles from anywhere (Oh all right, Charleroi. Apologies to all the poor souls who have to live there) and flew from Brussels International on LOT (which was known some twenty-odd years ago as “Lands On Trees” after one of their planes crashed in the forest). I was lucky enough to have a double seat all to myself on both legs of the journey. But for some reason I always manage to be seated behind a heavy-set man who reclines his seat for the whole journey and fidgets constantly, leaving me about 3” margin for manoeuvre and sloshing my drink everywhere. On the return journey from Warsaw, it was an Italian. I was sorely tempted to give him the Zidane Kiss from behind as he was descending the steps onto the tarmac. But, as the eternally wise P.I. said, leadership requires anger management. So I just rammed him with my trolley at the baggage reclaim.

Next time you are travelling by air, gentlemen, spare a thought for the lady in the seat behind. If you don’t want a bash on the head with a rolled-up copy of “The Lady”.

Na Zdrowie

I’m going outside. I may be some time.

I’m off on a few days R&R tomorrow, to Po-Land (as opposed to Lala-land) where I spent many happy years, even in midwinter when the temperatures dropped to minus 20. At this time of year it should be hot and sunny. The land of strong beer and even stronger sausages, the land of the late Pope JP2, Marie Curie, Joseph Conrad and (still alive I believe) Roman Polanski; the land where “no” means yes, and where they have a street named after Winnie the Pooh.

Not your standard holiday destination, I will concede, but I refer you to my other blog, Wayne-Boughs’ World, which was a commentary on my three years over there. You will find that there’s plenty to see. And eat. I am invited to a Polish wedding in Warsaw, which will involve a lot of eating and drinking over many hours. Followed by some dancing. And then more eating and drinking. (Repeat until dawn or collapse, whichever comes first). The spectre of Harold will hang heavily over the festivities, but it’s nothing that can’t be fixed with a couple of Nurofen.

The variety of vodkas in Poland is impressive. Lemon vodka, cherry vodka, honey vodka, chilli vodka. There is one called Goldwasser with 14-carat gold flakes in, and another called Zubrówka which is green, and has a blade of grass in. The grass comes from the forest where the bison graze. The Poles say the green colour comes from the bison piddling on the grass. They are a funny old lot, the Poles. They always look miserable, but in fact they have a great sense of humour. As the President has just demonstrated, by appointing his identical twin brother as Prime Minister!

Back in about a week. Do zobaczenia!

You can be wrong about people

WHAT A HERO!!

I would like to make clear that my previous post in no way indicated that Mr Zidane was in any way a prat, and I would like to salute him for his courageous stand against racial insults from that bloody greaseball of an Eyetie, his willingness to put personal pride before the honour of his country, and his Camilla-like refusal to disclose the gory details of the verbal exchange with the aforementioned dago .... we salute you Sir, you are a hero of the beautiful game! (Please don't hit me, and please implore your nephews not to set fire to my car ...)

(pp J. Chirac)

You can go off people

WHAT A PRAT

Dirty Tricks

I've discovered a couple of blogs that made me titter: Screamers, written by an exotic creature that lives in the badlands whence cometh our beloved Commissioner for Trade, and Harry Hutton's Chase me Ladies, I'm in the Cavalry which made me laugh so much my toenails ached. A quote from Harry which will touch a nerve: "Having testicles is like being chained to the village idiot". Vicus Scurra will no doubt know what he's talking about.

Health report: my voice is gradually modulating from the honk of a wounded sea lion to the baritone rasp of Leonard Cohen impersonating Marlene Dietrich. I finally fell back on the antibiotics which seem to be kicking in slowly. This was no normal flu. After my blog being "buried" by Google, I suspect foul play. I have been the victim of germ warfare. Who would be behind such a dastardly trick?

I think they're all barking up the wrong tree where national security is concerned. It's not your Iraqi or your Afghan they should be harrassing. Leave the Moroccan corner shop guy alone. The last person I spoke to before I went down with this bug was from ... Portugal. The way they played in the World Cup, I wouldn't put anything past them. They don't call those jellyfish Portuguese Men-o'-War for nothing you know.

