Excess Baggage

It is remarkable how much superfluous baggage one accumulates. When I had finally unpacked the last box and found somewhere to stash all the different kinds of silverware, crockery, glassware, tablecloths, etc., I wondered if I really needed most of it.

Our street-wise friend Scrumpy (who I note has a bit of a fan club already!) has the right idea. He travels light. In his backpack he carries nothing but a full-sized duvet and a ghetto blaster (he doesn’t believe in MP3’s or iPods, he likes to share his music with friends and anyone else within a hundred yard radius), and a length of string, in case he finds a stray dog to tie on the end of it. Such freedom! I would never be able to live like that. I can manage with a small holdall for a weekend away. But that’s just for my make-up. My trunk full of clothes is sent on ahead. Ballgowns can be required at a moment’s notice, and a girl doesn’t like to be caught unawares. And as Princess Zoé will confirm, you never know which size of tiara is appropriate for a formal function, so it’s best to pack three. Of course I can do “smart casual” for popping down to the supermarket – you know, a little Chanel suit over a cashmere sweater with just the one string of pearls, and matching shopping caddy. But I do like to dress up if the occasion demands, and bustles can’t be squashed into a suitcase, not even the largest one that Louis Vuitton make.

However, I pondered, as I surveyed six different kinds of fish knife, am I ever going to be hosting nine-course dinner parties for 20 again? Does a footloose and fancy-free city girl such as I require three dozen crystal champagne flutes? Large gatherings are so passé, the trend is more towards small informal gatherings where one eats sushi with one’s fingers from hollowed-out bamboo sticks whilst lounging on Moroccan divans and discussing the latest hors d’oeuvre of Michel Houellebecq with the likes of Salman and Melvyn. I decided to follow the teachings of St Bono of Geldof, and donate my unwanted possessions to the poor.

Scrumpy directed me to a charity warehouse called “Les Petits Riens” which was enormous and stacked to the rafters with second-hand furniture, clothing, books, carpets, electrical equipment, musical instruments, paintings, even computers which were surplus to somebody’s requirements, and had been donated for re-sale. At a guess, a good deal of it had been salvaged from house clearances, and there was some remarkable period furniture, particularly from the 1970’s formica era, which is already back in fashion. The warehouse is like Ali Baba’s cavern, and you could get lost in the maze of rooms which led from one collection of slightly dog-eared treasures to another. I was so entranced by it all that I completely forgot to leave my excess baggage, and purchased a crystal chandelier, an oil painting in the style of Rolf Harris, two Rimini chairs, a trombone and a life-sized plaster statue of the Virgin Mary.

Oh well, charity begins at home.

Room with an EU View

This weekend I gathered up my belongings from the bijou but frankly rather poky shoebox I have been occupying in the leafy but dull southern suburb of Brussels, and moved to my new abode in the heart of the pulsating metropolis. The new Wayne-Bough Towers has more room, and a stunning view of the EU Commission headquarters, enabling me to keep an eye on the buggers on your behalf, dear readers. With a high-powered lens I could probably see into Commissioner Mandelson’s private dining room.

I was assisted in my housemoving by an old//young friend -- Harold's erstwhile protege, the still fairly pungent new age traveller, anti-globalisation eco-warrier, professional protester, treehugger and hunt saboteur Scrumpy (see Wayne-Boughs’ World posts "Land and Freedom" and "Global Warning" ) who is taking the "Year of Mobility" seriously, and has turned up in Brussels for the purpose of being as much of a nuisance to the EU as he can, whilst applying himself to evading any form of paid employment with his usual grit and determination. In fact, I think he works harder at avoiding work than most people do at their jobs. (Particularly those at the Commission).

Scrumpy finds panhandling tourists pays better here than in Poland, and there are almost as many Poles here so he feels very much at home. He made himself very useful and helped make some room in my fridge by disposing of all the beer (down his neck). He’s a good boy, needs feeding up though, I shall have to have him round for a Sunday roast now that I have an oven and can let my inner Nigella out again. It was such a joy to unpack the 10-setting dinner service, the best silver, the lace tablecloths, the crystal and the porcelain, which I haven’t seen for a year as there was no room to put it. Daphne’s Dinners will be up and running again soon, mark my words. My soirées were legendary from Lagos to Accra. Before long the Commissioners will be badgering their assistants to get them an invitation to Chez Daphnée. Mr Mandelson will be peering enviously at my dining room window through his telescope!

