WHEN THE CHIPS ARE DOWN

Having lived for over six months within spitting distance of one of Brussels' best chip stalls, I had to do it. On my wobbly and unsuccessful search for a doctor's surgery (I will rant about the overrated Belgian health service on another occasion) I felt the need for a sit down. Martin's frietkot was within my sights. So I did what a woman had to do. I went and queued up for a portion of allegedly the best chips in Brussels.

I stood behind two young men who put in an order for something exotic sounding. I heard the word "andalouse". Spicy. Oriental. They were discussing the football while they waited. I stood on tiptoe to see over their shoulders. Martin was busying himself with great half-baguettes, and taking his time about it. Would this be some kind of Belgian kebab he was putting together? What kind of spicy sausage would be going between the halves of French loaf? During the good five-minute wait, I noticed with approval that his chips were being cooked lovingly in time honoured fashion, in two separate vats of oil. The first to cook the potato, the second to crisp. The penalty, I learned from the lads, was a diabolical liberty.

I was intrigued when I saw Martin slathering pink sauce onto the bread, and then gobsmacked when I saw him pile chips into the two halves of baguette, and serving the boys three massive chip butties. A Frenchman would have fainted dead away.

I stepped up and ordered my small frites for 2 euros. Martin took a scoop full from the pre-fried batch and double-fried one portion of chips especially for me. Well you can't complain they're not fresh. They were served in a paper cone, with a dusting of salt. I did not wish to adulterate them with mayonnaise, sauce "andalouse" or otherwise. (Funny that they never have vinegar in Belgian chip shops. The continentals threw the baby out with the bathwater when they dismissed British cuisine thirty-odd years ago. Between the wobbly jelly and the overcooked Sunday roast, there are still a few gems of British cooking, and Sarson's malt vinegar on chips is one of them).

I sat on a bench in the Place St Josse and ate some. They were good. They tasted of potato. They were golden and crispy. But, as someone once said (I think it was Pat): a chip is a chip is a chip. As an accompaniment to a nice haddock fillet in breadcrumbs, with some brown bread and butter and a nice cup of tea, they would have been fab. But to be honest, when you've got the tail end of flu, sitting on a public bench in February eating chips is not really where you ought to be. I ignored the poster inviting me to take my snack into a scrotty bar across the road to eat whilst being ogled by a bunch of lumpen riff-raff, wrapped the remainder of my chips carefully, and finished them off at home with a good dollop of tomato ketchup.

Some Belgians will tell you that the only way to eat Belgian fries is outside in the open air, out of paper. There really is a gap in the market for a fish and chip restaurant in Brussels, I feel. Where is Harry Ramsden when you need him?

CHIN UP

I have got absolutely nothing to write about and am laid low with rotten flu, but just to show how magnanimous I am, here is a little reminder that spring is just around the corner.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going back to bed.

AN ODD COUPLE

Kung hei fat chow!

Or Happy New Year in Cantonese. Or is it Mandarin, I'm never sure. (Banana, help me out here!)

Today marks the start of the Chinese Year of the Pig. Oriental fortune tellers say it is going to be turbulent, violent, investments will be shaky, and a woman may become President of France. But it will be a good year to have a baby. Which has pretty much got every eventuality covered. Rest assured peace is not going to break out on a global scale, just in case you were still waving your CND flag and singing "Kumbaya".

The most glamorous pig that ever lived was of course the divine Miss Piggy. Although she was a bit of a ham she had a lot of class. I do model myself on her to some extent. The frocks. The magnificent bosom. The contemptuous way she tossed those luscious blonde locks. The way she clouted Kermit with her handbag.

Her relationship with Kermit always puzzled me. What on earth did such a glamorous urbane socialite see in a scrawny, green, gawky geek like Kermit? She could have had anyone - heaven knows there were plenty of celebrity guests on the Muppet Show. She could have had William Shatner, Elton John, or even Rudolf Nureyev!

OK, Kermit was very bright and had a winning personality. And frogs are known for their enthusiasm and energy in the lily pad. But their lovemaking must have looked a bit like Sir Edmund Hillary ascending Everest. However, it's been a long time since anyone ribbited in my ear on a warm summer evening, so who am I to judge what attracts a woman to a man? Or a pig to a frog?

I still think she could have done better, surrounded by all that talent. Myself, I always have a soft spot for the drummer.

PUB ART

I was reprimanded last night for not updating my posts often enough. My protestations of having a demanding job fell on deaf ears. So here, for Tippler's benefit, is something to bring a tear to his eye. Photo by yours truly. Artwork and digital fiddling about by Scrumpy.

That should keep you happy until Sunday.

PEOPLE POWER

This might look like just a patch of black. But if you look closely you will see a dim column of light in the distance. This is the narrow floodlit end wall of the Berlaymont, photographed on Saturday night from my window.

And all the other lights are out!! Someone over there has been reading Berlaymonster.

A small victory for the people, I would say. Do not underestimate the power of the blog.

WHERE ARE THE SNOWS OF YESTERYEAR?

This morning the view from my window looked like this:

This evening it’s all gone. Was that winter? In the words of Sir Saint Bob Geldorf: Is that it? I nearly blinked and missed it. At least I had an opportunity to dig out my Polish fur-lined boots. I have a wardrobe full of heavy winter gear purchased during my time in Poland, which thanks to climate change I may never get to wear again. Shame -- that rabbit fur chapka was so Dr Zhivago.

