HELLO BIG BOY

This will have to be a quickie, as I've been called away at short notice to bang something for the K.N.O.B.* in Bulgaria! I hope to be back with you early next week, but meanwhile I will leave you to ponder this photograph of Mahlyanov Kaloyan Stefanov, a Bulgarian sumo wrestler who is big in Japan. In fact he's big anywhere, as he measures 6'8". He has remarkably low body fat for a sumo wrestler and is causing quite a stir in the Land of the Rising Sun, where he is known as Kotooshu. This is a publicity shot for the Bulgarian yogurt company that sponsors him. I may never buy Danone again.

Um, what's Bulgarian for "do you live with your parents?"

* Kurt Nachtnebel Oompah Band, for those of you who have been living in a cave. You know who you are, Osama!

THE FLEMISH MASTERS

On my peregrinations around Brussels yesterday, I happened upon this. I presume it is art, although at first I thought it might be a rather original new MuckDonalds restaurant, with a roof made of fries. Belgium, see? Fries .... oh, never mind. The "sculptor" is called Arne Quinze, his previous oeuvre includes a 50' high wooden plank structure built and then immolated at last year's "Burning Man" festival in Nevada. Not exactly into saving trees, then. On his website (conveniently advertised on the poster in front of the sculpture) he compares his assemblage of randomly-nailed planks to a "crown of thorns", and reveals that one of his team drove a nail through their hand (accidentally) during construction. I wait with baited breath to see what will happen next. There could be more to this than meets the eye. As I gazed up at what looked like a giant bird's nest, I could hear the ghost of Harold muttering: "Get a flippin' job!". I have my doubts on the health and safety angle, and would advise against walking down the Avenue de la Toison d'Or on a windy day.



A true Belgian artist was René Magritte, whose paintings combine technical mastery with delicious nuttiness. My favourite Magritte is the one I call "It's raining men", the absurdity of which any single girl living in Brussels will confirm. Belgian artistes put a healthy distance between themselves and reality. The songwriter and performer Jacques Brel of this parish once famously sang:

"Laisse-moi devenir l'ombre de ton ombre, l'ombre de ta main, l'ombre de ton chien ... mais ne me quitte pas, ne me quitte pas, ne me quitte pas"
(Let me be the shadow of your shadow, the shadow of your hand,
the shadow of your dog, just don't leave me, don't leave me,
don't leave me)

He could of course have tried replacing the toilet roll once in a while.

LADY IN RED

As you should know by now, I am an unashamed Francophile. I make no excuses for having good taste. After the glamorous wedding I couldn't resist stopping off in Paris for a few days chez Millicent Tendency, who lives in the “red belt”, the ring of left-wing boroughs around the periphery of Paris. Not that you would know. The French invented caviar socialism. When I lived there, I was always impressed by the savoir-faire of the lower orders. My concierge drank better champagne than was served at the Ambassador's functions, and happily voted for the Communist Party, which still enjoyed a grudging respect due to their fierce resistance to the Nazis during the war. Despite a negligible membership, the French Communists still put on one of the best street parties each September with the Fete de l'Humanite, where the top French bands fall over each other to top the bill, seeing no conflict between supporting the ideals of the left and being resident in Monaco for tax purposes. Lobster and foie gras are not just for the wealthy over that side of the Channel, and it is considered totally naff to take one's lunch to work in a Tupperware box, however hard-up you are. Lunch is the reason you go to the office. Ritual and tradition still rule in France, and the result is a nation of mostly well-mannered citizens with the most enviable lifestyle in the world. The only difference between the rich and the poor in France is how much money they've got.

This is a far more healthy attitude to class differences than is the case in the UK. Rather than whinge and moan about the rich and their high-rolling lifestyle, French workers treat themselves to 5-star campsites on the Cote d'Azur and eat and drink just as well in the backstreet estaminets of Cannes as “le peepol” in their swanky hotels. Better still, they can sing at the tops of their voices on the way home and even fall over drunk with no fear of ending up on the front page of Allo Allo magazine. A French working-class hero is something to be.

Most western countries' authorities believe in giving the people what they want. In the case of the UK it is mindless TV, even more mindless newspapers, and unlimited means to indebt and ruin themselves. In France it means allowing them to gorge themselves on fabulous food, drink sublime wines, and smoke themselves and each other to an early grave. I was amused to see people still puffing away on fags in Parisian restaurants, when it has been banned in Belgium, Italy, Spain, the UK and Ireland. I have long believed that France is the ideal place to retire, and am on the lookout for a suitable place to hang up my pearls when the time comes. The Alps look highly appealing, and the perfect excuse to buy a 4x4 (hybrid of course). I could just see myself in a pinafore (although frankly my current wardrobe owes more to the Baroness) twirling around on the top of the mountain and bursting into song:

THE HIGH LIFE

I've been to a marvellous party, up in the gorgeous setting of the French Alps. My old friend La Comtesse Fifi de la Foufounette married off her daughter, Fernande-Arlette, to an English former rock star called Bill Stickers - you may remember him as the front man of Bill Stickers and the Prosecutors. This was a society wedding worthy of Allo Allo magazine, French nobility marrying into rock aristocracy. The paparazzi were out in force to snap the guests, who included the titled and subtitled, A-list, B-list, stars of stage screen and supermarket, politicians, footballers, "le people" as the French call their celebs. Even an Indian raja accompanied by a trio of lovely ranees in gorgeous silken saris. The event took place in a spectacularly beautiful part of the French Alps. The Lac de Savines is a man-made lake created to supply water to the south-east of France by drowning a village, which remains at the bottom of the lake like a mini Atlantis.