Dante's Al Forno

Last Saturday night I took the Hornblowers out for a meal, as they are finally leaving Brussels and going to vegetate in deepest Bucks. They arrived with their small grand-daughters Hermione and Hepzibah, who are very well behaved in restaurants. Most of the time. They arrived more or less on time, only because I had phoned ahead and woken Desmond up. The narcolepsy isn't getting any better. Once he fell asleep in the middle of a conversation with Harold. Mind you, who hasn't?

We met at the Pizzeria Paradiso, on Museumlaan in Tervuren, which I think is one of the best Italian restaurants in Brussels. Pity it is right out in the English ghetto on the far eastern edge of the city. The food is scrumptious, and the service is always friendly and efficient. The restaurant was packed with diners, which speaks for itself. The owner-waiters speak at least four languages fluently - French, Flemish, English and Italian - and probably a few more besides, and are brilliant with children. And with Desmond.

To start, Desmond ordered a tuna carpaccio which looked absolutely mouthwatering. I tried a little bit - it was scrumptioso, wafer-thin slivers of fresh tuna drizzled with truffle, I mean twuffle, oil. I have had beef carpaccio but will certainly try tuna carpaccio next time. Vi had calamari fritti, and I had garlic prawns - one of the nice things about being single, you can eat what you want and the pillow won't complain - and was served a dish with six huge butterfly prawns sitting in a pool of melted garlic butter. Hermione and Hepzibah had home made tomato soup which was delicious, if unadventurous. But they are only 5 and 7. For main courses, the children shared a pizza carbonara, Vi had tagliatelle in a cream sauce, Desmond had a huge thin-crust pizza, and I had Saltimbocca alla Romana, delicious veal escalopes with ham and cheese in a very tasty sauce, and a plate of chips on the side which were more for the children than for me. Oh and two litres of red wine, most of which Desmond and I managed to dispose of with ease.

The Hornblower family have the appetites of birds. Vultures. Desserts were ordered - "Dames Blanches" for Hermione and the grandparents (vanilla ice cream with chocolate sauce). Hepzibah was doing an Elton, didn't like any of the desserts on offer, so the waiter-boss brought her a "surprise" which she didn't like either. I would have liked a home-made panna cotta, but the boss said I needed to order it in advance, so instead I had a chocolate mousse which, like everything at Paradiso, was fait maison. A coffee and some complimentary amarettos, and we rolled out of the restaurant sighing and patting our tummies.



The Hornblowers will be sadly missed. Mostly by the owner of the Paradiso and the wine section at their local GB store. But I shall miss my GNOs (girls' nights out) with Vi, and will never be able to pass a raunchy underwear shop without thinking of her. Deepest Bucks is about to be hit by an earth tremor in a leopardskin thong. And Desmond will probably sleep right through it.

Let's get fizzical

The 1980 (or perhaps 1979) Perrier advert I referred to was shown only a few times in French cinemas before it was banned. In France. I was one of the lucky few that caught it, and joined a whole roomful of French people dissolving into hysterical laughter simultaneously. I have searched YouTube and sadly it is not there. It is too good not to share, so I shall attempt to describe it for you.

A bottle of Perrier water stands bathed in soft lighting. The music starts - Serge Gainsbourg's "Je t'aime, moi non plus". A woman's hand appears and caresses the bottle. The bubbles start rising to the surface. The music gets louder and Jane Birkin's panting gets more urgent. The woman's hand is now encircling the bottle and sliding up and down. The bubbles are going mad, the water is fizzing away and the screw top is undoing itself. When Gainsbourg gets to "maintenant - viens!" and Birkin gives it her All, the screw top flies off and the water comes shooting out.

Personally I prefer Badoit, but their advertising is not half
so much fun.

This'll put lead in your pencil

Big up to Young & Rubicam. The poster I wrote about a couple of posts ago, featuring a man of advanced years dressed as John Travolta, was not, as I and no doubt many other had first thought, for some kind of sexual stimulant, despite the suggestive name Flexity 3000. When I finally found the website, I had to agree that the product could indeed improve sexual performance, as well as make women look younger, and restore hair growth. I cannot tell you what this miracle product is, as I'm still laughing too much. You'll have to look at it yourself - it's only in French or Dutch, but you're a clever lot, you'll work it out. I reckon this campaign deserves to win an award. It has already been lauded as Campaign of the Week by Belgian advertising website Media Marketing. I would rank it a close second to the 1980 Perrier orgasm, which was the funniest advert of all time, ever, anywhere.