With global warming and all that, a real winter will become one of those things that old people will reminisce about, like free education and post offices. The young people will laugh scornfully and say we are making it up, as they gather round the Christmas Day barbecue in their shorts and sunglasses, with no concept of what “a cold snap” or “freezing fog” means. I will show them Harold’s old beige cardigan, and they will gather round in puzzlement, trying to figure out where the legs went.

But I remember the winter of 1963. I was a child, obviously, but I’m sure I remember patches of ice still hanging around in June from the late snows of April. We would toboggan down the slopes of our vast grounds, while Nanny Basia looked on fondly from the dacha, and afterwards we would grill kielbasy on the fire. Then Papa would take us on a ride around the estate on the big sled pulled by six white horses, while Tomek stayed home and read Mickiewicz, being too frail for the bitter cold of the Tatras in winter. The peasants would turn out to greet us, dressed in their best rags, and we would throw orange peel at them and laugh at their lack of fashion sense. Such happy times! When Papa defected to the West, leaving us all to fend for ourselves, the Party took everything back, and we survived by selling iron filings scavenged on the outskirts of Nowa Huta steelworks, until we were taken pity on by a defrocked Orthodox priest and got to England hidden in the props basket of a Russian ballet company.Once at Heathrow, we leaped the barriers shouting “Asylum! Asylum!” in our native tongue, and ran to join Papa in his palatial council house in Slough. However, I only have to hear the “Internationale” sung in Polish to feel the tears welling up, in remembrance of better days.

TURN THAT LIGHT OUT !!!

http://www.climatecrisis.net/

"An Inconvenient Truth" is not an action film. Or an exciting film. Or a gripping film. In fact I fell asleep during the first half hour. It doesn't matter because I'm going to buy it on DVD and watch it again. The setting is a lecture space. The action consists of nothing more than ex-presidential candidate Al Gore giving a lecture that he has given more than 1,000 times now all over the world. He has the monotonous, soporific voice of a lecturer, and having been a student once, the natural reaction was to nod off.

But the message is very important. And the message is: DO SOMETHING OR WE'RE ALL GOING TO FRY. OR DROWN.

Al Gore has no hidden agenda. He introduces himself as: "I was once the next President of the United States". He is never going to be President now. And to be honest, I think he is probably relieved. He has found a much more important job.

If you are Dutch, you should definitely see this film. And possibly make plans to leave the country. I can't imagine Belgium's going to be much safer, being as flat and low-lying. And if you are a polar bear ... oh dear. I can't even bring myself to tell you what's in store. Just don't bother taking out a mortgage.

The European Commission made some effort to show its support for the conclusions of the UN report on climate change which was released last Friday, including some of the Commissioners, anti-fraud and admin Kommissar Siim Kallas entre autres, sending communications to their staff encouraging them to support the five minutes switch-off. Pity, then, that they did not see fit to switch off the lights of the Berlaymont, which sat there blazing away like an ocean liner blissfully unaware of the bloody great iceberg in front of it.

SID AND NANCY DAY

Scrumpy came over on Christmas Day for lunch and still hasn’t left, having taken up residence in my basement. He’s no trouble, and potters about looking after his plants. I don’t venture much into his lair, as it’s rather smoky and smells of old socks, but he pops upstairs quite a bit for meals, to use the internet, and to watch telly. And the bathroom, about once a fortnight. Apart from that, he’s quite good company really and a mine of information - he has taught me a lot about organic food, saving the rainforest, and where to get your mobile phone charged for free.

His dreadlocks were looking a bit droopier than usual yesterday. It was coming up to a rather sad anniversary, he explained. Sid Vicious died of a drug overdose 28 years ago, on 2^nd February 1979, aged 21, three months after having found his girlfriend Nancy Spungen dead in their hotel room, stabbed possibly by him, possibly by a third party – no-one will ever know. They had spent most of their idyll in filthy sheets shooting up heroin. Now it might not be your or my idea of a fine romance, but they were, apparently, deeply in love. He penned a bad but poignant posthumous poem to his beloved, which you may read on his entry in Wikipedia.

Sid’s death was about as dramatic as his short life. It is rumoured his mother (a former heroin addict herself) may have administered the fatal dose to her son. When Nancy’s mother refused to allow the lovers to be buried together, “Ma Vicious” as she is referred to, allegedly either (a) drunkenly knocked Sid's ashes over in the bar of Heathrow airport or (b) climbed over the cemetery wall where Nancy was buried and scattered them on her grave. As a last hurrah, Sid’s rendition of “My Way” was released just after his demise. He certainly did. Do it. His way.

Had he lived, Sid would have been 50 this year. I imagine he may have grown into a sort of British Serge Gainsbourg with time.

As a tribute to the ultimate rock ‘n roll icon of self-destruction, Scrumpy is holding a “Sid and Nancy Day” today, a bit like the Lennon-Ono bed-in, but not in the Amsterdam Hilton, and without the press. I am taking the place of Nancy. Apparently I don’t have to take heroin or get stabbed, it’s all very symbolic. I just have to leave yesterday’s make up on, not brush my hair, not wash, be hung over and slouch around all day in a dirty ragged old T-shirt. Which, as I am having a day off work today, is exactly what I was going to do anyway.