THE MOST EXCITING WOMAN IN THE WORLD

Two great monstres sacrés left us during the Christmas holiday. Hot on the heels of the great Harold Pinter, the divine Eartha Kitt sashayed through the Pearly Gates, where she will be met and stroked by 72 bronzed and oiled male models. Orson Welles described her as "the most exciting woman in the world".

She certainly liked a Young Man or three. If this is the future of care for the elderly, sign me up.

GAWD BLESS US, EVERY ONE!

Come inside, pour yourself a glass of my best cooking sherry, and warm yer cockles by the fire. You're never alone with a blog!





A peaceful Christmas to all my readers. I'm off to Blighty to investigate whether Mrs Pouncer is, in fact, me, and to benefit from the pound/euro exchange rate. It'll stop me worrying about the Belgian Prime Minister who has resigned for the FOURTH time since he took office.

I am going to advise King Albert to accept this time.

WITH MY BANJO, ON MY KNEES

Scouse Doris and I did a brief tour of the Brussels Christmas market on Monday but it was exactly like last year's and the year before that. Peruvian knitted alpaca eco-warrior bonnets, handmade soap, headscratchers, fake pashminas (2 for 10 euros), big wheel, Polish dolls, ice rink, flavoured gin, British tourists on weekend shopping trips (God knows why when a euro costs a pound), wooden toys, a refrigerated portakabin ambitiously labelled an "ice bar", the usual craft market rubbish. The trouble with Christmas markets is, when you've seen one, you've seen them all.

Andrea's roundabout, by La Machine: photographed by Jilou

The main, dare I say only reason for visiting the Brussels market again is the annual reappearance of two wonderful roundabouts, made by La Machine, those clever and ever-so-slightly mental French people who made the giant mechanical elephant, the giant little girl, and the 50 ft walking spider recently seen in Liverpool. They are like something out of a Jeunet & Caro film, magical and strange rides with no electronics or flashing lights, just whimsical barrel-organ music. The kids look quite at home on the back of a cicada, inside an octopus or riding up into the sky in a Tintin-type rocket which goes through the canvas roof of the carousel and right up into the sky, giving the wondrous tot a view right across the market. A magic roundabout, indeed, which never fails to make me smile in a whimsical Amelie-like way.


It was extremely cold on Monday night, too cold to stand around getting drunk. After a few banjos, a whizz round the stalls and a plastic plateful of tartiflette we were still stone cold sober and frozen to the bone and had to repair to the pub. I couldn't even get any good photos, as my gloves made it difficult to find the button. I'm going to the market at Grimbergen on Sunday, and I hope that will be a bit more exciting.

What's a banjo when it's at home, I hear you ask. In German it's Glühwein, in English mulled wine, in Polish grzany wino or grzaniec, but since Vera Slapp's first visit to Brussels with her deaf hubby Cyril, "vin chaud" became "banjo", and banjo it will always remain. In Wallingford, anyway.

Many years ago I attended a very posh pre-Christmas cocktail in Paris, where mulled wine was served by the English hosts. The French guests were flummoxed at being presented with a punchbowl of hot steaming grog, when they were expecting champagne. They grinned and bore it as well as they could, but one confided to me that there were only two occasions when you drank mulled wine in France - one being when you have just come off the ski slopes, and the other being when you are ill. The warming libation was, to them, like going to a party and being given a glass of Night Nurse.

In Poland they serve hot beer on the ski slopes. This is not as horrid as you might think, especially as you can flavour it with a dollop of fruit cordial to sweeten it. The custom has perhaps arrived with the influx of Poles, as the organisers of the Brussels Christmas market were offering hot "Kriek" cherry beer in a mug.

I always try to visit several Christmas markets during the month of December and get the first Banjo of the season in early. No two Banjos are alike - some stalls heat up the cheapo supermarket stuff straight out of the bottle, whereas others prefer to customize their brew, adding cloves, ginger, cinnamon and citrus fruits. The essential ingredient is cheap red wine. Needless to say, after several Banjo-stops on a tour of a Belgian Christmas market, you will be singing "Rudolph the Rednosed Reindeer" and speaking fluent Flemish.

