LET'S GET THIS PARTY STARTED

Brussels' "Ommegang" celebrates the Joyous Entry of Peter Mandelson

The party season really kicks off this weekend in Belgium. Weld music festival Couleur Café starts today, with not quite such a star-studded lineup as last year, when Zoe, the Twat and I saw one of the last performances of the late great Godfather of Soul James Brown, and got jiggy to Seun Kuti and Burning Spear. This year the main attraction has to be white Zulu Johnny Clegg on Sunday, there are one or two names that ring a bell appearing over the weekend - Cameroonian sax master Manu Dibango, Ziggy Marley, Prince of Rai Rachid Taha - but no real Monstres sacrés of weld music. And the weather's ghastly. I think I'll stay home and watch Songs of Praise.

Next week is the Ommegang, which is a procession re-enacting the Joyous Entry of Charles V (Quint) into Brussels in 1549. Lots of pomp, pageantry, Belgian nobility, costumes, flag-waving, stiltwalking, jousting, minstrels in tights, hey-nonny-no and all that codswallop. Like a sort of cross between Cirque du Soleil and the opening of Parliament. I missed it last year, and so I will make a point of bagging a front-row seat this year. Unless it's raining, in which case I shall repair to a pleasant little dive bar on the Place du Grand Sablon called The Black Sheep. The guv'nor is a francophone Belgian married to a lady from Limerick, and could win Irish mastermind, he knows so much about the Emerald Isle. In fact he is a walking encyclopaedia about most things. If you are ever on your own in Brussels and in need of a friendly barman and/or a history lesson, visit this bar, order a pint, sit back and be educated.

FLYING DOWN TO WOLUWE

Lovely young man Paolo Nutini

Now you all know how I like a Nice Young Man. And, watching Glasto over the weekend from the warm and dry haven of my living room, I saw a Very Nice Young Man Indeed. Paolo Nutini is no relation to the chocolatey stuff you spread on your croissants, and despite the name, a Scot. The most gorgeous creature I have drooled over since Paul Buchanan of The Blue Nile. Also a Scot, incidentally. In fact, it seems that the best looking men these days are Jocks. Stop preening, Peter, Mr Farty and Dr Maroon. Paolo can sing too.

Then I watched a sixties revival show on a German channel. That was a trip down memory lane. A pudgy and middle aged Gerry Marsden was followed by the Searchers, the Fortunes, the Tremeloes (sans Brian Poole), Barry Ryan, even a grey-moustached and portly Peter Sarstedt, miming badly to that uber-cheesy song about the woman who kept her Rolling Stones records up the Boulevard St Michel, and who shamelessly made no attempt whatsoever to even pretend to be playing his guitar, simply gripped it round the neck tightly and pretended to strum. The only ones who showed any integrity at all were The Troggs who sang "Wild Thing" live, and a still-cool-at-66 Eric Burdon, accompanied by Brian "Wheels on Fire" Auger on keyboards, who sang a quite original blues version of "House of the Rising Sun". I sat there transfixed, wondering who they would wheel out next. I would have put my money on Engelbert Humperdinck, but never got to find out, as I fell asleep before the end.

The Fete de la Musique this weekend was a washout, due to driving rain and gusty winds. The Belgians don't relish mud as much as we Brits do. I had to shelve my plan to hold my Glyndebourne picnic in the park (Pimms and Fortnum's hampers obligatory), where some live bands were due to perform, and instead repaired to the local hostelry where I fell over Spanish Goth sitting in the doorway nursing his hair.

The band who had just been battling with the elements in the park were a genial bunch of Brazilians who, if I am not mistaken, go by the name of Agua de Beber. At the end of their set they gathered up their instruments and legged it through the rain to the pub, where they got the beers in and launched into an all-afternoon jam session. There is nothing quite like getting nicely hammered on Belgian beers, listening (and, later, singing along loudly) to live samba music, on a wet and windy Sunday afternoon. Due to the inclement weather I was not wearing my trademark fruit basket on my head, so I had to use my gay umbrella as a prop to lead Spanish Goth and Angus McSporran up the high street in a conga line. Goth's bondage trousers made it a bit difficult to kick his leg out, but he shuffled along as best he could, and Angus kept time on a pair of chopsticks stolen from the Chinese restaurant while I entertained the neighbourhood with "BraZIL ... da da da da da da da daaaaa, da daaaaa, da daaaaaa ...."