A bunch of winkers

I have been winked at twice in two days, both times by young attractive men. Not that I'm complaining, but it seems to me a bit of a lucky coincidence. Unless Belgian men have congenital eye problems. The first was the young man in the branch of the bank where I have just transferred my account. The second was the owner of the hairdressing salon (or "hair arranger", in Zed-speak). I am feeling quite buoyed up, especially as my hair is looking gorgeous again. (Think Anne Robinson - who is a bit of a winker - with a soupcon of Lulu). Talking of Zed, her hair is looking gorgeous too. We did lunch today. Quarsan could do with a bit of a trim though. Now I'm looking so gorgeous, I am looking forward to a few more winks.

I can understand why older women (older than me that is - oh all right, old ladies) go to the hairdresser every week. First of all, for many who are alone, it is the only touch of a human hand they get, even if it is from an 18-year-old trainee who asks you if you've been on yer 'olidays yet. And secondly, having your hair done makes a gel feel good for a price even a pensioner can afford. It beats all that hanging about on the corner trying to work out which bloke is the drug dealer.

And if the patron (who is a bit of a hunk) winks at you, well, it's worth every penny.

My Gay Umbrella

It has been bucketing down here in Brussels for the past few days, and it’s cold too. It’s hard to believe that just a couple of weeks ago we were expiring from the heat. Having lost my handy little brolly in Antwerp the other week, I had to dig out the big golf umbrella I bought on holiday in Spain some years ago. It is a gay umbrella. I didn’t realize it was gay when I bought it. But looking back, it should have been perfectly obvious. Once I realized, everything fell into place. Those friendly ladies at the station. The Dalai Lama was photographed with an identical umbrella recently, but I don’t think he’s gay. I don’t think he’s straight either. He’s above all That Sort of Thing.

Like a Proustian Madeleine, opening my gay umbrella brought back memories of that holiday with Harold in Sitges, just outside Barcelona. I didn’t realize when I booked the holiday that Sitges was the gay capital of Spain. I carefully deposited the guidebook in a waste bin in the departure lounge before Harold had a chance to see it. The leather trousers in Berlin were still fresh in my mind.

We stayed in the 4-star San Sebastian Playa, was expensive but so moi – a “boutique” hotel with only 50 rooms, our balcony overlooked the pool which was secluded and almost always empty. The best restaurant in town, without a shadow of a doubt, was Fragata on the sea front. Its exquisite decor, in a modern nautical style, shows amazing attention to detail. The toilets were a work of art, and even Harold was moved to describe the urinals in minute detail. The clientele was predominantly artistic, if you follow my drift, but this isn’t a problem when you dress like Harold. He was never going to be mistaken for Freddy Mercury.

The late Major was a frightful wine snob and normally wouldn’t drink anything but French appellation controlée. In Spain you can’t get anything but Spanish wine, but we were both pleasantly surprised. Unlike the Rioja that we’d sampled at home which leaves you with a stonking hangover, the wines served in Sitges were pleasant and pain-free, which rather makes you wonder if the Spanish would be so selfish as to keep the good stuff for themselves and export the rubbish? Surely not …

Barcelona is one of the truly great Art Deco cities of Europe, and the minute you arrive in the city you feel the tremendous buzz of a Very Happening Place. Of course I dragged Harold around all the Gaudi monuments, from the extravagant and unfinished Sagrada Familia cathedral to the whimsical Park Guell, up and down the Ramblas, and round the museums and churches.

Having trailed dutifully behind me round all the cultural sights, it was then his turn. Of course there was only one place he wanted to visit – the Nou Camp, home of F.C. Barcelona. We eventually found it in one of the less salubrious suburbs of the city, and I followed him up the steps into the huge stadium which resembles a massive spaceship. Inside is a museum showing exhibits from the history of the football club, which Harold found fascinating. The highlight of the tour is when you come out into the stands and gaze down upon the dazzling green carpet of the pitch. Harold was close to tears as he contemplated the very spot where Ole Gunnar Solskjaer scored that second goal for Manchester United in the 1998 European Cup Final. Hanging about in the museum while he and other middle-aged adolescents of all nationalities peered intensely at ancient pig-bladder footballs and 18^th-century boots with wooden studs, I occasionally caught the eyes of women who had obviously been press-ganged into coming along by their other halves. Dutch, German, French and Italian ladies made eye contact and without exception rolled their eyes to the ceiling in the international language of women, which said “I could be burning plastic in El Corte Ingles right now”. I saw the girls again later in the gift shop, yawning as they helped Piet, Hans, Jean-Pierre and Gianni decide between the long-sleeved away strip or the Barça baseball cap. Nothing unites women of all nations like football.

Back in Sitges, Harold treated himself to a pair of trendy sandals which he’d seen lots of other chaps wearing. Too late, he realized they were worn by the chaps with big moustaches and tight T-shirts going around in twos. I told him not to worry, as long as he kept his Barça socks on he wasn’t likely to run into trouble.