If visiting a Flemish Christmas market, beware of the real advokaat, which is what custard would be like if Ferrari made it. I still have half a jar in my fridge from last Christmas, I keep it in case the heating breaks down. In Antwerp last year it all went pear-shaped, and consequently an 8 p.m. curfew has been decreed this year.

Zalig Kerstfeest en Gelukkig nieuw jaar.

IS IT BECAUSE I IS BLACK?

The squeals of excited Belgian and Dutch children will fill the air tomorrow night, when Sinter Klaas (Saint Nicholas) will distribute their presents. This year the Antwerp authorities have kindly allowed him to keep the cross on his mitre, after some discussion that it might upset the minorities, but the PC lobby lost. However, in a trade-off for the cross, he might have to lose his sidekick, Zwarte Piet, a kind of black-and-white minstrel.

Claims that Piet's face is black because he shimmies down the chimney - not because he's a caricature of an African - didn't impress the Moroccan street kids in the rough end of Amsterdam, who gave Sint a hard time, so Moroccans were hired to play Zwarte Piet and chase them off in Arabic. In 2005 Dutch broadcaster NOS changed the story and made Piet slide down a rainbow instead of a chimney, to explain the multi-coloured Piets who replaced the black ones that year. How long before Piet is carrying a gay umbrella and openly flaunting his civil partnership with Niklaas? It's political correctness gone mad, I tell you.

JUST AN AU REVOIR

Here's looking at you, kids

Readers, I am taking a leave of absence. It's not you, honestly. I just feel the need to hang up my bananas for a while and have a lie down. Being this fabulous takes a tremendous effort, and I have been humbled recently by such grandes dames as, for example, Clarissa Pouncer, who can speak fluent Latin and German, can stand around at a cocktail party for hours in high heels whilst simultaneously seducing Scottish engineers, gets comments in the high 40's and 50's and does it all so effortlessly - and she's not much older than moi! There was a time when I could disport my maracas with as much brio, but I feel lately that it's all a little too much at my time of life. I suspect my youthful excesses are catching up on me and, like a shooting star, my brilliance will burn intensely but not late into the night. I am therefore going to devote my remaining years to mastering the cryptic crossword and helping confused young men back on the path to a useful life.

Boys! Boys! Help me back to my bedchamber ...

ARMISTICE

The final scene from Stanley Kubrick's "Paths of Glory":

OUT OF THE POTTING SHED

Have you ever wondered what happened to the Flowerpot Men? They left England due to homophobia in the BBC, and now are living as a couple in a Belgian park.


Next week, we reveal the bizarre sleeping habits of the Teletubbies.

WOO HOO!!

I don't post mid week as a rule, but I just wanted to share the moment :

DON'T LOOK DOWN

"Yo soy un hombre sincero, de donde cresce la palma .... "

By next weekend we will have a new President. I'm keeping my fingers crossed it'll be the young good-looking one. It will indeed be a historic moment: the first time a President of the United States has been younger than me! His slogan is "Change". Which is about all I've got in my purse this weekend. Austerity measures are going to be brought in very soon.

In tribute to Obama's Hawaiian upbringing, I leave you with the Ukelele Orchestra of Great Britain showing that you don't have to be black to have soul. Hit it, dudes!

THE VISITORS

Daphne Poppins and baggage hit London

A locomotive chuffs to a halt. Through the swirling steam we see a young(-ish) man in flat cap, braces, kilt and hobnail boots, helping a highborn lady from the train with her bustle, parasol and steamer trunk. They enter the saloon bar of a public house opposite the station. The young man saunters confidently up to the bar, brandishing a shiny 5p piece.

McChe (for it is he):

Evenin' all! Awroit, me awld cock sparra?

Barman (with heavy Polish accent):

Yes, can I help you sir?

McChe:

Bob's yer uncle, Fanny's yer aunt. A pointer bitter me old chiner, an' a Babycham for the lydy.

Barman:

I’m sorry, I didn’t quite catch that?

