ROYAL FLUSH

I am on my hols bols now for three weeks, and next Monday am orf on the train to Gay Paree, where I have been invited to join in a line-up of veteran hoofers at the Folies Bergère. That will be a post worth waiting for. I am always happy to be back in Paris, where you can get decent baguettes and a proper Croque Monsieur, although the beer and chips are rubbish.

I am hoping for better weather down there. We have not had a summer to speak of here in Brussels, and according to my doctor Gorilla Bananas the damp weather is not good for my joints, which seem to be wearing out rather earlier than they should, so I may have to fluff the high kicks in the finale next week. I can't complain, I was probably a bit heavy on the accelerator in my younger days and flooded the carburettor more than once. The latest diagnosis gives me the perfect excuse to plan winter holidays in hot, dry places. And summer ones. The weather has only just made a turn for the better here, in the last week of July. it was so cold last weekend that I had to dig out a quilt and put it on top of my duvet for added warmth.

This was how close I got to the King of Belgium. Is that his royal portaloo on the right?

Last Monday was Belgian National Day, and I braved the cold and damp to go and lend my support to His Majesty during these troubled times. HM Albert II was in attendance, well I think he was, I arrived a bit late and couldn't get near enough to the podium to see. However, I think the chap in the sash might have been His Maj. Or the mayor. Who can say?

I must get a better camera

Unfortunately I missed the fancy bits of the parade - the King's horse guards, cadets, etc. - and only arrived in time to see the grunts. I was seriously underwhelmed. Don't they teach marching in the Belgian army? They looked like they were having a Sunday stroll in the park! Perhaps their crack troops are all tied up in Afghanistan and they wheeled out the territorials, I can't believe they rely on a slovenly bunch of bearded, beer-bellied, gum-chewing superannuated slobs backed up by a waddle of short tubby women to defend the nation. On the other hand, under the present circumstances, who would want to invade Belgium anyway? The display of hardware was a long way from Red Square, I think they wanted to emphasize the - ahem - "unity" of the country, so there was a touching display of teamwork at the end of the parade, when the fire engines rolled down the Rue Royale in tandem, one marked "Brandweer", the other "Pompiers", the effect spoiled only by the drivers of the Flemish vehicles, with their road maps spread out on the dashboard, stopping to ask directions of the spectators.

The flypast took me rather by surprise and the first squadron with the smoke trails in the colours of the Belgian flag had gone over and left me all of a tremble so it was a minute or two before I could fish out my camera from the bottom of my bottomless handbag to catch a couple of the stragglers:

I do like a lot of thrust

Chocks away, Squadron Leader!

To think I had one of these in my stomach!

Anyway the military music was quite stirring and got the children waving their little Belgian flags and asking when Mickey Mouse was coming. I tapped my leopardskin umbrella in time to the rumty-tumty-tum and applauded as the army demonstrated how they would deal with a violent mob. In Kosovo. But just so's we know.

In a burst of optimism, Brussels authorities have for the 6th year running tipped a few hundred tons of sand on the canalside, wheeled out some of the chalets from the Christmas markets and re-launched "Bruxelles les Bains" - translated as "Brussels Bath" by the announcer! - a poor man's Paris-Plage, the fake beach on the banks of the Seine where I may be found sunning my aching bones, weather permitting, next week. Last Saturday evening, during a short break in the wintry weather, I dropped by to see Agua de Beber, a Brazilian band with whom I spent a pleasant rainy afternoon in a pub last summer, and to sup a Caiparinha or three. It was quite pleasant, but a closing time of 11.00 p.m. and nothing more exotic to eat than a bag of chips is not really going to turn Brussels into the Copacabana of the North.

I am not wasting my holidays. I also went to the cinema, to see "In Bruges", a recent British film, which was finally released in Belgium after being shown everywhere else. Bruges is the star of the film, which is set at Christmastime, festive lights reflecting off the cobblestones of this beautiful medieval city. It's a well-paced, well-crafted and well-cast thriller starring Colin Farrell and Brendan Gleeson as a pair of lumbering Irish hitmen hiding out in Bruges after a job turned nasty, and a remarkable Ralph Fiennes as their very scary boss. It is both funny and poignant, with subtleties in the dialogue that the subtitles don't catch.

Your holiday puzzler: find the anagram in the last sentence.

Right, must start packing for Paris. Now, where did I put those caribou feathers?

SAVE BELGIUM. SAVE THE WORLD

I have been under the doctor a bit recently. It's probably old age, but I seem to have more and more ailments. Luckily the Belgian health system is top notch, and I have found a nice GP right next door, who sends me off for a different hi-tech examination almost every week. A couple of weeks ago I had to have a camera shoved down my gullet, and immediately afterwards was presented with a full-colour photograph of my duodenum, thankfully with no residual breakfast lurking. Apparently there was nothing seriously wrong, but the doctor informed me that I had a helicopter* in my stomach! Fancy! Perhaps it was a free gift with my cornflakes that I swallowed by mistake. I'm not sure if it is a Chinook or a Sikorsky but it would account for the recent fluttering sensation in my stomach, which was certainly not induced by Bert, who has roared off back to Germany in his "little tank", having cancelled his holiday in Torremolinos in protest at Germany being thrashed by the Spanish in Euro2008 and at Wimbledon.




