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.

The Commissionary Position

The nights are drawing in, and although we had a mercifully mild October, a winter chill is settling over the Nerve Centre of Europe. I have witnessed some spectacular sunrises over the Berlaymont (the EU Commission headquarters) which sits there in my line of vision like a great ocean liner, all lights blazing through the night, and I am often put in mind of the Titanic. I wonder what will be the iceberg that will sink the EU? Turkey? The Constitution? The CAP? Why is there never a cartoonist when you need one?

It won’t be a sex scandal, anyway. One of the Commissioners very recently upset his senior officials by publicly slagging off their efficiency, or lack of it. The swift publication by the tabloids in his home country of a photograph of him hand in hand with his recently promoted (female) Chef de Cabinet a few days after this incident was, I am sure, purely coincidental. Everyone, from the President of the Commission to the Commissioner’s wife, is Standing By Their Man, and the story has not, as far as I am aware, made the front pages of the Belgian press. The Brussels press pack are a different breed to the paparazzi and scumbags on the British tabloids, and any “dirt” they dig up is likely to be more of a financial nature than sexual, after all, every important man is expected to bonk his secretary, n’est-ce pas? It is considered rude not to.

The Mistress will not come out of this well, mark my words. Being the paramour of a powerful man used to be a sure way to the top, as Madame de Pompadour would confirm, if she were still here. How times have changed. It didn’t do much for Monica Lewinsky’s career, Antonia de Sancha sank without trace, and poor old Christine Keeler, after her 15 minutes of notoriety, spent the rest of her life in ignominy and a council flat. Nobody can even remember the name of John Prescott’s brief encounter, and that was only a few months ago. The only mistress who has got away with it in living memory is Camilla Parker-Bowles, who waited patiently to get her man, and did not kiss and tell. Although some might say that being married to Charles is a punishment in itself.

Commissioner Mandelson is not likely to get caught with his Armani trousers round his well-turned ankles. The erstwhile Prince of Darkness has acquired an aura of respectability in Brussels that he never had in London. He is fêted here for his slim figure, expensive hair and Italian suits, and his financial peccadilloes would not even have made the papers in Belgium, so tame were they by local standards. His sexuality (whatever it may be) is neither here nor there, and if he were to do the dirty on Reinaldo, I am sure he would have more sense than to go cruising for rough trade in public toilets. He is judged on his ability as Trade Commissioner, and has emerged as pretty competent and firm (stop sniggering, Banana). I can’t see him wanting to go back to London – or Hartlepool - any time soon. The proof that Mandy is a consummate politician is that he plays the Brussels game supremely well, and is respected for it in return.

It is a myth that Peter lives in Rue des Jeunes Garçons, as reported by the scurrilous British press, who can find nothing better to do than make up saucy French street names. There is no such street in my A-Z of Brussels. There is an Impasse des Matelots, a Square de Pede and a Rue de Nancy, an Avenue Debatty and a Rue Pierre de Cock, but if anywhere, I would have thought Avenue de la Joyeuse Entrée would be more up his street.

Spit it out!

Now it seems I can view comments, although I have to go through contortions to post a reply. And my fonts have all gone to cock. But hey - you have to suffer to be beautiful. Anyway don't lurk in silence, especially if you are that nice bloke I met at the Scottish evening, drop a comment - blog will find a way.

Bloighean Blogging

Ooh err. On Blogger's recommentdation I've converted my blog to beta, whatever that means, and can't read any comments now. I expect the RSS feed will convey them into my inbox, but typically any so-called upgrade brings with it further inconvenience. Vorsprung durch Technik, as Bert would say.

I've also decided to use a bigger font, as I find myself peering at my own thing with increasing difficulty. I suspect some of you are no spring chickens yourselves, so I expect there'll be a collective sigh of relief around my myopic aficionados. It also means I don't have to write so much.