McChe:

Yore avin a larf incha? A pointer ahzyer farver, an don’t spare the ‘orses! Oim gettin' married in the mornin', ding-dong the bells are gonna choime! Luvly jubbly! Come onDover, move yer bloomin' arse! We're gahn dahna frog an toad* fer a Ruby Murray** in a minute!

Barman (looking around desperately):

Ktoś rozumie po więgersku?***

McChe (undeterred):

An’ a bucket o’ green licker on the soide, guv’nor. 'Ere's a tanner fer yer trouble. Bloomey Mary Poppins,this is a rum old plyce and naw mistoik. Geezer don’t even speak the Queen’s English! Wot a plonker, innit Rodney? Chim-chiminee, chim-chiminee,Chim-chim-McChe....

Daphne:

I think I’d better take over. A pint of John Smiths, my good man, and a large gin and tonic with ice and lemon please.

McChe:

Moy treat, Datchess!

Daphne:

I think you’ll find 5p won’t even buy you a packet of pork scratchings. I should never have given you those Dickens novels to learn London dialect. How much is that please, bartender?

Barman:

Six pounds and forty-seven pence, madame.

McChe:

WHITTHEFECK???? HA’ YE FALLEN ON YER NOGGIN LADDIE? WE’RE NO BUYIN' THE FRIGGIN HOOSE!! JINGS, CRIVENS AN' A' THAT TARTAN SHITE!

Barman (delighted):

Och hey, ye’re no frae Glasgae? Why did ye nae say so? Hamish Makluski frae Govan! Y'awright pal, it's on me!

Pub pianist (Bill Bailey) with cockney intro

And the drinks are on the 'ouse!

All sing together, high kicks with chorus of pearly kings and queens who appear from nowhere:

"Consider yerself well in, we don't wanna 'ave no fuss,

For after some consideration we can say: Consider yerself - one of us!"

* Rhyming slang = road

** Rhyming slang = curry

*** Polish = Does anyone understand Hungarian?

KEEPING ONE'S END UP

Whatever your circumstances, you can never have too many bags

It is a sad fact that ageing is an expensive business for a woman. One must spend more and more on beauty treatments, orthopaedic shoes, heating, and gigolos. At our age we are no longer able to "rough it" as we did in our youth. We need five-star restaurants, crystal glasses and linen tablecloths. Anything less would be inelegant. In the current economic climate one should tighten one's belt, but middle-age spread makes it difficult for some of us.

Ageless Ena Sharples

Dropping one's standards is not an option when one has worked all one's life to keep oneself in the manner to which one hopes to become accustomed. The trick is not to acquire any new luxury tastes whilst maintaining one's acquis. My dear old friend Imelda, the Dowager Duchess of Southend, is a fine example. Now in her dotage, she maintains her ancestral council flat in SW1, but having got used to the little luxuries of life through her career as a cleaner in the House of Lords, where she would regularly lift delicacies from the members' ermine robes whilst they were sitting (in fact she even lifted an ermine robe, which she wears as a dressing gown), the thought of shopping at Asda fills her with horror. When I suggested that her weekly delivery of top quality wild Scottish salmon by DHL was perhaps a little extravagant, she cried in horror: "Do you expect me to slum it? If it's good enough for the cats, it's good enough for me." That's the mark of a true lady.

THE GREATEST BELGIAN OF ALL TIME*

Thursday 9th October was the 30th anniversary of the death of Jacques Brel, iconic crooner, poet, adventurer, sailor, pilot, actor and by popular vote* the Greatest Belgian of All Time. He was born about 10 minutes walk from Wayne-Bough Towers, and I am proud to share a postcode with the great man. He died, age 49, in a Paris hospital, of lung cancer, and is buried in the Marquise islands, where he spent his last few years, his grave a few metres from Gauguin's.