Strangely enough I can't remember for the life of me how I got home.

Next Sunday I think I'll stay in and watch Songs of Praise.

MY BEAUTIFUL LAUNDERETTE

I am only just starting to get straight in the new Wayne-Bough Towers. Not having yet got round to purchasing a Bosch washing machine, I have had to resort to the joys of a launderette for the first time in years. Oh my, haven't they moved on? They're all electronic now. I spent half an hour reading the instructions and working out how to buy tokens, where to put them, where the washing powder went, what programme combination to select, and how much my washing weighed. Then I had to do it all over again for the dryers. But while I was sitting watching my magic knickers go round and round, I espied something very interesting in a corner. It was an ironing machine! You feed your sheets, towels, pillowcases etc. into big rollers and they come out completely flattened! This was the acceptable face of technology. I had great fun feeding my duvet covers and teatowels in and catching them as they dropped out of the bottom completely pressed and smooth. It's the most exciting machine I've used since I bought my digital camera. No, I don't get out much. The local launderette is incredibly clean and tidy, with plenty of work surfaces for your servant to fold your washing. I might not even bother with a washing machine, the ironing machine was so much fun.

LADY MARMALADE

Seville is known for a number of fictional personages – Carmen, who invented the heated roller, and Figaro, the French newspaper mogul – but mainly for its oranges which are used in marmalade. I was shocked and stunned to learn that some ladies of the twinset-and-pearls school do not actually use fresh Seville oranges in their marmalade, but a tinned preserve called Ma Made. This practice must stop forthwith! First nude calendars, now this. I feel a David Walliams moment coming on.

The Kurt Nachtnebel Oompah Band (K.N.O.B.) stole the show in Seville. Wolfgang the manager had been following Eurovision and had observed the winners from the past few years. The element of surprise is obviously more prized than musical competence these days. When the band came on disguised as cross-dressing gorillas a collective gasp went up from the audience. My Heidi outfit was considered a little too twee, so to add a post-ironic touch Gerd lent me his lederhosen. The resulting line-up presented such a contrast that the audience was captivated, and when I put my “ting” in the wrong place they thought it was all part of the act and roared with laughter. We won first prize, and were lauded as the new face of German brass bands, NME even called us “the Pogues of Oompah”. The Yodelling Alpenhornsters of Wuppertal, who were pipped into second place, were livid, and stomped out in protest, leaving crampon marks all over the stage. But hey – that’s showbusiness!

After our triumph at the Euroompah 2007, Bert and I decided to take in a flamenco show or “tablao”. The greatest flamenco artistes perform in Andalucia, and some of the flamenco bars have mythical status. We couldn’t find one starrring Joaquin Cortes with no shirt on, but finally got a table at Los Gallos, recommended by our Spanish roadies. The first half featured four gorgeous senoritas who took turns to dance in order of age and seniority, accompanied by some chaps who looked like the Gipsy Kings playing guitars and singing. Have you noticed how all flamenco singers look like the Gipsy Kings? Each dance told a story, and each story seemed to involve a woman getting very cross with her husband. Some chaps came on dressed as Argentine gangsters and did some impressive stamping and hair-flicking. In the second half the star, Blanca del Rey, made an imperious entrance. She was no spring chicken, I can tell you, in fact I think she might have been about Bert’s age. But she had fantastic legs for an old girl, either that or the best elastic stockings ever made. She was also having a row with her husband. She stamped, she flounced, she tossed her head until her comb flew across the stage, she rattled her castanets, she shouted, she was quite formidable! I smiled to myself, watching Bert’s look of abject terror. After Blanca del Rey, he was going to find his Daphne a fluffy little kitten by comparison!