Schadenfreude

Bert arrived back from the Fatherland looking very despondent. He packed away his whistle, his scarf and his spiked helmet, for another four years. “Ach vell,” he pondered, “Rome voz not in a day gebuilt.”

I was quite upset myself, as I wanted Germany to be stuffed by England, not by Italy. But I put aside all personal animosity and cooked Bert a delicious meal of Italian meatballs with spaghetti, panini, parmesan cheese, fava beans and a nice little Chianti. The soul of sensitivity, I put on a CD of Pavarotti singing “Vinceró” and wore an Armani dress, Prada shoes and Versace perfume.

Bert ate in teutonic silence. “Some Neapolitan icecream for dessert?” I suggested brightly, “Some Tiramisu? Panna Cotta? Zabaglione? or just an expresso?”

O o o O o o O

So, it’s France v Italy for the World Cup final on Sunday. Much as I admire the Italians’ footwork, not to mention their menswear and leather accessories, I’m afraid I’ve got to support France, for old time’s sake. Many years walking the streets in the City of Lights have endeared me to the old place, even if it is a bit of a dog’s breakfast these days. And the French team almost feel like our own boys, when you count how many of them play in the English Premiership. Thank God we sent Barthez back to Marseille though. What a butterfingers.

Zinedine Zidane is exactly the sort of man I was talking about the other day. Naturally masterful. Did you see him take that penalty against Portugal? Cool, calm, collected, he looked like he was just going to B&Q to buy a box of spanners. That’s my kind of man. The strong, silent type (well let’s face it he wouldn’t get a word in anyway with me). It is rumoured that Madame Zidane wears the pantalon at home. Now isn’t that proof enough that a man who is bien dans sa peau doesn’t need to throw his weight around on the domestic front? I’ll bet Zizou gets his pinny on and gets on with peeling the spuds whenever he is asked. Ooh that’s an erotic image. There’s nothing that gives a girl a frisson like the sight of a man doing domestic tasks. (Do you think that will work, girls?)

W.O.M.A.N., I'll say it again

Struck down once again with one of those vicious little viruses that seem to pervade the air space in this country (you’d think Nato, or at least Eurocontrol, might do something about it), my thoughts have turned of late to my own mortality. There comes a time when you wake up and think: “Christ! Is that the time! It’s past 50 o’clock!” You realize how much there is still left to do, and how little time left to do it in. Is there still enough time left to become a best-selling novelist, an award-winning photographer, a fluent Russian speaker, a flamenco dancer, the next Mrs George Clooney, get back down to a size 12 and get the recipe for gratin dauphinois right? When I am finally laid to rest, the epitaph on my tomb will scream “BUT I HADN’T FINISHED!!”

In the event of being knocked down by a bus or some other unexpected accident befalling me, I would like it to be known that there is only one surgeon allowed to apply the scalpel to my delicate flesh: Dr Anton Meyer, formerly of Holby City, now somewhere in America. I still miss him. Rick Griffin is very good, but he lacks Anton’s hauteur and noblesse. Funny how only French words will do when you’re talking about degrees of arrogance, isn’t it?

The thing about Anton was, he was so … masterful. I do like a man to be in control, contrary to anything Harold may have told you prior to his untimely demise. He may have compared me to Rosa Klebb, Ann Robinson, Golda Meir … however, in reality I am but a helpless damsel, seeking a pair of strong manly arms to swoon into. They would have to be strong manly arms, as I am no flimsy floozy. Men just don’t seem to have the gallantry of yore. I suppose it’s our own fault, feminism and all that. We didn’t realize we were putting out mixed messages, and over-estimated the poor dears’ capacity for reading between the lines. Men are such simple creatures. They need simple, clear instructions, such as “Put it HERE” and “Stop NOW”. We overestimated their capacity for change, and now we are paying the price.

Unreconstructed “old” men still understand their role in the scheme of things. Mowing the lawn, paying in restaurants, having a shed … but in return we must live up to their expectations and behave like laydees. Even if it’s not in our nature. Fake it, girls, fake it. A little girlish giggle here and there at their pathetic idea of a joke will not kill us. Fluttering an eyelash and ignoring the spelling mistakes in their tattoos is a small price to pay. Even watching the odd football match can be suffered for the cause (especially at the end where they all take their shirts off).

