NIGHT OF THE LIVING DEAD

Hallowe'en, or All Souls' Eve, the first example of Irish marketing before replica pubs, Riverdance, St Patrick's Day and planet-saving rock stars. There is something ironic about one of the most Catholic nations in the world snatching the rights to a religious festival out of the Church's hands and turning it into a worldwide moneyspinner. I bet every 31st October the Pope slaps his thigh and says "Verdammt! I vish ve'd zought of zis!".

The real significance of Hallowe'en is to mark the beginning of winter, the symbolic death of the earth before it's resurrection around Eastertime. Did you see what they did there? The bible was just a very complicated calendar, with pictures. The earth's temporary retreat is symbolized by celebrating death, decay and everything associated with it, notably ghosts, since All Hallows' Eve was, according to the church, the night when all the departed come back for one night only. Which is where the pumpkins come in. With the flesh of this seasonal and cheap vegetable used as a warming soup to keep out the cold, their empty shells were used as lanterns to welcome the souls back home. In Polish cemeteries hundreds of votive candles flicker on the graves, making the place look a bit like a nightclub. A late late show, you could say.

If it were true that the dead return to earth on Hallowe'en, you could have the dinner party of your dreams. You'd have to book well in advance, as I imagine lots of people would try to bag P.G. Wodehouse, Douglas Adams, or Sherlock Holmes. The Beatles could finally do that reunion concert with John and George present – for one night only – and Las Vegas would charge astronomical fees for the annual Elvis extravaganza. And when they said at the end « Elvis has left the building », they really mean it, folks.

I do hope it's not true. I would hardly want Harold back. And who knows in what guise he might return – he was such a fantasist when he was alive, he could come back as one of his favourite personae, such as Che Guevara, and you wouldn't know if the shade was the real Che or Harold messing about. Although there were always a few telltale signs. I don't think the real Che ever wore a beige cardigan, for example, or whistled the theme from Match of the Day. Or he might come back as Darth Vader. Or Sven, the nordic ski champion. Honestly, sometimes it was like living with the Village People.

Harold always enjoyed Hallowe'en immensely, as there was something of the night about him at the best of times. His Hallowe'en dinner always kicked off with a Bloody Mary, followed by a saignant steak (no garlic) and a bottle of Graves. And a Dame Blanche for dessert. And for some reason I always woke up the next day with a sore neck.

Please don't come back tonight Harold dear. I'm having Oscar Wilde, Spike Milligan and Jimi Hendrix round for dinner.

THEY SHOOT HORSES DON'T THEY?

I whizzed up to Antwerp on the train Friday evening to meet the esteemed Mr and Mrs Cream who were over for a wedding. What a delightful evening we had. Cream said he was hungry enough to eat a horse, so I took them to a restaurant called De Perdestaal where horse is the speciality of the house. Funnily enough, when it came to ordering, everybody suddenly decided they wanted fish, pork or something else. The food was delicious, but I must refrain from describing it in detail or else I will breach the terms of my exclusivity contract with UpFront magazine.

I hadn't been to Antwerp at all this year and was reminded, when I got there, of what a wonderful city it is and why it is Belgium's New York to Brussels' D.C., Sydney versus Canberra, Rio to Brussels' Brasilia, Lagos as opposed to Abuja. Brussels has civil servants, Eurocrats, grey suits, sandwich bars, whereas Antwerp has designer shops, nightclubs, enough restaurants to eat out every night of the year and never come back to the same place twice, broad boulevards, imposing architecture, lovely parks, a sense of grandeur, and ... a river! The Schelde is broad and majestic as befits one of Europe's biggest ports, and there is a maritime theme throughout the city, right down to the legend of Ant, the chap who saved the local citizens by cutting of the hand of the ogre Twerp and throwing it into the Schelde. Oh and there are the diamonds too.


One of the major sticking points in the current political impasse is, in the event of a separation of Flanders and Wallonia, who gets Brussels. Who in heaven's name would want it if you've got Antwerp? Perhaps they're arguing about who doesn't get Brussels.


