My flamboyant friend Tarquin de Folle fell off the Eurostar last Saturday in a cloud of feathers (from his leaky puffa jacket, even Tarquin wouldn't travel in a feather boa). He had spent rather too many of his pink pounds in the champagne bar at St Pancras, I fear, and was in full Judy Garland mode when we came out (if you'll pardon the expression) onto the Grand'Place, which for some reason was crawling with boy scouts. Tarquin thought it must be bob-a-gob week. (His expression, not mine, I hasten to point out). We had great fun seeing who could chase them the fastest, and Tarquin nearly grabbed a venture scout's woggle.
We spent the weekend doing all the Brussels sights: at the Atomium he almost exhausted his supply of innuendoes. We also visited Ghent, which is a delightful town a mere half hour from Brussels on the train. We followed the recommended walking trail, starting with the Cathedral of Saint Barf (really!) which is stuffed with art works including a Rubens, had lunch outdoors in the Friday Market Place, and then ambled back along the canal. No tacky tourist shops, no lace, just lots of cafes, restaurants and chocolate shops. As you can see, the weather was wonderful, which was a shame in a way, as it meant I had no excuse to dig out my gay umbrella.
Back in Brussels we hit the shops. How many chaps do you know who would drag you into a lace shop? It was such fun sharing tips on moisturizers and perfumes, which is impossible with McChe who has an ideological aversion to soap. We also did a lot of eating and sampling as many of Belgium's 400 beers as we could. I shared with him my excitement over the apartment which I am about to buy. I will tell you more about that later, but suffice it to say that the new Wayne-Bough Towers is extremely well situated, in the Brussels equivalent of Kensington. I will have the city's major green space, the Parc du Cinquantenaire, on my doorstep, and I can see I am going to have to take up gentle jogging, or at the very least buy a pink Hermes track suit for Sunday morning cappuccinos on the terrace of Chez Martin, the bijou little bistro just by the park gates.
Valentine's Day is still going strong, at least here in Belgium. The restaurants are all booked up well in advance every year offering overpriced menus, and it is one of the three peak sales periods in the chocolate year (the others being Easter and, to a lesser extent, Christmas). Godiva, Leonidas, Neuhaus, Corne, Marcolini et. al. all bring out a special Valentine's range each February, usually in the traditional red heart-shaped box and involving passion-fruit soft centres and other supposedly aphrodisiac fillings. My favourite, in case anyone feels like sending me a late Valentine, is the raspberry-flavoured heart by Marcolini, pictured above, which if you turn it upside down looks more like a shiny little red bottom. Marcolini chocolates are so chic, I can never bring myself to throw away the packaging, and so I have a collection of their carrier bags and boxes in all shapes and sizes. Would that their chocolates could last that long in my house.
A few famous Valentines were Val Parnell, the British impresario who first signed Julie Andrews, Dickie Valentine (not his real name) the 1950's crooner, twenties heartthrob Rudolf Valentino (also not his real name), and Italian fashion house Valentino, a favourite with Liz Taylor and moiself. Shirley Valentine was a woman after my own heart who talked to the wall and wouldn't be bossed about. There is a rude French rugby song about someone called Valentin, of which I am sure our friend Crabtree will give us the full text if he happens to be passing. Troll-like Italian biker Valentino Rossi is a pin-up in Middle Earth. And who remembers Valentina Tereshkova, the first woman astronaut?
The most famous Valentine's Day, and possibly the reason for the abiding link between the colour red and the celebration of this saint, was in 1929 when Al Capone's boys despatched seven of Bugs' Moran's hoods to oblivion, much to the satisfaction of the Chicago police department. This is why you should never go on a blind date on Valentine's Day.
About Saint Valentine himself nothing is known, although I suspect he may have been a seller of old rope. As patron saint of romantic love he was unheard of before Geoffrey Chaucer invented him, but of course, like Mayday, Rites of Spring, it's really about reminding the young people to keep procreating (yeah, right, as if they needed, like, reminding, man. D'oh!). Even in Roman times the whiff of fertility was in the air as soon as the first buds started to swell. Around this time of year the Romans celebrated Lupercalia, when, if we can believe Plutarch:
"... many of the noble youths and magistrates run through the city naked, for sport and laughter, striking those they meet with shaggy thongs. And many women of rank also purposely get in their way ... "
Of course Rome in February was a lot warmer than Brussels, even in those days. In these days of top-heavy demographics, I can only encourage the youngsters to go forth and multiply, my well-being in 20 years' time depends on it.
As it turns out, I celebrated St Valentine's twice last week: once with Bert, the last of the German Romantics (cough!) and one with Scouse Doris. Both glittering occasions will be reviewed on my food blog Daphne's Dinners.
