WE'LL MEET AGAIN ....

This weekend I am in Berlin, having a reunion with the Women's Section of the KNOB* on their home territory. If the site meter hits 100,000 around now, which is likely, this will be my last post on this blog.


To paraphrase the immortal Mae West, this blog used to be Snow White but it drifted. The original idea was a combination of travel guide, flights of fancy, restaurant reviews and moaning about Harold. A sort of cross between Maria Shollenburger's "Travelista" in How to Spend It and Shirley Valentine. Over time, the flights of fancy have flown away, the restaurant reviews have been hived off to another blog, my travel bug is more of a dead beetle and ... remind me, who was Harold again? Added to this, the newly ennobled Lord Spart seems to think I should spend more of my valuable blogging time working for him, and the eponymous "Anonymous" has taken over the comments box. If I could only read Russian and Chinese I would be able to understand his no doubt adoring remarks.


There were times, I'm sure you knew, when I bit off more than I could chew ... but there are a few posts I'm particularly proud of.


There was The One About the Communist Manifesto, which was selected for the Shaggy Blog Stories compilation for Comic Relief.

There was The One About How I left Africa.

There was the One About the Hellcat Matrix.

And then of course there was the One About the Gay Umbrella.



I won't be the first to bow out of the great variety show that is the Blogosphere, and other far greater bloggers than I have allowed the red velvet curtains to close on them: Jimmy Bastard, Mrs Pouncer, Dr Maroon, Petite Anglaise, Aunty Marianne, and Gadjo Dilo to name but a few.

Some of you are still going strong: Guyana-Gyal, No Good Boyo, Scarlet Blue, Crabtree, Savannah, Manuel Estimulo, Kevin Musgrove and our doyenne, Pat Past Imperfect. Some of you I have had the pleasure to meet in person: Kim Ayres, who managed to take the only flattering photograph in existence of me; Madame Defarge, Gorilla Bananas, Krimo, Bart, and the Brussels blogger who inspired me to start the blog in the first place: Zoe of My Boyfriend is a Twat.





Finally, a big loud bark for Mutley the Dog, who sadly passed away earlier this year.


And thanks to those who have featured as subjects of my essays over the years, not necessarily under your real names and not necessarily knowingly: the KNOB*, Bert, Millicent Tendency, Scouse Doris, Vi Hornblower and Desmond, Peter Mandelson, Dolores Entwhistle, Orinoco Flo McCluskey, Imelda, Lulu LaClope, George Clooney, Gonzo, Scrumpy, and McChe. You all know who you are (except Bert).


Anyway, it was a fine affair, but now it's over. Think of me whenever you see a gay umbrella. Auf Wiedersehen, pets!

* the Kurt Nachtnebel Oompah Band

L'APPEL DU 23 OCTOBRE

WARNING! THIS POST IS EXCESSIVELY POLITICAL AND A BIT RANTING

Spliffy Cameron has obviously been reading my blog and I must thank him for his announcement this week which has persuaded me that it's not the moment to think about returning to Blighty on a permanent basis. Perhaps by 2020, when I am due to retire. Except thanks to Spliffy and his chums, it'll now be 2021, and by the time I get there, the place will look like Detroit.

Detroit, Michigan

Half a million jobs cut in the public service, plugs pulled on charities, not to mention cuts to the BBC. And all those benefit scroungers will be forced back to work --- er, where, exactly? As people lose their income, mortgages will not be paid, houses will be abandoned. There will be no new social housing built. There will be more homeless on the streets. There will be more crime. And fewer coppers, thanks to the cuts. Big Society my ARSE.


When I was in Lagos, Nigeria, many lives ago, it occurred to me that it would be M.Thatcher's ideal world: no public services, no safe and comfortable public transport, roads full of potholes, decent hospitals and schools all private, if you wanted a guarantee of water or electricity supply and you were rich enough, you dug your own borehole and bought a generator. As a result the ordinary people of the ninth biggest producer of oil in the world were illiterate, starving and -- surprise, surprise -- just a bit dishonest sometimes. If I'd had the misfortune to be born in a country like that, I'd do everything I could to get out too -- even fibbing on an immigration form.

Lagos, Nigeria

Meanwhile, have you noticed that there seem to be more and more ludicrously expensive toys and playgrounds for the obscenely rich? As an avid reader of "How to Spend It", I am increasingly of the opinion that the plutocrats have taken over the asylum. At the expense of those who got plenty of nuttin'. Bankers are still getting multi-million pound bonuses. Chief Executives are still getting million-pound salaries. The government is now full of millionaires, some of whom don't even pay tax in the UK. And those who bailed them out -- yes, you, the taxpayer -- are now going to get your reward. A good stuffing.