And as for our appearance, if we dress like builders, we shouldn’t expect to be treated with kid gloves. Leave the Doc Martens at home, ladies – if you want to be sent flowers, say it with a flowery dress (and matching shoes and handbag).

However, I absolutely draw the line at stockings and suspenders. If that’s the price I have to pay, I’ll drive myself to the hospital thanks.

Speechless

I'm still speechless. Which is just as well. Because what I would have said regarding the England v Portugal match was unrepeatable. I watched the extra time and penalties in the middle of a crowd of Portugal fans on my second day at Couleur Cafe. Perhaps the laryngitis was God's way of making me keep my mouth shut.

Well we've seen the French prime minister in charge of the Argentina World Cup team, let's now hear it for the Brazilian Minister of Culture doing a gig at Couleur Cafe. Gilberto Gil (for it was he) has not gone all elder-statesman since he became a government minister. He's grown dreadlocks. He is one of the most perfectly preserved over-60's I have ever seen. He is well fit, as my friend Cynthia might say, and his voice is as powerful as ever. He looks rather like what I imagine Bob Marley might look like now, were he still with us. And he sang a few of Marley's songs, if I had had a few more sherbets I might have thought it was the shade of the old Buffalo Soldier himself. He is a good 12 or 13 years younger than James Brown, but I suspect has looked after himself a bit better and will just get better as he gets older. Brazilians seem to have such good genes, which I hope will not be diluted by recent imports such as Ronnie Biggs and Grant Mitchell. However, I do think this practice of government Ministers going round playing gigs should be stopped. If we're not careful, Tone will be back on the road with the Ugly Rumours.

Gilberto went off to watch Brazil v France (poor man, I bet he wished now he'd stayed and given us "Girl from Ipanema"). Before heading for the main attraction, I visited a couple of other tents to see what else was going on at Couleur Cafe. Amparanoia and Think of One were starting up in different tents. Not bad - Amparo is almost certainly Manu Chao's long-lost twin sister. Didn't know what to make of the other lot, the heavy drumming nearly brought on an angina attack. I wandered round some craft stalls, watched a drumming lesson, watched the giant carnival figures with their drummers wander through the crowd, and had a plate of delicious rice and chicken from the Nigerian stall. I strolled back to the main tent to await Seun Anikulapo Kuti & Africa 80.

Seun’s late father, Fela Anikulapo (“He-who-carries-death- in-his-pouch”) Kuti (Woyayah! Praise be to his ancestors!) was a remarkable musician (sax and keyboards) and Nigerian political activist. Seun and his older brother Femi are carrying on the tradition, both sax players, taking their dad’s infectious highlife-funk mix around the world tinged with a political and environmental message. The Kuti family have the distinction of representing a whole genre of music - Afrobeat - all by themselves. Although Seun had to start off playing to a half-full tent, being in competition with the Brazil-France match, by the end of his set the tent was overflowing and everyone, including your intrepid reporter, was wagging their posterior like Baloo the Bear. I nearly had to reach for the angina tablets again. The Kuti boys are also well fit. I'd have put a photo up ladies, but the Couleur Cafe site has gone a bit haywire and can't get any links in, so search for them yourselves on Yahoo Images, you old slappers. You know who you are.

Left in time to make it home on the tram. Last night France won the World Cup. The cars were still careering around Brussels with flags flying, but it was the French Tricolor now. I can't help being pleased for the Frogs, they've had a rotten couple of years, they really needed a boost. So it's going to be an all-European final. Which means Brussels goes nuts whoever wins. Tune in next weekend, same time, same channel. I got home and switched on a German TV sports programme where the presenters were laughing their heads off about England's defeat. They showed a clip of the England team singing the national anthem, with the words overdubbed into German, and the new words went along the lines of "We haven't won the Cup for 40 years, but we won't shut up about it ...." followed by something rude about Victoria and David which I didn't quite catch. I cracked up. Nice to know what other countries think of us, isn’t it?