Jacques' grave on Hiva Oa in the South Pacific: nice view

I became a fan of Brel during my Paris days, when I would spend hours at cafe tables sporting a beret and black turtleneck sweater, smoking Gitanes and looking bored. I lived in a fancy apartment on the boulevard St Michel, where I kept my Rolling Stones records and a friend of ... oh hang on, that wasn't me. At the time, I could be reduced to tears by the words of "Ne me quitte pas":

Moi je t'offrirai Des perles du pluie Venues de pays Où il ne pleut pas

Laiss'moi devenir L'ombre de ton ombre L'ombre de ta main L'ombre de ton chien
Ne me quitte pas Ne me quitte pas

I will offer you pearls of rain from places where it doesn't rain .... I will be the shadow of your shadow, the shadow of your hand, the shadow of your dog, just don't leave me ...

And then one day, many years later, with the force of experience, it struck me that his poor wife, who was stuck in Belgium for years while he was swanning around being famous, would not have been impressed by his "pearls of rain". She didn't want him to be the shadow of her dog, she just wanted him to stick around and help with the kids. Fix the crack in the wall. Do the washing up occasionally. Put her first, for a change. And do you know, readers, I never cried again over that song. Call me unromantic if you will, but having seen interviews with Mrs Brel and her daughters, he wasn't the greatest husband and father. A genius, yes, but a bit of a sod.


Some new footage has recently been released of an interview where he talks about the political problems between the Walloons and the Flemings. He dismisses them as "la basse politique" and says that Belgium is worth more than a linguistic quarrel. He recorded some songs in Flemish, which actually bring beauty to a language which otherwise sounds like someone clearing their throat. (I'm certainly risking becoming permanently persona non grata in Antwerp for that, but where do you think the word phlegm comes from? Think about it).

I'm still a big fan of the rest of Brel's songs which are word-paintings, and my favourite is "Orly", a tender study of two young lovers saying goodbye at an airport. Many of his songs were about loneliness, failure and death. He was the Coldplay of his day, really. I've put up a little Brel-fest for you in the margin so you can hear some of his best songs, which have been recorded by everyone from David Bowie to Nina Simone, Scott Walker to Sting, Julio Iglesias to Rod McKuen and, er, Terry Jacks' appalling "Seasons in the Sun".

Here's old Jack singing "Les Vieux", for Mrs Pouncer, who is having a bit of a crisis over her lost youth. I dare say he'll wander home eventually. This'll cheer you up, old girl.

* according to the Francophone poll. In the Dutch-language poll he came in 7th behind Father Damien, a sort of Belgian Mother Theresa, and Ambiorix, a 1st century warrior and follower of Asterix in the business of Getting Up the Romans' Noses. There could be a message in there.

WHAT GOES AROUND COMES AROUND

What a week! I've hardly been able to tear myself away from BBC World news to keep up with Eastenders. The financial crisis, the US elections, the Callum-Stacey-Bradley love triangle .... the embroidery has been cast aside as I need both hands to operate the remote with one and refill my small sherry glass with t'other.

When in doubt, do nothing is my motto. I have been doing nothing with a vengeance this week. Both my Belgian banks were nationalized within 24 hours of each other, before I even knew they were in trouble. It happened so quickly I didn't have time to worry about my life insurance pension plan invested in the one and my mortgage borrowed from the other. When it comes to money, I'm a bit of a Doris Day: Que sera sera, whatever will be will be. The best laid plans of mice and men, etc. Insh'allah. Après moi, le déluge! (particularly apposite here in Belgium). I have hardened myself to the shocking images of City bank workers shaking with shock over their £3.50 cappuccinos in Café Ripoff and wondering if they might have to trade down the BMW for a Ford Focus. It's every man for himself now.


Talking of Doris Day, girl next door Sarah Palin is going to give Barack Obama a run for his money isn't she? Mr McCain had better employ only middle-aged interns, a Monika Lewinsky at his age could be fatal. Remember The Amazing Mrs Pritchard, that story about the housewife who becomes Prime Minister by accident? Except I think Mrs Pritchard could read newspapers.


The current US election campaign is teaching us more about American politics than we ever thought we'd need to know, when I'm still trying to understand how Brussels works. How they expect to solve the Middle East situation when they have a pork barrel in the Senate I really don't know. Most insensitive. It's nice to know that they will start cutting back on weaponry, if the clause about wooden arrows is an indicator. They would certainly be cheaper than all the military hardware they're chucking about in Iraq and Afghanistan. And Pakistan, now.