After the disappointment of "New Labour", I naively thought that the "new" Conservatives under Cameron might be a different, gentler kind of Tory, and that the restraining hand of Nick Clegg might keep their divisive policies in check. As someone wrote in The Independent this week, Cameron's reforms have surpassed the Iron Lady's wildest dreams.

You can smile dearie

I have never liked bullies. This has only served to push me further to the left. There is only one language these people understand. I am going to the barricades, comrades. I shall finally fulfil that fantasy of being Michelle of ze Resistance, trafficking arms and transmitters under my Aquascutum raincoat to the trade unionists hiding in the hills, and talking in a funny accent. Excuse me a minute while I pop out and buy some white ankle socks.




Citoyennes! Citoyens! The lights are going out all over Europe! Formez vos bataillons! This could be your finest hour.

Your country needs you

NO BALLS PLEASE

Talking of Eastbourne, I once went there with Harold for a few days. Someone had lent us a nice apartment quite close to the Devonshire Park Tennis Club, and we happened to be there in June, when the famous ladies' tennis tournament takes place. We had found a nice little pub right next to the tennis club, I think it was called The Ship, where we used to go for a pre-prandial before our pensioner's special at the Star of Bengal.


One day we were heading for the pub and Harold idly observed a lady who was minding her own business walking in the same direction: "You know all these women who go to watch the tennis? I think they're all lesbians." This was such a typically asinine Harold comment that I just snorted. On a bad day I might have laid into him but it was sunny and I didn't want my mood spoiled.

Billie Jean is not my lover

We went into the pub and took our drinks to a table on the mezzanine from where you could see the tennis courts. There were only a few other customers in the pub at that point, and we didn't really take much notice of them. However, an hour or so later, I noticed the pub was filling up, and that almost all the tables were occupied by women, in couples or groups. Within another half hour the place was heaving with women, many of them in Doc Martens and butch haircuts and drinking pints, and Harold was the only man in the pub. He started to look a bit hot under the collar.

"I don't know what you're worrying about," I said. "I'm the one who's got to go to the Ladies."

I girded my loins, if that is the correct expression, and headed for the loo. There was no-one in there, and I breathed a sigh of relief. However, on closing the cubicle door behind me, I found a freshly-inscribed piece of graffiti, announcing:

"MARTINA I LOVE YOU"

I locked the door firmly. Harold smirked all the way to the curry house. Still, if I do retire to Eastbourne I will make sure I take my gay umbrella. I might even take up tennis.

It starts like this ....

And ends like this?

NO PLACE FOR OLD WOMEN ......

French pensioner



English pensioner

I've been rethinking my retirement plans.

I know it's 10 years away, but retirement is a big thing and requires careful preparation.

I always thought I'd retire to the South of France, but I've just been to the South of France and was seriously underwhelmed.

It was cold, there were very aggressive mosquitoes, it was full of Brits and the food wasn't up to much.

Hobnobs at 3 times the price of Tesco? I don't think so.

A number of my friends have moved, or are about to move, to the South Coast of England.

I've just looked at property prices in UK, and am flabbergasted. France and Belgium have caught up, and even with the unfavourable exchange rate, UK prices are suddenly looking more attractive. For example, for the current value of my apartment here in Brussels, I could buy a 3-bedroom house with garden in somewhere like ... er ... Eastbourne.

There are no mosquitoes in Eastbourne, that I'm aware of.

And you can't get a pensioner's special Sunday roast for £3 in Provence.

A WEEK IN PROVENCE

Saignon, just outside Apt

Yes Provence was very nice thank you. Apart from it being freezing cold most of the week, and the lousy hotel in Avignon (avoid the Hotel de Blauvac, unless you're an insomniac) and pranging the hire car, and being eaten alive by mosquitoes, and the food being not all that (the best meal of the week was in the NH hotel at Lyon St Exupéry airport waiting for the flight home), and getting altitude headaches from driving up mountain roads, and .... to be honest, I'm not very good at being On Holiday.

Ménerbes, erstwhile home of P.Mayle

The cemetery at Lourmarin, current home of P.Mayle*: the lengths
some people will go to, to end up in exalted company

L'Isle-sur-la-Sorgue

My site meter count is approaching 100,000. That seems like an appropriate time to stop. To be honest I'm a bit fed up with output, and feel like concentrating on input for a while. Reading. Books. Meanwhile, you know where to find me on Facebook and I will make the occasional pithy comment on your blogs if I feel moved.

I'm not gone yet, but soon, soon, my friends, I sense my time is nigh ......



* the village, not the cemetery