After the show finished around midnight we stopped off in a nearby bar to have a last one for the calle, where Bert was showering me with inhabitual attention fuelled by gratitude for my not being Blanca del Rey. I must write to Doña Del Rey to thank her. Spanish women certainly know the secret of how to keep your man in line. Bert is now completely in my power. One false move, and a stamp of my foot (backed up by a threatening rattle of castanets hidden in my pocket) will make him snap to attention like a veritable Manuel from Barcelona.

SKETCHES OF SPAIN

(Also a stonking album by Miles Davis)

These are just a few little tapas to keep you going until the paella is ready.

TO THE MANOR BORN

I know you’re all waiting with baited breath for the report of my trip to Spain, however you’ll have to hang on. I am exhausted after the upgrade to the new Wayne-Bough Towers, which followed hot on the heels of the K.N.O.B.’s resounding triumph at the All-Europe Oompah Championships in Seville and an unexpected encounter with an old acquaintance. And as for Seville itself – what a fabulous town.

The move was exhausting, as I couldn’t run to Pickford’s this time and did it all myself in a hired mini Ford Transit. I’m sitting among my packing cases trying to remember which box the corkscrew is in. Fish knives are of no use whatsoever in a situation like this.

The new "manor" as my friends from Sarf London would say, is so Moi. After the hustle and bustle of downtown, where the invasive racket of police sirens and nightclubs taught me to lipread, as there was no other way of hearing the television, I am now in a very posh suburb where the early morning silence is broken only by the sound of birds tweeting and the occasional muted purr of a Mercedes or BMW passing by.

A large number of the denizens of this part of town are mature. Very mature. In fact it would not be cruel to say we are a stone’s throw from God’s Waiting Room. You can tell by the number of doctors and pharmacies in my street alone that there are a large number of locals who have passed their three score and ten. The younger residents are mostly well-heeled couples with a 4x4 and a brace of spoilt brats, and four pairs of green wellies in the hall in diminishing sizes. Even the children wear Barbour jackets. However, someone in my building has strange visitors. The other night a motorcycle was parked outside my house, painted in leopardskin print! For one horrible moment I thought Vi Hornblower had taken up TT racing.

The previous neighbourhood was very multicultural, which I greatly enjoyed due to my extensive knowledge of Africa. My neighbour Mrs Bondongwe went into raptures of delight when I took round a tray of iced fancies by way of introducing myself, and I was often invited round for a mug of palm wine and some plantain chips. We compared head wrappers, and she passed on to me her old copies of “Ovation” magazine (the West African answer to “Hello”). The new surroundings, although very pleasant, are considerably less rich in colours and smells. It’s not that we don’t have immigrants, but if I tell you the local Arab is Lebanese, you will get the picture. There are a lot of non-Belgians in this part of town, but they are mostly affluent Eurocrats, with a high proportion of Brits. Hence the local paper shops stock the Daily Mail and the Sunday Times, and the local tea rooms know how to serve a proper cup of tea with the appropriate doily. I feel I am back where I belong, readers. This feels like the sort of place where a girl can get a decent blue rinse and the local supermarket never runs out of Duchy Originals. And there is the added bonus of having Aunty M and Scouse Doris as neighbours, if I ever need to borrow a cup of La Perruche brown sugar lumps.

I ventured out on Sunday morning sporting my Hermès scarf tied in a turban and my outsize sunglasses, looking not so much like a Polish cleaning lady, as a celeb trying not-quite-hard-enough to go unnoticed. I felt I ought to be carrying a small Yorkshire terrier poking its head out of a Gucci bag to complete the look.

UPWARD MOBILITY

Hola amigos! I'm back from sunny Spain, and will give you a full report as soon as I've moved my priceless collection of Polish china and silver-plated cutlery from the frankly scuzzy part of town where I currently reside to the new Wayne-Bough Towers, which is in an upper class residential leafy suburb very close to Aunty Marianne and Scouse Doris, so I'd better get another case of Pimms in. I'm looking forward to some stonking bridge parties.

The trip to Seville with the K.N.O.B. was a resounding success and I can't wait to tell you all about it. Hasta luego, companeros!