It's nothing but religion, religion, religion these days. Everybody's talking about it, be they faithful or infidel, mono- or pantheistic, trad or new age, speaking with quiet dignity or mad as a box of fervent biscuits. Tom Cruise and John Travolta along with their Scientologist brethren believe we all originate from the planet Zog. The American primaries are fronting a Mormon, a Methodist, a Christian with a Moslem name, and a Southern Baptist. And the Archbishop of Canterbury appears to be a closet Moslem Fundamentalist. Even Gorilla Bananas is taking an unhealthy interest in nuns and pornography this week.
But it's an ill wind that blows nobody any good. The building trade is booming thanks to the contracts for mosques, temples, basilicas and converting Anglican churches into restaurants. The Neasden Hindu temple completed in 1995 is the largest outside India, and Our Lady of Peace at Yamassoukro in Cote d'Ivoire, erected by the late potentate Houphouet-Boigny in his home village in 1990, is modelled on St Peter's in Rome and is said to be the largest church in the world.
The Church of England professes to be neither Protestant nor Catholic, which leaves it wallowing in a welter of indecision.Many famous harrumphers left the Church of England over women priests - and some of them were women! (Anne Widdecombe, the Duchess of Kent). I approve of female priests, who must be better qualified than men to offer succour and guidance to the flock, if only by virtue of having nice comfy bosoms to lean on.Now the Archbish seems to think the Church can advise the government on legal matters. I think his boss should have a word in his mitre, and tell him to zip it. I mean, Her Maj is the actual Head of the Church and she doesn't stick her nose into ecclesiastical matters, does she?
Being a deeply spiritual person of Celtic extraction, I puzzle over the concepts of sin, redemption, forgiveness and absolution. My own Irish-Scots-American Catholic grandfather, I am sorry to say, saw the confessional as a sort of car-wash, where he could have his sins removed within the hour and start again by opening time.Islam is even better – thanks to one magic word “Insh'allah”, it’s never your fault to start with. “Allah made me do it, Miss!”- brilliant! The Hebrews, on the other hand, have no escape-hatch, and have to carry their sins around with them their whole life.The Buddhists and Hindus have perhaps the healthiest attitude to sin: if you commit a sin, you get demoted appropriately in the next life, coming back as anything from a person of a lower caste to a cockroach. A slightly more effective deterrent than three Hail Marys. And perhaps an explanation of why there are so many cockroaches in New York.
What the CofE seems to have overlooked is the need for religion to be entertaining.Pope John Paul II’s funeral proved that Rome can still put on a hell of a show. If you’ll pardon the expression. Even the Hare Krishnas put a smile on the face of high street shoppers on a Saturday afternoon. Going to church in Africa is like going to a dance, without the beer (but with plenty of spirit!). In Ghana I saw churches like the one in the Blues Brothers with James Brown as the preacher, and if I was ever going to have a road to Damascus experience, it would have been on the road to Accra. And by the way, if I did believe in God, which I’m not saying I do and I’m not saying I don’t, I would also believe in Satan. Fair do’s, like. You can’t have one without t’other.
You’ve only got to watch Songs of Praise on a Sunday to see that 50-odd people droning “The Lord is my Shepherd” is not going to make Satan put down his pitchfork and turn the thermostat down. Hymns should be rousing, uplifting, and if you can't pass out dramatically, you should at least be able to shout on the last word. The Anglican church need look no further than the Christmas panto for inspiration: goodies, baddies, scary bits, funny bits, men dressed up as women -- well, they've got those, but they need the demon king bursting out of a trapdoor with a bang and a flash, and a bit of audience participation along the lines of "Et in spirito tuo" or "He's behind you!".
A fine but disturbingfilm about Catholicism and redemption, also involving nuns and pornography as it happens, as well as New York and reincarnated cockroaches, is Abel Ferrara's "Bad Lieutenant" starring Harvey Keitel, shown here repenting heartily for about four and a half minutes. Brace yourself, Doris. (No it's not the rude bit).
SALE * SALE * SALE * SALE * SALE
I nearly missed the Vatican's special offer: a free indulgence if you pray at a church dedicated to Our Lady of Lourdes by 11th February. Hurry, hurry, everything must go!
Mesdames et Messieurs, I give you .... France's new first lady, Mrs Sarkozy, doing what she does best. I listened to some of her own songs and frankly, I wouldn't impose that on my worst enemy. It appears she has an album due out this year produced by pop svengali Dave Stewart. Now call me cynical, but the lengths some people will go to to get publicity. Even Michael Jackson wouldn't do that.
Of course if she's been planted by the Socialist party, she is a national treasure, and may have saved France. The pistol firing gesture may be to demonstrate what she has just done to Sarkozy's popularity ratings.
Civil partnerships are accepted everywhere