Another bombshell struck at the end of the week: Mandy is pulling out of Brussels and rejoining the government. There is wailing and tearing of angora sweaters in certain nightspots here flying the rainbow flag. I heard them singing "I never realized how happy you made me, oh Mandy, you came and you gave without taking ..." as I walked past the Boys Boudoir last night. I'm sure his arrival at Downing Street sporting a pullover in episcopal purple was not accidental. I bet his socks were made by Wolsey. I never did get him to one of my candlelight suppers, he was too far down the waiting list. Too bad, he'll never get to taste my zuppa inglese now.

PYJAMA LAMA

Last weekend was no-car Sunday in Brussels, and a number of the more commercially minded establishments of this parish were maximising on the footsore and weary wandering the streets to draw attention to their services with the offer of a sit down and a beer or a cup of tea. One of the local pubs organised a street party with barbecue, beers on tap, raffle, bouncy castle, etc.

Even the local Tibetan Buddhist temple was at it. Really. I wouldn't normally have gone in, but as everyone else was having a nose around, I poked mine in too. It was very jolly inside, all bright colours, a bit like the Jackanory studio. It's situated in Olmstraat, which seems very appropriate. There weren't any Tibetan monks in attendance, they may have gone off on one of their weekend jaunts. I saw them piling out of their house into a luxury tour bus a few weeks ago, presumably to go and see their boss who was visiting Paris. Quarsan saw a bunch of them in Media Markt shopping for electronics (MBIAT of 3 September). The centre was being minded last Sunday by a number of nice elderly Belgian ladies, the Buddhists seem to have a joint venture going with the local WI. I ommed and ahhed around for a bit, picked up a few brochures, and departed with my most beatific I've-got-my-own-zen-garden-thank-you smile.

Om-megang? Nalanda Institute in Brussels

Now that Aunty Marianne has buggered off to Central America, I am angling to replace her as Domestic Goddess-in-Chief of Brussels. I was out sourcing material for curtains, and discovered THE most fabulous fabric store, dahlings. Les Tissus du Chien Vert is a veritable Ali Baba's cavern of cotton, linen, pure wool mixes, organza, taffeta, silks, satins, tweeds, ginghams, voiles, chintz, jersey, plaids, gabardine, and all manner of warp and weft. I am not much of a seamstress myself, but Brussels is full of little sewing shops where you can get everything done from a quick hem to a wedding dress, all you need to do is buy the fabric and throw in your own creative touch. The Chien Vert, or Green Dog, has two sister stores - Les Puces du Chien (the dog's fleas) or bargain basement, and Le Chien du Chien (the dog's bollocks!) where the very high-end stuff is to be found for evening gowns, wedding dresses etc. The inside of the posh store is worth a visit even if you're not shopping for cloth - it's quite a surreal experience in itself, with statues, boats hanging from the ceiling and floors designed like the decks of a sailing ship.

Le Chien du Chien - your dog would like it

I have something of the Nigella Lawson in me as well as Anouschka Hempel. My candlelit dinner parties used to be the high point of the Umbongo social calendar. Of course the conditions were much easier then, we had an army of servants to prepare, cook and serve the meal, and to clean up afterwards. Godwin was such a treasure. I wonder what happened to him? Tonight I am relaunching Daphne's Dinners, ably assisted by my Chinese cook Lee Ho McFook, although he has drawn the line at wearing the satin pyjamas I ran up for him with the leftover curtain lining, since, he says, pink isn't really his colour, and anyway he's making a point about Chinese militarism. If he wears his C.U. Jimmy hat while he's serving dessert, I'm sure my guests won't notice that the hundreds and thousands in the sherry trifle spell out "Free Tibet".

SIN CITY

Last weekend I went to Amsterdam, to meet some Polish friends who were there for a big TV industry fair. Apart from a brief stopover when backpacking 35 years ago and a long afternoon in the transit lounge at Schiphol, I had no knowledge of Amsterdam, and was looking forward to a frisson of fresh air after stuffy old Brussels.