Yesterday evening I was invited to an exhibition of paintings by the Scottish artist Calum Colvin. The paintings were mostly on the same subject: Ossian, or Oisein to give him his true name, a mythical 3rd century Gaelic poet. Ossian, it appears, was not necessarily one person, but more like Homer, a composite of many anonymous bards, who were merged together for purposes of poetic convenience. A bit like myself, readers. The gathering was a select group of the Scottish elite of Brussels, who in the true spirit of the Committee of the Regions behave like they've already devolved into Home Rule (In your dreams, Jock).

We were entertained by a trio of young Hebridean ladies who played plaintive laments on two fiddles and a harp, before the hordes of culture vultures descended on the buffet like, well, vultures. I managed to grab a few morsels of Scottish cheese served with a teaspoon (?) and a minuscule hors d'oeuvre of raw chopped Scottish beef with chopped green pepper. Delicious but a bit pretentious, particularly since one of the themes of the pictures was (and I quote) "the absurdity of debates about social class and virtue". I like a posh cocktail party as much as the next girl, but frankly some haggis and neeps would have gone down better. Or a guid fish supper.

The paintings were rather dark and dramatic, and I certainly wouldn't want one on my parlour wall. I listened with a pained expression (indistinguishable from intense concentration) as it was explained to me how the artist constructs a collage of objects representing Scotland ancient and modern, photographs them, then destroys the evidence and displays the photograph. It's all about "unresolved conflict and perpetual despair". I could hear Harold's ghost whispering in my left ear: "Tell him to get a flippin' job!"

The leaflet was in English and Gaelic and contained whole chunks of text that would qualify for Pseuds Corner of Private Eye. I was intrigued by the sub-title on the Gaelic cover page, "Bloighean de Sheann Bhardachd" which sounds to me like he was a very early blogger. I'm sure Sam from the Western Isles will confirm my guess was accurate.

I must say as ethnic evenings go, it was a bit up itself. Not a kilt to be seen. Scotland's got frightfully self-conscious lately. Nothing wrong with a bit of sporran-waggling and caber-tossing. I had more fun a few months back watching a football match on TV with the Brussels Celtic Supporters Club. Full of unresolved conflict and perpetual despair, I wandered home pondering the absurdity of debates about social class and virtue. Especially virtue. It was the kind of evening when you really feel the need to stop for a doner kebab on the way home.

My Little Army

One more picture for Remembrance Sunday and then I won't mention the war for another year, I promise.

My grandmother and her three brothers circa 1916.

Their mother called them "My Little Army".

Why Belgium?

My half-formulated question of the other day, about why Belgium of all places was chosen as the seat of a united Europe, just answered itself. It is blindingly obvious. Belgium is where the most bloody battles of the first and second world wars were fought. The names Ypres, Passchendael, and the Somme are engraved on the collective memory.

The EU was born out of an ideal conceived by two Frenchmen, Robert Schuman and Jean Monnet, in the aftermath of the second world war. Never again should European countries try to destroy each other. It started with the European Coal and Steel Community in 1951, made up of France, Germany, Belgium, Italy, Luxembourg and the Netherlands. It became the European Economic Community in 1957. Britain, the Republic of Ireland and Denmark joined in 1973, Greece in 1981, Spain and Portugal in 1986, Austria, Finland and Sweden in 1995, and then a raft of former Eastern bloc countries plus Malta and Cyprus in 2004.

So now we are 25. I’m looking out of my window tonight at the Berlaymont, the symbolic power base of Brussels. And today, on the 88th anniversary of the Armistice, it looks to me like a monument engraved with the words “never again”. So when you feel like bashing Brussels, just be thankful it's not Berlin.

Of course it had to be Belgium.

In Flanders Fields

Every year at this time I plan to go up to the WW1 battlefields in Flanders and pay my respects. Every year I bottle out. I don't think I could do it without falling to pieces. This is why:

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep,
though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

John McCrae, May 1915

Pffft

My blogging tackle was finally obtained last week after staying in for most of one day waiting for the telephone company to come and check the line, then waiting for the modem to be delivered (despite the fact that I've got a built-in modem, I have to spend 50 quid on a box with flashing lights which plugs into the phone socket) and having finally to slog across town with a stinking cold to collect it from a depot (they try to deliver it while you're at work, you see, then leave a note, and when you try to phone them to tell them to deliver it to your work address, you can't ever get through and spend a fortune phoning from your mobile because you haven't got a landline yet) then wait for them to activate the line, then oh joy! two days of blogfest and phonefest and .... by last night it had died.