Before the actual nuptials the wedding party, accompanied by the groom, were decanted onto a boat which set out on a circuit of the lake. The weather was glorious, and it was a perfect opportunity for the French and English guests to break the ice and get to know each other via the international language of alcohol. As we chugged around the sparkling blue-green water a speedboat suddenly appeared out of nowhere bearing the bride, resplendent in her wedding gown, her veil streaming out into the slipstream. After a dramatic circuit of our vessel, she finally hove to alongside and, accompanied by her father, boarded into the waiting arms of her intended, to rapturous applause from the by now somewhat overexcited wedding party who thought they were extras in a Bond film.


We then proceeded on foot to the civil and church ceremonies where the nuptials were performed. Bill was looking quite the gent in his top hat, leather trousers and union jack braces, although his best man, Keith Richards if I'm not mistaken, did slow the ceremony down considerably while he hunted for the rings, which he finally found on his own fingers where he had put them for safe keeping. We then had a delightful if somewhat scary drive along mountain roads to the magnificent Chateau des Herbeys, the ancestral pile, a XIII century castle with turrets, battlements, a deer and llama park, swimming pool and helicopter landing pad. The bride and groom made another spectacular entrance by helicopter to the musical accompaniment of The Ride of the Valkyries. The crowd went wild. The llamas looked mildly interested. Inside the grounds of the chateau we were served a welcome cocktail and serenaded by well known chanteuse Vanessa Paradise while her doting husband looked on adoringly through his one good eye.


The dinner was a veritable banquet, each course brought in on a massive silver platter by four flunkeys and paraded before the guests. The fillet of Charolais beef was flambeed in Calvados several times before our eyes. A sort of MC chappie entertained us between courses with old Club Med singalongs, and the bridegroom sang a few of his hit songs: "Burn in Hell", "Car Crash Blues", and "Sweet F-A", which he dedicated to his new wife, Fernande-Arlette. As the wine flowed, the French and English guests mingled and the "entente cordiale" was going great guns, at least until the news came through that France had just beaten England in the rugby, which cast a slight chill between the tables. A mock wedding cake made of cheeses was then paraded around to the soundtrack of "God Save the Cheese" which defused the tension somewhat, and the younger guests joined together in a karaoke session which proved that the French can be quite as tone-deaf as the English when they want to.


After the cheese and karaoke we were treated to a firework display to rival the 14th of July, and I finally understood why the llamas were wearing earmuffs. The pyrotechnics culminated with a massive bang as the groom drove his Rolls Royce into the swimming pool. Then came the real wedding cake, a traditional French pyramid of profiteroles called a Croquembouche, and the newlyweds knocked the corks out of the champagne with a huge sabre before filling a six-foot high pyramid of champagne glasses. We toasted their health and tried to do justice to a positively obscene array of desserts before the young people launched themselves onto the dance floor.


Dance is a great equalizer. It was surprising to see the hitherto rather aloof French nobs release their inhibitions to the thumping rhythms of Puff Diddly Dogg and 50 Pence. The elderly Marquise de la Lambada was "getting down" with Prince Freddy of Bhajistan, who was encouraging the ancient dowager to show what she could do with her new artificial knees by yelling "Yeah baby!" at the top of his voice. I saw one of the Ranees (possibly his mother) slip some Ritalin into his wine while he was on the dance floor, with a knowing smile. I danced an elegant twostep with the bride's father, a sprightly septuagenarian who was Fifi's second husband, while Fifi was draped somewhat inappropriately round her seventh, a Polish plumber half her age called Bogdan. She swears that he's a count in his own country.


We all tottered off to Bedfordshire in the wee small hours. I slept like a baby in the pure mountain air, disturbed only by a strange dream in which I was singing the Jane Birkin part in a karaoke version of "Je t'aime moi non plus" with the bride's father. Well I think it was a dream. He did give me a broad wink at breakfast the next day as I helped myself to sausage and devilled kidneys.

A BIT OF ROUGH

My Jimmy Choos have not yet dried out after my trip to Blighty, and I'm off again on Thursday to France for a society wedding in the Alps, followed by a couple of days R&R (retail and Ricard) in gay Paree as a guest of Millicent Tendency, my old companera from May '68. I move easily from one end of the political spectrum to the other, you could almost say I invented the "third way" before Tony Blair, except it was first mentioned decades ago by a certain Libyan army colonel whose name I will not mention because the last time I did I attracted the not entirely welcome attentions of a lurker in Tripoli, and I don't think it was a blogger.