Due to the massive influx of TV people for the fair, the only hotel room I could get was out of town on a sort of trading park, and although clean was pretty basic. It was also full of Poles. Even the receptionist was Polish. The other guests looked quite at home crammed into the refectory for a cold breakfast served by sullen waitresses. The what's-on magazine left in my hotel was quite different from the usual tourist advice. Several pages dealt with "sex", "drugs", "tattoos" and other off-beat tourist activities, and even told you where to hide your hard drugs if you were afraid of being searched by the police (no, not there. In your shoes, apparently). Amsterdam's city flag (above) calls to mind a zipper, or a bodice, or simply all the taboos which can be broken here.

However, it's not all sex and drugs and rock 'n' roll. We took a boat tour of the canals, which are extremely picturesque, and then a tram down to the Rijksmuseum and the Van Gogh Museum. Unfortunately it was late in the afternoon and they were both closed, but it is a pleasant city to meander around. We got a bit lost around the area where ladies sit in their windows, and had to take refuge in a coffee shop, where the coffee wasn't very good but after a while we got the giggles. The longer we stayed in there, the more hilarious we found it all. We rolled back to the hotel holding each other up after looking in the windows of sex shops.



Our hotel reception recommended a restaurant for rijsttafel, the Indonesian cuisine which has become to Holland what curry is to Britain. We must have got the last free table at Kantjil & de Tijger, so I would recommend booking in advance if you choose to go there. It is a smart, modern restaurant with no kitsch Indonesian decor. Not having the faintest idea what we were ordering, we picked out a selection of meat and vegetarian dishes, two kinds of rice and one bowl of noodles. The dishes that arrived were very diverse, ranging from fresh fruit to blow-your-head-off chicken, but on the whole very tasty. With three beers and a bottle of house white, we came out for just under 25 euros a head, with full tummies. A full rijsttafel menu can be had here for 26 euros, without wine.



On Sunday we set off on the train for Haarlem, a small town 15 minutes from Amsterdam, where we shuffled around looking at windmills, canals, churches and shop windows. As a globetrotter of some experience, I made sure I didn't go in ermine and pearls. Haarlem is quite charming, with narrow cobbled streets, picturesque canals and even a working windmill. On the Grote Markt we had lunch at L'Anders, which serves extremely good filled rolls, salads and soups. I think my Polish friends picked out this place in honour of General Anders who was a heroic cavalry officer during the second world war. The Polish cavalry is known, albeit apocryphally, for leading a cavalry charge on horseback against German tanks, and for being somewhat surprised when the Germans most unsportingly retaliated with machine guns.

If the Dutch army had resisted invasion (which they didn't to my knowledge), it would have attacked on bicycles. There must be more bicycles than people in Holland. How anyone recognizes their bike in a pile like this beats me.



The shops in Haarlem, which were unfortunately closed due to it being Sunday, looked rather better than what we have in Brussels. Shoes (leather, not clogs) and lamps were of particularly good design.

Very unusual lamps

A number of Amsterdam's shops are open on Sundays but are rather alternative, generally targeting consumers of herbal substances. It was mushroom season, to judge by the amount of shops advertising them, I expect it's a result of all that wet weather we've been having. I wondered if one of the pungent nostril-pierced scruffbags working in these shops might be my erstwhile protégé Scrumpy who had a great interest in agronomy - he was always bandying around scientific terms like "hydroponic". He set off for India a couple of years ago but I suspect never got past Amsterdam. However, I wasn't going to besmirch my white gloves to investigate under the dreadlocks. I toyed with a lovely Delft china pepper pot, but decided I didn't have room in my luggage. It had a lovely feel to it, though.

I was somewhat relieved to return to boring old Brussels on Sunday night after my trip to Sodom and Gomorrah, but strangely unable to stop thinking about that pepper pot.