I will definitely go to Couleur Cafe again next year, and will get a 3-day pass, which works out much better value. The price is my only complaint about this festival, which is superb in all other respects. The event is extremely well-organized, and there are plenty of stewards, medics, etc. on hand to look out for problems. The site was kept remarkably clean, mainly by the punters themselves who obediently put all their rubbish into the bins provided. The toilets were immaculate. There was an abundance of food stalls from all over the world - it's almost worth going just for the grub - and the dishes were fairly cheap (mostly 5 euros a throw) and excellent. No burgers, no hotdogs, no chips. Beer tents were plentiful, and drinks were affordable at 1.60 euros a small beer or soft drink. Nobody was drunk - not even the England fans (and you would have forgiven them under the circs). I did detect more than the occasional whiff of what we used to call illicit substances on the air. But (a) I'm not sure if they're illicit any more in Belgium, and (b) everybody was so chilled out, they've got to be an improvement on alcohol. (I don't indulge myself, you understand - a lady of my status wouldn't want to be seen dead rolling her own - but look at some of our football fans flying the flag in Germany in their own inimitable way, and then look at the peaceful though pungent dreadlocked youngsters dancing away this weekend, I think if I had teenage kids, I know where I'd prefer mine to be). The general atmosphere was one of "pissanlove" as we say on this side of the Channel. Just my luck - when I wanted to be a hippy first time round, I was too young. Now I want to be one again, I'm too old.

James Brown is an equal opportunities employer

There is a 3-day festival of weld music on in Brussels at the moment, Couleur Cafe, at the massive Tour & Taxis trade fair site, which has been turned into a mini Glasto for the occasion. I arranged to go there last night with Dubious Company and her other half. But before hitting the global village, DC and I kicked off (geddit?) the evening at a scuzzy Irish pub in the centre of Brussels to watch the match. The venue was moderately improved by the presence of a number of decorative young men from South America, thankfully not sporting pan pipes or ponchos for a change. DC immediately spotted an opportunity to score (geddit?) and started shouting for Argentina. Quelle tarte. Loyal to my current Teutonic gentleman friend, Bert, I cheered loudly for Germany. As you all know by now, it went to a penalty shoot-out, and this was where German precision prevailed. Vorsprung durch etc. Think BMW, think Mercedes-Benz, think Bosch. And Bosch! was the sound that finished it. I shouted "Ja, ja, ja!" trying desperately to keep my right arm in a safe position. The pub sounded a bit like a small Nuremberg rally. DC scowled, as her chance of pan-pipe lessons had just left in a huff.

On to Couleur Cafe, where things were hotting up in preparation for the performance of James Brown, the Godfather of Soul. We wolfed down some Lebanese (food! what were you thinking?) before DC's other half frogmarched us off to the main tent to await the Great Man. He's very good for an old man of 94, and James Brown wasn't too bad either. The old boy battles gamely on, but frankly I was a little disappointed. The build-up is part of the act, but they did drag it out a bit too much, and he needs an awful lot of help these days. There must have been about 20 people on stage with him, including what appeared to be the Cheeky Girls, and a quartet of Junoesque matrons in shimmy dresses - full marks to Mr Brown for employing the over-50's! If I ever get kicked off the jewellery counter at Grace Brothers I may apply for a job as one of his backup singers. His band played on gamely, but he didn't do many of his big hits, and the ones he did were fairly unrecognizable. He didn't even do that bit of comedy where he falls down on his knees. Probably too dangerous, he might never get up again. I thought the poor old sod should be allowed to retire, but I guess his ex wives won't let him.

Or perhaps I was just fatigued. It was well past my bedtime when he finished, so I left DC and her minder waiting for somebody called Burning Spear and wended my weary way homewards, through the now regular blockage of the town centre by over-excited Italians. Yes, it appears they won the World Cup again last night. I found I had managed to lose my voice with all the shouting. Oh! the irony of it! And Harold no longer around to enjoy the sound of my silence. I imagine he has a broad grin on his face, wherever he is.