STICK THAT IN YOUR GAULOISE AND SMOKE IT

Belgian Christmas dinner: fricadelle et frites

I am on my high horse. After the shock of that appalling assault on British cooking published by Larousse, I have now had to defend my national cuisine (pardon my French) not just against attacks from the Frogs, which I am used to, since they are a bunch of drink-sodden gastrofascist popinjays, but to the nation that invented the fricadelle, God help us, and whose national dish is CHIPS - the sodding Belgians!

I usually counter-attack with "And when did you last visit a restaurant in the UK?" to which the reply is usually "Oh about 25 years ago," or "I never have but I stayed with a family in Bury on my exchange trip 30 years ago". Get with the programme, you guys. Of course none of them watch the delightful culinary shows on BBC. They know of Jammy Oliveurre but that's about it - whatever he might tell you to the contrary, Gordon Ramsay is totally unknown on this side of the channel, ditto Michel Roux Junior - even his dad Albert is better known in the UK than in his native France. Alain Ducasse, they know. The Troisgros brothers, they know. But Mention Raymond Blanc, or Ray White, as he is known to Oxfordshire locals, and you will be met with a blank stare and a Gallic shrug. And n'en parlons pas des Motards Poilus.

Les Motards Poilus: I can't decide which one I fancy most

I have grown quite addicted to The Hairy Bikers' latest series Best of British, and have got quite emotional at their Galahad-like quest for True British Food. I feel moved to launch a crusade of my own on this side of the Channel, to defend our admittedly once appalling cooking against the slings and arrows of outrageous Frenchmen. I daren't mention Joan of Arc, as they might accuse us of doing to her what we used to do to our meat. I don't think they'd have minded so much if we'd just seared her quickly on both sides rather than burning her to a crisp.

At least the faggots under J of A's stake were British

I always rise to the defence of my homeland at this time of year when the Best of British Food is about to hit our tables. A British Christmas Dinner is second to none - and any Poles out there can just zip it. Carp! Oh puhlease. My own Christmas table usually displays a combination of British and French produce. Home made sausage rolls on Christmas Eve fill the house with that divine smell of Christmas baking, as well as home made mince pies - OK I cheat a bit with the pastry, but the mincemeat was prepared a year ago when heavy snow prevented me from getting out to Stonemanor, and has been boozily macerating since then. I will probably keel over just taking the lid off.

I haven't quite decided on the starter: Assiette baltique is one possibility: Scottish smoked salmon, red or black lump eggs, blinis and sour cream, with lemon quarters and Polish horseradish or chrzan. Then again, I do have a weakness for foie gras - I know, I know, but it's only once a year. Less said about that the better.

No really, I couldn't eat another thing

The main course will be slices of pan-fried honey glazed Perigord duck from the same French supplier at the Christmas market where I always buy my Christmas magrets; indeed, it was his duck that I served for that fateful Christmas lunch five years ago when I invited a poor unfortunate to join me; as he is still here, I can only blame the duck. Did you know that a "magret" is a breast of a duck that is raised for the purpose of producing foie gras?

The sprouts are from, er, Brussels, but this year will be prepared à la Gordon Ramsay with pancetta and chestnuts; roasted parsnips and candied sweet potatoes represent a sort of Anglo-American touch; good old roast Belgian pots cooked the British way in duck fat; and an array of accompaniments - home made bread sauce, stuffing, cranberry and orange gravy. All washed down, needless to say, with some of Burgundy's finest ruby nectar.

A gradually shrinking Christmas pud will sit forlornly in the cupboard for another year, unless I can think of something more interesting to do with it, and this year's dessert will be a good old British sherry trifle, with jelly and perhaps a smidgeon of De Klok electric custard on the side. The cheeseboard comes out at the same time as dessert, so they can be eaten in any order you like, but in the festive season Stilton is a must, alongside some of my favourite French cheeses - some runny Brie, a lump of salty Roquefort and some pungent goat. A box of cheese crackers, some grapes and walnuts and a small bowl of Branston pickle will accompany the cheese. And possibly a glass of port, although more likely another bottle of Chateau Glug.

If I can still waddle to the kitchen we may finish off with a liqueur coffee before exploding.

And THAT, Monsieur, is how you do le Christmas dinner.



*Flounces off in high dudgeon*

WE'RE LEUVEN IT

The laciest building in Belgium - Leuven City Hall

I always enjoy Vi Hornblower's visits. Since she has been living the life of a sybarite in gay Paree she's been too busy guzzling champagne in the Hotel Crillon and Ladurée macaroons to visit her old stomping grounds in Brussels. So it was with extra elasticity in our foundation garments that we set off on the train to Louvain, or Leuven as we should call it, being perfectly bilingual like our charming new Prime Minister. What a lovely man! Such lovely hair. And I do so love a bow tie.