Pffft.

Glorious Daphnevision

Cue the Alleluiah Chorus. After some two months without internet access from home, I am finally reunited with my blogging tackle. I won't tell you how I've been managing to maintain my high standards throughout the wilderness months, but it's been reminiscent of a Cold War spy novel at times, dead disk drops and whatnot. I can finally hang up my false nose and beard, and blog happily away into the wee small hours from the comfort of my own home.

I am not one to bite the hand that feeds me, and there's nothing worse than an immigrant ungraciously slagging off the host country. But frankly, readers, I'm a bit disappointed with Brussels. I'd thought that the nerve centre of Europe, where we're all working to "make Europe the most competitive and dynamic knowledge-based economy in the world" (to quote the Lisbon Agenda, with which you are all of course familiar) might be a little more, er, competitive and dynamic. Brussels has a timeless quality, a bit like old re-runs of Dr Who. Parts of the city are horribly dated and run down, such as the Central Station, which is woefully in need of renovation. And the Services Directive (or "Bolkestein" as we Eurocrats refer to it, as in "it's a load of old Bolkestein") would have got off to a better start if anyone here had some understanding of the word "Service". With the forceful trade unions, high unemployment and surly attitudes, it's reminiscent of Britain in the 1970s.

But I don't want to be unfair in my criticism. In the past month or so, reports have been published in UK which declare Great Britain to have the most obese citizens in Europe, the most teenage pregnancies in Europe and the worst-behaved teenagers in Europe. There is probably one coming out soon which will prove that the Pope is a Catholic. Anyone who has lived in UK in recent years will not be surprised by any of these reports.

If you have access to BBC World anywhere on the globe you will be exposed to reality shows from UK which will make you hang your head in shame. “How clean is your house?”, “Life of Grime” etc. show Britain and its citizens to be filthy. Documentaries about the unhappy lot of the policeman provide a terrifying view of British town centres on a Saturday night, the streets awash with binge-drinking and projectile-vomiting spotty youf being courteously cautioned by long-suffering police officers (on camera, at least – I bet the truncheons came out as soon as the camera was switched off!). And these programmes are documentaries. i.e. Not Made Up. Add to that comedy inventions such as Vicky Pollard, and it becomes clear that the BBC is not working hand-in-hand with the British Tourist Authority. And I don’t even watch ITV. I daren’t.

The situational dramas are not much better. Anyone facing surgery had better switch off when “Holby City” is on, unless you are partial to doctors with drug, sex and gambling addictions and a propensity to transplant animal organs into humans. “Casualty” is no better – the doctors and nurses spend more time getting drunk at parties and discussing their complicated love lives than caring for their patients.

These programmes are being beamed across the globe. Have we no shame? If it’s some covert attempt to deter would-be immigrants, it’s targeting the wrong viewers: the undesirables are not likely to be able to afford satellite TV. Unfortunately, these damning indictments of UK society are being watched by the wealthier middle classes who might be the sort of free-spending tourist Britain does need. The TV companies are only interested in UK ratings, but have not taken on board the wider implications of advertising British social malaise across the world.

Should we be telling it like it is, or telling it like we want it to be? What are we effectively saying to the world at large? “Here we are, warts and all, take us as you find us", and in the words of St Bob of Geldof, that great role model: "if you don’t like it, feck off” ? (Pardon my French) Should we not rather be saying: “This is a total fiction but if there’s one thing we British have always done superbly, it’s hypocrisy” ?

