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.