What (OIder) Women Want

Frontier Editor seems to have figured it out. He's been posting YouTube clips of some senior hotties such as Errol Brown and Tom Jones in their heyday shaking their thang. Tom Jones, there is a man for all seasons. I saw him recently on the Jonathan Ross show, and although a grandfather, he has still got a certain je-ne-sais-quoi, although I don't really know what. He wasn't even dancing, just looking like he would shag anything in a skirt. And do it well. Even Jonathan Ross was looking a bit flustered.

There is a poster in the Brussels metro at the moment showing a man of advanced years wearing 1970's disco shirt and white John Travolta trousers, reclining in what he obviously thinks is a come-hither position. The product is not immediately apparent, but I suspect it is some variation on viagra. I'm afraid it makes me titter every time I see it. He just doesn't have it, you see. The oomph. Even dosed up to the eyeballs with viagra, he wouldn't do it for me.

What many men, young and old, are lacking these days is CHARM. The ability to hold your gaze and make you feel like you are the only woman in the world, even if he is just asking you to do some photocopying. The confidence to invade your personal space to a degree that would constitute sexual harrassment by anyone else and get away with it. Ultimately, it all depends who's doing the harrassing. And who's being harrassed. There was a time when a wolf-whistle from a building site would have me tossing my head contemptuously and stomping off with a scowl. Now, on the rare occasions it may happen, I not only stop and graciously acknowledge the compliment, but bring them sandwiches the next day with individual letters of thanks. If I go to Italy and I don't get my bottom pinched, I ask the travel agent for my money back. If an attractive man invades my personal space, I capitulate immediately and surrender. True charm, gentlemen, is when you can make an older woman feel 20 years younger. Get a Tom Jones DVD, boys, watch and learn.

This is totally gratuitous but some of you ladies will appreciate a picture of another charmer who, although sadly no longer with us, would still make us wet our knickers were he alive today. He would be 76. He might have made it had he packed in the fags.

Steve McQueen,
1930-1980

We are the champignons

I have been infuriated of late at the lack of progress with local administration. In July and August it is pointless trying to get any response from anyone - the bank, the tax authorities, the landlord.

"I feel like a mushroom," I told Bert. "They keep me in the dark and feed me bullshit."

"You are more like a twuffle zan a mushwoom, Daphne" he replied.

"Is that because I am precious and rare, perfumed and expensive?" I smiled winsomely, twirling my curls with a come-hither look.

"Nein, schatzi," he replied teutonically. "It is because everyone asks me where ze hell I dug you up!"

Come-hither turned to wither instantly. Bert dodged the impact of my fully weighted handbag with a neat body swerve. Being a former German international footballer, he is methodical and good in defence. He thought he was very clever making such a good joke in English.

But I had the last word. "If I'm a truffle, who is the pig?" I shouted from the 4th floor window at he roared off down the street in his little tank.



And they say Germans have no sense of humour.

Bring on the dancing girls

It has been nothing but party, party, party recently. I finished off my summer season last night with a trip to Antwerp to see Femi Kuti, the multi-talented Nigerian musician and bandleader, older brother of Seun Kuti who I saw at Couleur Café last month, and eldest son of the late great Black President, Fela Anikulapo Kuti (Woyayah! Praise be to his ancestors!) the scourge of many a Nigerian dictatorship. I saw Femi play once before during my days out in the tropics with Harold, many years ago at the Peninsula Club in Lagos. I never got to see his esteemed father (Femi’s, not Harold’s) play at his Lagos club The Shrine, as it took a lot of organisation and security in those days to make the trip across town at night, and in any case Fela never came on stage before 2.00 a.m., which even back then was way past my bedtime. I regret it now, as Fela died in 1997. Femi is his father’s son, and although the concert started at 8.30 with a warm-up band, he didn’t come on until 10.00 p.m. The concert was at the open air theatre in the Rivierenhof park, a delightful location, and luckily it was a dry evening and not too cold.

Femi is accompanied these days by an 11½ piece band – a 5½ piece brass section (the ½ being Femi’s 10-year-old son, quite a mean sax player already, promising the continuation of Afrobeat for another generation to come), no less than 3 percussionists, 2 guitars, keyboards, not to mention the trademark dancing girls (3) in African tribal costumes, who are probably the most popular part of Femi’s band, especially among his male fans who welcomed them with a great woyaya. They are solid young ladies, with thighs like rugger players, and worked extremely hard for the duration of the concert, their versatile backsides shimmying like a windfarm in a Force 9 gale. Femi did a stonking set, and a large number of the crowd were on their feet from beginning to end, waving their herbal cigarettes in the air. I didn’t find him quite as danceable as his brother Seun, Femi having moved towards a jazzier variation on their father’s Afrobeat sound, but it was great music, and Femi is still a fine figure of a man, especially when he takes his shirt off to reveal a six pack that Jagger can only dream of (the ladies cheered at this point). Femi’s songs are still very political, and several of them mentioned President Obasanjo in a less than flattering light. I don’t know why, the Pres got an award last year, for running the most corrupt country in the world or something. He must be doing something right.