EVE OF DESTRUCTION

A most peculiar spider

Wednesday morning came and went, and the earth was not sucked up into a black hole due to the Large Hadron Collider being switched on. Although I gather a number of kettles in the Geneva area blew a fuse around 8.30. If you want to know what it's all about, and have seven or eight minutes to kill, check out this BBC Horizon podcast LHC for dummies, where they explain how your front room is made of treacle (which increases the chances of the moon being made of cream cheese) and they're looking for some bloke called Higgs. Anybody could have told them he was in Guantanamo Bay but has gone back to Australia now. The bloke with the Russian accent had the best quote: "Science is what we do when we don't know what we're doing". So reassuring.

It appears, however, that if a baby black hole was created, it would not hoover everything up in a fraction of a second, but might take as much as four years. I bet David Cameron and Barack Obama are not looking so smug now. How would you like to be the man (or woman) who leads your country into a black hole. What kind of policies would you need to instigate?

If I were in charge, I would immediately issue a copy of Douglas Adams' "The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy" to every member of the population. It's tag line "Don't Panic" is the only sensible thing to say under the circumstances. In fact, the Hadron Collider almost sounds as if it could have been invented by Douglas Adams, the man who gave us the Total Perspective Vortex, the Heart of Gold, and Deep Thought, the second most powerful computer ever invented, which produced the answer to the question of life, the universe and everything. All right, don't all shout at once, we all know what the answer is.

They could of course abolish income tax, which would make them very popular. But if we were really heading for a black hole, I suspect most people would give up going to work anyway, let alone voting. It's now-or-never time, your last chance to try something you'd always wanted to do but never dared or could afford before. Even if it's illegal. You could kill your boss, for example. Or your husband/wife. You'd go to jail, but the world would end before your case came up. Some people might try heroin, or have sex with a total stranger. The Sun, ever one to reassure the public, gave some helpful suggestions as to how you could pass the time, which included trying out all 64 kama sutra positions, or eating 27 Big Macs.
I might start having a second small sherry before dinner.

If the world is really going to go phut in four years, it's not the best time to start a diet, or take out a mortgage. There will of course be idiots who will take out life insurance or put a bet on at William Hill at 1000-1. D'oh. It might be worth signing up to do a degree in astrophysics, there's an outside chance you could head this thing off at the pass. Building a rocket won't help, the rocket would be sucked into the black hole too. Although you can bet your bottom dollar Jeremy Clarkson will try.

Religious groups will have a field day. People who can translate "I told you so" into obscure languages will be much sought after.

Either way, I'd put money on three of the most popular names for babies next year being Gustav, Ike and Hadron. Nothing catches people's imagination like looming oblivion.

How will you while away the next four years waiting for the end of time? Well, you could start by seeing how the young boffins at CERN choose to explain the experiment, here:

CRIPES, SIRE!

Still hanging by a thread

Belgium, as you know, is divided into three autonomous regions - Flanders, Wallonia and Brussels. Flanders is Dutch-speaking and represents about 60% of the population of Belgium. Wallonia is French-speaking and represents about 30%. Brussels is in theory bilingual, but de facto French-speaking, and represents about 10% of the Belgian population, of which almost 40% are Eurocrats or native speakers of other languages.

It's complicated a bit by Brussels being geographically an island in the middle of Dutch-speaking Flanders and also being the capital of Flanders. But basically, the problem is that Flanders wants to absorb Brussels, with its high-profile European institutions, failing which it threatens to go for total independence, although in that case it would presumably have to accept to move the capital to Antwerp. A pure case of "if I can't keep the ball I don't want to play any more".

If Flanders breaks away, effectively forcing Wallonia to become a reluctant independent state too (think Czechoslovakia), the King will have no Belgians left to reign over and will have to go into exile. Portugal is quite accommodating to exiled kings. Brussels would become a landlocked city-state, which might be no bad thing, since it can get rid of the archaic and stupid web of regulations designed by the Francophones and the Dutch-speakers to tie each other up in knots, and start afresh.



The first thing to do would be to find a new King. A possible choice would be Jose Manuel Barroso, current President of the Commission and very well preserved man for his age (52). with a regal demeanor. His job is up for grabs in 2011, which would fit in quite well. He hails from Portugal, but would obviously have to become a naturalized citizen of Brussels. Perhaps he could do a house swap with King Albert. Brussels would obviously become officially English speaking, thereby causing great annoyance to the French, and Peter Mandelson may have to be discouraged from applying for the position of Queen. What should a citizen of the new anglophone Brussels should be called - a Brusseler? Brussellian? Brussie?