Antwerp railway station, possibly the most beautiful example of grandiose 19th-century Leopoldian architecture, is being "modernized". The original marble concourse is undergoing renovation work, and I pray that when it is finished it looks nothing like what has been thrown up behind it in the working part of the station, which is appalling. Ultra modern, escalators, computer screens, shopping mall, ugly modern concrete blocks ... I thought I'd arrived at a different station. I came in on a platform about 100 feet below sea level, three escalators towering up in front of me and almost completely blocking the rear view of the main station. It now looks like London's Waterloo station. Well done Antwerp town council.


Despite the last fast train back to Brussels being slightly less comfortable than a cattle truck, I managed to nod off several times, notably between the Gare du Nord and the Gare du Midi, sailing unconsciously through the Gare Centrale where I had planned to get off. In fact if I'd woken up 30 seconds later I'd have ended up in Charleroi. And that's not where you want to be at one o'clock in the morning.


This morning the STIB (Brussels metro system) decided it would be a good idea to send the cleaners to wash down the steps to the platform with soapy water at 8.30, right in the middle of the rush hour. They also think it's a good idea to renovate all the platforms on all the stations at the same time, so all the passengers receive maximum inconvenience equally. I am in favour of the new big metro trains (sorry tree-huggers, but they make my journey to work much more comfortable) but why, oh why, do they only send them out in off-peak hours, and come the rush hour, we get the rattly old ones? Perhaps they don't want to get the new ones dirty.

Come back London Transport, all is forgiven.

EVERY CLOUD HAS A SILVER LINING

Can't wait for the South African edition of Les Dieux du Stade calendar.


Of course his grandfather is English:

BLOGGING: THE NEW PORTNOY'S COMPLAINT?

Blogging is a funny old game, as Margaret Thatcher might have said. As a form of social interaction, it is becoming more popular than going to the pub. This suggests that the most enthusiastic bloggers are at best a bit shy, at worst raving antisocial psychopaths. Blogging is to socializing what texting is to talking on the phone. It's driving to work with no passengers, as opposed to being crushed and asphyxiated on public transport. It's paying to use the M6 toll road as opposed to sitting bumper to bumper at spaghetti junction. It's lying on your sofa listening to your iPod versus standing up for hours at a rock concert. It's staying in with a box of Belgian chocolates and a George Clooney DVD versus standing half an hour in the rain outside the cinema only to find the only seats left are in the front row. It's only a matter of time before you will risk an ASBO for writing a blog. However, it's an understandably compelling activity, and here are just ten reasons why it can be preferable to going out:

1. You can do it in your PJs. Not that I ever do, of course. I always blog in ball gown and tiara.

2. Nobody can interrupt you. They might stop reading halfway through (or before), but they have to form an orderly queue to leave comments. The equivalent of holding forth to a roomful of gagged people, then ungagging them one by one to hear their reactions. And then gagging them again. If only ... equally, you don't have to pretend to sound interested in someone else blathering on for hours. You can listen to the sweet sound of your own voice and never read another blog if you so wish. Blogging etiquette say, if you don't like another blog you don't comment and just don't go there again, whereas in a pub you'd shove your pint in someone's face.

3. Weather makes no difference. Unless it's a weather blog.

4. You can picture other bloggers as you wish to, or portray yourself as who/whatever you want, with no fear of being exposed. Gorilla Bananas has a huge female fan club. Some of his fans think he's human! Fancy ....

5. You won't get beer spilled over you – well not by anyone else anyway. But eating a bowl of cornflakes over the keyboard is nox xo be advised, as I have jusx found oux.

6. You don't have to worry about missing the last train, or finding a taxi home. But if you drink and blog, you might have trouble distinguishing your pillow from your keyboard.

7. You won't get kicked out at midnight. (Unless you're in a cybercafe).

8. You can smoke. (Unless you're in a cybercafe). In fact, it's not a good idea to blog from a cybercafe, blogging is a solitary pleasure that is not enhanced by screaming kids playing video games or dirty old men in raincoats panting.