A few words about Antwerp before I settle down once more to dismal monotony. I am dead impressed. It is worth going there for the railway station alone, which is like a cathedral. Last time I went it was a national holiday, so the shops (apart from the diamond merchants) were shut. This time everything was open and I discovered an exciting, vibrant city with what has to be some of the best shopping in Europe. Some of the designer clothing made me stop in my tracks – and I’m a C&A girl as everyone knows. I must have been distracted, as I managed to lose my umbrella without even sitting down! There are more restaurants than you could manage to eat in if you stayed there a year, and of an amazing variety – South African, Indonesian, Argentinian, Croatian, Cuban bars, Irish pubs, karaoke clubs, you name it, there is something for everyone in Antwerp. Even the people were better-looking than in Brussels, particularly the gay men. (Was that the sound of Peter's suitcase snapping shut?). Although I do not speak or understand Flemish, all the waiters and shopkeepers and even the bus drivers speak English and French. I shall definitely be going back there frequently, especially as I plucked up the courage to venture into a diamond shop and get some prices. Dangerously reasonable. There’s a little ½ carat honey up there with my name on it. You will be the first to know.

Yo ho ho

I lunched yesterday with Zoe, her other half and a shadowy dealer who was feeding Z's current DVD addiction. We went to Il Buongustaio, her favourite little Italian trattoria. And very nice it was too. I said I’d give them a mention. I had pasta. I think. Can’t remember much, Quarsan kept filling up my wineglass.

As the weather had broken temporarily and it was too damp and grey to visit Brussels-les-Bains, the artificial beachfront along the canal modelled on Paris-Plages (apparently Amsterdam are doing it too -- are there no new ideas left in the world?) I decided to get Z away from the telly for a few hours and dragged her off to the cinema to see Pirates of the Caribbean II: Dead Man's Chest (her kids had made their own arrangements to see it, before anyone accuses me of leading a Good Mother - ha! - astray). There are some quirky little art-house cinemas in Brussels, as well as a number of thumping great multiplexes. The UGC cinema at Place Brouckère, in the centre of Brussels, has several screens, but one is spectacularly huge with great ornate golden Egyptian-themed frescos and mouldings, reminding me of the ground floor of Harrods. One almost expected a man playing a Wurlitzer to rise out of the orchestra pit. Seats are comfy with loads of leg room. Food and drink is allowed (which I disapprove of) but as it thankfully wasn’t heaving with kids (the advantage of waiting a few weeks after a film is released) the smell of a few bags of chips didn’t pervade the whole cinema. I am a bit of a Film Bough (geddit?) and love the experience of going to the pictures, or the Bioscoop, as our Flemish friends call it. Big screen, complete darkness, I can completely lose myself in a film. A couple of hours in the cinema watching a good movie and I am refreshed as if after a week’s holiday. Don’t tell my employers that, though.

Anyway, back to the film. It was a Jolly Good Romp, although not as good as Pirates no.1. They’d gone overboard (geddit?) on the special effects, which were a bit overdeveloped, in any case the Johnny Depp scenes are best. Something about a man in eyeshadow. “Captain Jack” obviously got the best lines and hairdresser, but there were a few clever little throwaway comments, including a fleeting poke at the National Rifle Association which made me smile. Apparently Bill Nighy is in it, not that you’d know. I don’t think it is suitable for small children, there is a significant amount of gratuitousness scariness. I jumped out of my seat once or twice myself. The musical soundtrack was wonderful, great swashbuckling stuff composed by Hans Zimmer (a German! must tell Bert), and you can listen to extracts on the film's website

The film finishes on a cliffhanger, leaving you panting for Pirates III (which has already been filmed, I gather, and may or may not feature a cameo appearance by Keith Richards, fag-end and coconuts optional). On a tip-off from one of Z's readers, we sat through about 20 minutes of credits (how many best boys does one film need for heaven’s sake?) for the little scene at the end, which is worth waiting for.

I give Pirates II a a DWB Ten out of Ten. Nothing like a bit of total escapism to sweeten the bitter pill which is the end of the holidays.