On the other hand, perhaps it might be a better idea to parachute in a real blue blood, as the British did back in 1830 with Leopold I von Saxe-Coburg. And who better than someone with a truly noble European pedigree dating back to George II of England, who was schooled in Brussels, and is related to most of the royal houses in Europe? The perfect man for the job.

All Hail King BoJo the First

NUDGE, WINK

This post would ideally be best suited to Tom Joad's Word du Jour, but as he's sort of given up the ghost, I will treat you to some examples of the double entendre, which is defined by the OED as

"a double meaning; a word or phrase having a double sense, especially as used to convey an indelicate meaning' [emphasis added]. In these cases, the first meaning is presumed to be the more innocent one, while the second meaning is risqué, or at least ironic, requiring the hearer to have some additional knowledge."

The fact that we choose a French expression to describe this phenomenon speaks for itself, I feel. The irony of the situation is that double entendre doesn't mean anything in French. There is an expression which means the same, but which leaves the French with quizzical faces, usually followed by a Gallic shrug.


The double entendre has been an integral part of British comedy since the days of Shakespeare, some of whose plays read like the script of an early Carry On film. In the stuffy Victorian and Edwardian times, the double entendre was the benchmark to judge which side of the class divide you were on. While the upper classes put sleeves on their piano legs and held the bedpost whilst thinking of England, the hoi polloi were rolling in the aisles of the music halls at Marie Lloyd and her lewd winks and saucy innuendo.


Now I like a Carry On film as well as the next woman, but I cannot see why someone would titter at chocolate bars called "Big Nuts" or "Cha-Cha". A chocolate cha-cha is nothing to make light of. There is a crispbread that sounds like a reason for visiting the proctologist: "Crack' Pain" - nothing funny there. In Antwerp one of the local brews called "Bolleke" seems to be very popular with British visitors, and in France there was a brand of fizzy pop called "Pschitt" after the noise it makes when the cap is unscrewed which used to cause untold hilarity in the English quarter. Some people really need to grow up.



If the number of infantile comments on Gorilla Bananas' blog is anything to go by (the post about Fannies in particular), you bloggers have a level of humour which hasn't evolved since nursery school. I myself am far too sophisticated to find a tin of sardines funny just because it has an unfortunate name. I mean, John West might mean something rude in Chinese for all I know.



A girl walked into a bar and asked the bartender for a double entendre. So he gave her one. Pa-da-boosh!

LEAVING THE NEST

Time to say "Sayonara" to the Beijing Olympics- and didn't we do well! I lost count of the number of times I had to put down my chips and stand to attention for the national anthem. It was a bit difficult with McChe howling and pretending to roll in pain on the floor. "Look," I told him firmly, "You can have your country back when the oil runs out. In fact, leave us Chris Hoy and you can go now."

It was nice to see the young people pursuing healthy activity and staying away from drugs. I am not sporty myself, being cursed with weak ankles, poor eyesight and an aversion to getting my hair wet, but nevertheless I enjoyed watching the events, especially the ones involving muscular glistening-ebony-skinned young men in very tight lycra. Thanks to the men's 100m final I am guaranteed one multiple orgasm every four years.

Oh, wasn't he in it? Never mind ...

Athletes' kit is getting even skimpier. By London 2012 the women will be running in thongs. It's a long way from the aertex shirt, wraparound gym skirt and locknit knickers I used to wear for double games on a Wednesday afternoon. It was suggested that the mania for tattoos in Beijing was yet another way of getting performance-enhancing substances into athletes by undetectable means. It would be a brave inspector who would investigate Belarussian heptathlete Yana Maksimava's tattoo, especially while she's clutching that javelin.

Nastier looking than Nastia Lyukin.
Even Michael Johnson was scared.

AND FINALLY ....

Some people might be disappointed to learn that regime change is not brought about by an internet poll: Downing Street gently point out that signing petitions is really pointless.