9. It's nearly free. If you stay off YouTube. (Pat!)

10. There is no such thing as a blogging hangover.

Brussels « blogmeets » have not really taken off, as they turned out to be raucous drunken affairs rather below the dignity of laydees such as Aunty Marianne and moiself, although I gather Scouse Doris enjoyed herself immensely. I think some of us were disappointed to find that Quarsan wasn't really a twat.

Tags and memes are for the faint-hearted. Blogging isn't about finding out about others, it's about telling the world about you. It is essentially an activity for self-obsessed, narcissistic people who would prefer a night in with a porn movie and a box of tissues to waking up in the morning minus their beer goggles and finding Shane McGowan/Shirley from Eastenders* in their bed. As somebody once said: « It's like having your own magazine. » Somebody I know has their own magazine AND a blog (you know who you are).

It seems to have gone rather quiet. Hello ... ? Is there anybody out there ... ?

Oh sod this, I'm off to the pub.

* delete whichever turns you off least

MANHUNT

On Saturday night, watching the semi-final of the Rugby World Cup, a number of ladies in the company were heard to inquire about the French no.16. I have scoured the internet, but numbers on shirts seem to be perfectly random in rugby, and I cannot find any confirmation of his name. Perhaps somebody can identify him from the line-up below. And get his phone number.

And just for Aunty Marianne, Chabbers showing his tender side:

CARVE HER NAME WITH MOTHER'S PRIDE

On Gorilla Bananas’ blog the other day I was moved to defend the expat lifestyle, and reassure Eurosceptics like BPP that just because some of us live and work here behind enemy lines, does not mean we are traitors to our homeland. BPP is particularly incensed about the British Sausage, which has apparently been banned by the EU (although strangely enough, I could have sworn I bought several packs in Waitrose last month, if I didn’t the SRF (sausage resistance front) has been visiting my freezer in the night).

BPP should rest assured there are shadowy forces at work to defend the British Sausage and everything else that is dear to our nation. I can’t say too much, but I myself was parachuted into Belgium wearing a beret, a trenchcoat and white ankle socks, ready to defend the expat community against incursions from the Europhiles with their arty-farty, namby-pamby, wishy-washy, ooh-la-la continental ways – we must make a stand against long lunch breaks, wine-drinking, hand-shaking, kissing everyone, and driving on the right.

I am not alone. In my “cell” are others committed to the cause, such as Tippler, who defends the British boozer against the dark forces of the continental café society. You gotta fight for the right to fight your way to the bar. They want to call time on calling time, but we in the secret army are here to bring back licensing laws and off licences, Party Sevens and lager and lime, and ensure a return to 1970’s Britain (er, is this right Tippers?).

Every day we say the UKIP prayer: “Lord, get us out of Europe. But not yet.”

You at home can help. When travelling on Eurostar, secrete about your person small bags of earth, which you pour out of the train window while going through the tunnel. It is estimated that by 2097 we may have caused enough of a blockage to stop the train. A technique used in “The Great Escape”. Although you must remember not to fall for that “Have a nice trip, sir” trick as you get off the train, which did for Richard Attenborough and David McCallum.

We are committed to replacing Belgian chocolates by real confectionery such as Cadbury's Milk Tray, and doing away with that typically sex-obsessed French phallic baguette nonsense, what's wrong with a good old sliced Hovis loaf, untouched by filthy human hand? What care we for cheap public transport and trains that run on time? It's just a foreign trick to destroy the British car manufacturing industry. (Note : Check this.) The lifeblood of the Englishman runs through cholesterol- hardened arteries to the heart of a bullfrog, fed on curry and Pukka pies. And should we need help, we know our old friends the Americans will stand shoulder to shoulder with us, airlifting revitalizing MuckDonaldburgers and Coca Cola, unloaded by cheery immigrants in orange jumpsuits who are leaving decadent old Europe to go and start a new life in Guantanamo bay.

Nevvah, in the field of human conflict, have show many .... owed show much ... to show few ... You don't have to thank me. I do it for love of Queen and country.

CHE LIVES!