Millicent has been down in the dumps since the recent change of leadership in France, and is not a fan of Mr Nicolas Bonaparte the new President. I say give the man a chance. The French judge their politicians by their extra-marital dalliances. Having one's name linked with a famous actress has never done a French President any harm, although it didn't work out too well for Mr Kennedy and his brother in America. My advice to Mr Bonaparte would be to have a fling with Audrey Tattoo, star of Amelie and the Da Vinci Code, or the elfin Vanessa Paradise, partner of Captain Jack Sparrow and artiste of international renown thanks to such immortal classics as "Joe le Taxi". Or perhaps with Princess Stephanie of Monaco, who frankly could do with an upgrade in the quality of her men friends. Mr Bonaparte has the requisite thuggy qualities to attract her, she has enough money to finance his next election campaign, and should he lose he can always go and be Grand Vizier to her brother the King of Monte Carlo. An extra-marital dalliance made in heaven.

The magnetism of bad boys is legendary. From Clark Gable to Benicio del Toro, via Leslie Phillips, Marlon Brando, Steve McQueen and Gerard Depardieu, there's something about a man with something of the Phil Mitchell about him that used to turn my knees to jelly. In my younger days I had a weakness for men from the wrong side of the tracks. The merest whiff of Hai Karate and I would tie on my silk headscarf and jump into an open-top MG with nary a thought for whether I'd left the gas on. It cost me a pretty penny in hair pommade and fancy waistcoats, I can tell you. Harold saved me from debtor's prison, as he was balding and only wore beige cardigans. But I always kept a picture of Montgomery Clift under my pillow. I couldn't help myself.

VO-DE-OH-DOH

Back home in Brussels, the sun made a brief appearance, and it was even warm yesterday. However, I am busy feathering my nest and am oblivious to the vagaries of nature. It is a truism that whatever the size of the container at your disposal, you will find stuff to fill it up. This is the reasoning behind huge supermarket trolleys. I have been steadily upgrading in living space and location since my arrival in Brussels nearly two years ago, and am now almost back to the level of comfort and luxury that I enjoyed before Harold's sudden demise left me bereft and penniless. I found my ideal apartment in a perfect part of town. Apart from the lack of litter, I could be in Wimbledon. I had been living up to now in furnished accommodation, but I rented the new apartment - 1920's listed building, SO moi - unfurnished, which was an open invitation that my Visa card could not refuse.

The shopping in Brussels is not fantastic, sadly. Especially for furniture. It is either VERY classy and expensive - my favourite shop is Fins de Siecles, which specializes in high quality reproduction art deco furniture, but is way out of my financial bracket - or cheap and nasty. There is Ikea, but both stores are in outlying areas miles from a bus stop or metro, and I'm not hiring a car just to go and pick up a chipboard bookshelf with a silly name. Luckily we have Hema, Blokker and Casa, which are city-centre Ikea-style stores at affordable prices, smaller and easier to negotiate.

However, some items cannot be skimped on. A good bed, for example. And a day bed, or sofa. My new chaise-longue has just been delivered, on which I plan to recline in a suitably diaphanous negligee and caribou-trimmed mules. It has to last me into my dotage so I have not gone for anything too low, in 20 years' time I might not be able to get out of it. The chaise-longue, I mean. Not the negligee.


The 1920's is a decade I would have enjoyed, I would have been a right flapper, dancing the Charleston with George Bernard Shaw, a glass of champagne in one hand and a cocktail Sobranie wedged in a foot-long ivory cigarette holder in the other. Compare the heady but stylish hedonism of the roaring twenties with today's young gels' idea of a good night out: drinking pints of beer followed by alcopops, and ending up vomiting into their handbags if they're ladylike, or into the gutter if they're not. The flappers of yesteryear knew how to dress, how to drink, and how to tantalize. Jade Goody could learn a thing or two from watching some old Mary Pickford movies. Rudolf Valentino could have swept me off to his tent in the desert any time.

The Ballets Russes de Monte Carlo, managed by the eccentric and excessive Russian impresario Sergei Diaghilev, a sort of cross between Harvey Goldsmith and Boris Berezovsky, have always fascinated me, being the 1920's equivalent of an Andrew Lloyd-Webber show. As a young gel obsessed with tulle and satin and prancing about on tiptoe, I was given a book called "The Book of Ballet", which contained black and white photographs of the great ballerinas and full stories of all the great ballets. Hence I am a font of knowledge on the history of ballet, even though my own terpsichorean talents are a tad less refined. The names George Balanchine, Maria Tallchief and Anna Pavlova hold no mysteries for me. I am an expert on men in tights. Sadly the book was lost many years ago. If anyone ever comes across it at a car boot sale, I'd love to leaf through it again and turn back the pages of time.

Talking of dance, have you been watching Dance X? Bruno Tonioli is my latest "boyfriend". If I were sweeping down a grand staircase in a gown and feather boa, he would certainly be one of the chaps in top hat and tails who would spring forward to light my cigarette or proffer his arm to escort me to the waiting Daimler, from a chorus line which would include Simon Amstell, Paolo Nutini, that bloke from The Blue Nile, Gorilla Bananas, and Prince Harry.

I must away now to recline, Madame Recamier fashion, on my chaise longue. Peel me a grape, Beulah ...