Last week I had to go for more, different, tests to see why I'm so creaky in the mornings. The doctor explained, as he stuck a needle in my arm, that he would be injecting me with a mildly radioactive solution .... WHAAAAAT?????? I yelled, too late, the stuff was already pumping through my veins. Er, does this mean I'll be radioactive? I asked nervously, peering closely at my hand to see if the greenish glow was visible yet. The doctor smiled. Just a bit, he said. I had to come back a couple of hours later and be put into a big scary machine which photographed me from head to foot.

Well it's not all bad news. I can now microwave my croissants without even getting out of bed and don't have to switch on the light to find my way to the loo. McChe says he can hear me beeping from the next room, but I think that's more likely to be his friend from Alpha Centauri trying to text him more Flatpack End of the World instructions. With radioactivity in my veins and a helicopter in my stomach, I'm starting to feel like a character from "Heroes". I'm not sure yet what superpowers I have, but I'm quickly learning walking up walls isn't one of them, not in the Metro at least.




Meanwhile Belgium's political crisis continues. The Prime Minister tried to resign after a full four months trying to run the country, the King smacked his bottom and sent him back to think again how to resolve this ridiculous ongoing dispute between the Flemish and the Walloons. As far as I can understand, and I beg forgiveness of my Belgian friends if I've got this totally arse-about-face, the Flemish want to claw back part of Brussels purely on the basis that the population of those districts are in the majority Dutch-speakers. The French-speaking Belgians agreed to this but only on condition that other concessions are made, the intricacies of which escape me, and which are apparently inacceptable to the Flemish. And so it goes .... Monday is Belgian National Day of Unity, which is going to be interesting. Personally I am only turning out to see the legendary Eddy Wally of "Eurotrash" fame. He makes the case for Flemish independence better than anyone.




The darkly fascinating Spanish Goth has nominated me for some foreign award for ... er, tapas, I think, which is probably an invitation to have my spam filter reinforced. Can you make tapas with spam? Anyway, according to the rules of said award I must now nominate five other blogs which I admire for their creativity, design, interesting material and for contributing to the blogging community, thus condemning the nominated bloggers to the same tedious chore.

Oh bugger it, I'm not going to. (collective gasp! of shock and awe) You try and make me. I'll take you all down with me. (What? Has she gone mad? Call the blog police ...) I'm Radioactive-Helicopter-Woman, I'm invincible, I'm the military's secret weapon, I'm going to save Belgium ... (noise of sirens approaching) ... beep ... beep ... beep ...


Editor's note:
* helicobacter pylori actually.

Daphne Wayne-Bough will not be blogging for a few days while she has a little lie-down. We hope that the geiger counter will be registering zero by next week. Ow! Stop hitting me you mad cow! No I won't f*** off back to Scotland! You need help, woman! I'm calling the polis!

DO NOT ADJUST YOUR SET

Due to the very rare incidence of having absolutely nothing to say, we interrupt this test card to bring you some soothing music. Normal service will be resumed as soon as possible.

PRIDE OF BELGIUM

Tervueren Belgian Shepherd Kyte, who plays Wellard in Eastenders

Leaving aside the fictional (Hercule Poirot, Dr Evil, Tintin), not human (the Smurfs, Wellard from Eastenders, Jean-Claude Van Damme), or those the Belgians themselves are a bit embarrassed about (Marc Dutroux, Plastic Bertrand, Yves Leterme the current Prime Minister who thinks his country shares a national anthem with France), if you can't name five famous Belgians in the pub quiz, you deserve to be paraded through the town with a bell round your neck.


Despite not qualifying for Euro 2008 or any other football tournament of note in recent years, Belgian has nothing to be ashamed of in the sporting department. Its two recently retired stars Justine Henin-Ardenne and Kim Clijsters have dominated women's tennis for several years. Eddy Merckx and Jacky Ickx were two Belgian sporting icons, the first in cycling, the second in motor racing. The Belgians like to create sporting dynasties, Eddy Merckx's son Axel is part of the Belgian national cycling team, and Jacky Ickx's daughter, Vanina, is also a racing driver. I just hope for her sake the sub-editors on the sports pages are careful with her name.

Names that end in -ckx are typically Belgian. Over time the 'c' became redundant, so it is possible that the following were also of Belgian origin: Karl Marx (Marckx), who later wrote the Manifesto of the Communist Party in a pub on the Grand'Place, Stevie Nicks (Nickx), erstwhile warbler with Fleetwood Mac, and Jimi Hendrix (Hendrickx). I rather like the idea of Jimi Hendrix being Belgian, it would sit very well with the little known fact that Marvin Gaye once lived in Ostende (where he wrote Sexual Healing, possibly under the influence of Westmalle Tripel which is known for its aphrodisiac qualities).

Listening to Classic Vingt-et-un in the bath last Sunday, I heard a vaguely familiar song from 1969, "Daydream" by the Wallace Collection -- who, I was amazed to learn, were a Belgian band! I almost dropped my chips in the bathwater. The famous hippy anthem was recorded at Abbey Road studios and was heavily influenced by the Beatles' "Hey Jude", with added plagiarism of Tchaikovsky's "Swan Lake" accompanied by appalling dancing and lots of dry ice. For the information of anyone under 50, this is not a sequence from "Austin Powers".

This post was not brought to you by the Belgian tourist office.