40 years ago today the Argentinian medic Dr Ernesto "Che" Guevara was executed by the Bolivian military, selflessly laying down his life at the age of 39 so that the global T-shirt industry might survive. Such sacrifice! "The Motorcycle Diaries", a film based on Che's own account of his road trip through South America, starred the almost edible Gael Garcia Bernal as the young Che. Another film starring the smouldering Benicio del Toro as the older Guevara is currently in production, but will not be released until next year.

My late husband Harold read the biography of "El Che" a number of years ago and, in typical fashion, spent a few weeks marching round the house in combat fatigues (well a pair of old green overalls that got splattered in creosote when he was painting the fence) listening to “Buena Vista Social Club” and demanding South American grub. Now I don’t know the difference between a burrito, a tortilla, a fajita or an enchilada – they seem to be the same thing, only folded differently. But I indulged his whims, to the point of being very heavy-handed with the chillis. His belated discovery of the joys of Marxist-Leninism came to an abrupt end after a weekend spent on the loo. Capitalist running dogs win again!

As a result of all this, I know more than I ever wanted to about the Comandante. Such as: he was not terribly fussed about personal hygiene, even when he was a minister in the Cuban government and presumably allowed his own bathroom and soap. He eschewed any activity which he rated as "bourgeois", such as washing, being nice to girls, or not farting in public. Is this starting to sound familiar? Anyone with a teenage son will have worked out that the great hero of the revolution was nothing but an adolescent who never grew up. What he needed was his mum to come round and give him a clip round the ear, spit on her hanky and wipe his face. Revolutionary behaviour is just a thinly-disguised cry for attention.

If Che were alive today he would be 79, and in honour of the former rugger bugger I loosed off a few rounds of my Kalashnikov at midnight on Sunday to celebrate Argentina's success in getting to the semi-finals of the rugby world cup. Scotland deserved to get beaten, they'll only support France next Saturday anyway.

A MAN'S A MAN FOR A' THAT

After yesterday's shock results in the Rugby World Cup, I am suddenly taking an interest in the egg-chasing. England play France next Saturday in the semi-finals in Paris. I will not go down for that match, but shall watch it in the relative peace and quiet of the nearest Irish pub.

However today would be a good day to be in Paris. The Tartan Army will be all over the "toon" distributing bonhomie and flashing their tackle to the locals. As you know I am partial to a man in a kilt, and shall be supporting the Jocks in the pasting they are going to get at the hands of Argentina this afternoon, even though they will be shouting for France next Saturday.

The Haka didn't work its magic for the All Blacks this time, as the French now have a trump card, the terrifying Chabal who looks like a very angry Hagrid. The Scots should do likewise and exploit their reputation as fearsome warriors, by coming out on the pitch dressed as Highlanders and reciting Burns poems with a menacing Govan snarl. It still probably wouldn't make them win, but would be great entertainment for the crowd. Almost anything by Burns delivered in broad Scots by a suitably scary looking forward would strike terror into the hearts of the opposition, even "Ae Fond Kiss", although I would suggest something totally incomprehensible like "Address to the Tooth-Ache" might have the required effect:

My curse upon your venom'd stang,
That shoots my tortur'd gums alang,
An' thro' my lug gies mony a twang,
Wi' gnawing vengeance,
Tearing my nerves wi' bitter pang,
Like racking engines!

That would keep the other side confused long enough to bang down a couple of tries within the first five minutes.

I have been further researching my tartan credentials, with the help of Scotland's People, the government website for public records. The English public records website allows you to view census records free of charge, but the Scots make you pay (surprise surprise) and give you so little information online that you have to pay to view lots of records that turn out to be useless. However, I did turn up the record of the marriage of my Glaswegian great-grandparents. One of their witnesses signed his name with an "X", which I am sure indicates he was Scottish nobility and therefore not required to sign his full name.

Come on the noo, chaps!

NOT WITH THE PROGRAMME

They say a drop in air pressure causes a lack of concentration. That is certainly the case with me as I am not exactly firing on all cylinders at the