I think it is time to do away with all this reality and revert to a televisual portrayal of our country which depicts a nation of pride, integrity and rounded vowels, to set an example for the great unwashed and maintain our dignity on the world stage. Even if it isn’t true. Whatever you might think about Eastenders, you will notice that because of the watershed there is never any bad language. It’s not realistic – people in the East End of London swear like troopers. But that’s not the point. It is a modern morality tale and some of the more stalwart female characters such as Dot Cotton, Peggy Mitchell and Pat Evans teach us valuable lessons about Christian faith and forgiveness, familial loyalty, and redemption of fallen women. I’d just make them all speak nicer. Annie Walker, the former landlady of the Rover’s Return in Coronation Street, was famously well spoken. As for “lifestyle” programmes, the popularity of Jamie Oliver and Ainsley Harriott did not prevent the creation of the deep-fried Mars Bar. The hoi polloi care not a fig for lemongrass and rocket, and, er, figs, what they need is good nourishing home-made pies! Away with pretentious Mockney chefs and bring back our Fanny! Scrap Emmerdale and put The Archers on the small screen. Let’s do away with all this negative publicity about the true face of Britain, and bring back edifying programming such as The Forsyte Saga, Dixon of Dock Green, Emergency Ward 10, the Billy Cotton Bandshow, the test card and the National Anthem at the end of the day’s viewing. We could put it all back into black and white while we're at it.

In fact, Britain should be more like Belgium.

Chips With That??

I was laid low for the latter half of last week with a severe cold, and spent a guilty couple of days indulging myself. Staying in my negligée all day long, eating runny omelettes, spending the afternoon in bed with Philip Pullman, watching daytime TV, it’s good practice for retirement. Aunty Marianne and Scouse Doris dropped by with the full omnibus edition of His Dark Materials and a witchy herbal remedy, before dashing off to a coven meeting. It’s at times like this when good girlfriends are worth their weight in chocolate.

One of the great guilty pleasures of being home on sick leave is listening to Desert Island Discs on Radio 4. With my intense interest in all things culinary, I was avid to hear Heston Blumenthal, the celebrity chef who has been awarded 3 Michelin stars and Best Restaurant in the World award of 2005 for his restaurant The Fat Duck in Bray, Berkshire. His culinary creations are said to be most original. I must say the thought of snail porridge makes me heave, I have seen what they do in the garden. Entirely self-taught, he turned down the offer of an apprenticeship with Raymond Blanc, and worked as a debt collector whilst teaching himself French cuisine in the evenings from cookery books, in his mum’s kitchen. I learnt some very useful tips from this interview, for example that the best chipping potatoes (look away now, Pat) sink in heavily salted water, whereas those that float should be used for mashing. When I am next visiting Vera Slapp and Cyril down in deepest Berkshire I might be persuaded to have a nibble on his triple-fried chips. He has a very scientific approach to cooking, apparently. He is also, like moiself, an amateur of world music, and his desert island discs were an eclectic mix of exotic airs, rock and opera.

I am a great lover of fine dining. Do not be fooled by the number of times I mention chips in this column, my reduced circumstances due to my precipitated departure from Africa and arrival in Brussels as a refugee will not last forever. I am saving up my luncheon vouchers and will soon be seen again dining at the best tables in Brussels. THE table to be seen at in this town is Comme Chez Soi, where I have not yet had the pleasure, although Vi Hornblower has. In Paris the best - and most exclusive - table I ever graced was the British Ambassador’s. His Excellency has a famously well-stocked wine cellar, and a noble collection of single malt Scotch Whiskies which are offered as a very British alternative to cognac. I was only a little disappointed that His Excellency didn’t offer me any Ferrero Rochers. Budget cuts, I expect.

If a suitor really wanted to impress me (pay attention, Bert) he would book a table for two at El Bulli near Barcelona, this year's Best Restaurant in the World. This restaurant is only open for six months a year, and all bookings for 2006 were already closed by mid-2005. The menu comprises 16 courses, all of them tiny but exquisite and experimental. If any readers have managed to get a table there I would be most interested to hear about it. Or any other outstanding estaminets you may have visited. My future as a restaurant reviewer depends on hot tips.

One person who won't be eating at El Bulli is Saddam Hussein. His shouting over the judge who was trying to read out his death sentence yesterday rather put me in mind of Catherine Tate's Lauren. I wonder what is the Arabic for "Am I bovvered? Am I? Bovvered? Me? Do I look bovvered? I'm not bovvered! I'm NOT BOVvered!"