Our Elio

A spot of lunch was required before atttacking the Christmas market, so we plonked ourselves down at Clochard de Luxe, meaning "luxury tramp", which rather reminded me of the lodger McChe, last seen sipping a glass of cava at the Gare Centrale with a nonchalant air and a woolly hat that had seen better days. The restaurant is on the Place Mgr Ladeuze, which is (not entirely coincidentally) where the main Christmas market is situated.

Vi had game stew with potato croquettes and I had the spare ribs which are the speciality of the house, with chips. Both were delicious, washed down with half a carafe of house white, and two coffees. Most reasonable at 50 euros for two, and we rolled out into the Christmas market glowing with bonhomie and ready to track down the electric custard, which was the sole reason for trekking out to Leuven.

If custard were made by Ferrari, it would be Flemish advocaat. Thick, pale yellow, unctuous and 22% alc.vol., it is eaten by the Flems with a teaspoon at teatime, and by Vi Hornblower (and Lady Banjo, Vera Slapp and Yours Truly) with a ladle, at breakfast. There are various brands, but Vi and I swear by De Klok, which can only be purchased in Flanders. It is their weapon of mass destruction. Wallonia has FN Herstal, Flanders has De Klok. If it came to a war, my money's on the Flems. The young lad who delightedly sold us 8 small jars (me) and 1 humungous bucketful (Vi) told us it was now on sale in Harrods. I have excised Vi Hornblower from this photograph as she looked as if she was about to eat the young maaaan.

The Young Maaaan is obviously a member of the family firm as he features in the company website here

After loading up with the yellow nectar, we poked around the Christmas decorations, ridiculous Santa hats, scarves, beads, lanterns, Polish china and indoor water features, before repairing for a "vin chaud", or Banjo, for the hard of hearing. Hot mulled wine, jazzed up with oranges, ginger and cinnamon, and extra alcohol, it smells like cough medecine and has much the same effect.


Leuven was Christmassed up to the nines and was packed with shoppers and families getting in the festive spirit. It is a town with a great vibe, very young and studenty: a Brussels radio station in conjunction with the Red Cross was running a campaign to stop dystentery in Nepal called "We DO give a shit!" (in English). Not the most elegant charity campaign ever launched, it may shock some of the blue rinse brigade, but you get the point fairly fast. If you wish to know more, check it out here.


We had a quick spin around the old town square where the city hall, the laciest building in Belgium, was tastefully decorated with Christmas lights, and visited the creche, where the figurines were awaiting the arrival of the Baby Jesus, who will be placed in the crib on Christmas Eve. A couple of live sheep sat around looking bored in an adjoining pen.

Empty crib until the 24th

I waved Vi off on the Thalys to Paris, pretending not to notice the globs of custard already adorning her ample bosom, and headed homeward with my 8 jars, destined for De Klok fans and virgins alike, resolving to order a full dozen next year. Delivered to my house by the young maaaan.

HABEMUS IMPERIUM !

Ring out the bells! Hats in the air! Let off firecrackers!

Belgium has a government.

After 18 months, the six remaining parties in the coalition (we started off with nine) have managed to put aside enough of their differences to conclude an agreement. They were arguing down to the fine detail of how much tax value to give a company supplied Audi A4, for example, as opposed to a company Fiat Panda.

Apparently there is a reason for this. It ensures that the government won't fall apart at the first minor disagreement. Belgian political parties like to slam doors for effect, but that would lead to the collapse of the coalition and we'd have to start all over again.

However, now they have decided everything down to the number of spots on new PM Elio di Rupo's bow tie, it begs the question, what will be left for the parliamentarians to decide?

THE FINAL STRUGGLE

Where do old lefties go when they turn up their toes? No, not to the European Trade Union Confederation. I am referring to Highgate cemetery, which I visited on my last trip to London. My main purpose was to pay homage to Karl Marx, who is clearly the main attraction. But I was surprised by the number of luminaries, many of them with strong left-wing backgrounds, who share his last resting place.

Just across from the Father of Communism was Paul Foot, indefatigable investigative journalist for Private Eye. A plot facing Karl Marx must have involved either a large amount of money or some friends in high places. And when I say high ....

There were some exotic celebrities. Farzad Bazoft, the Observer journalist of Iranian origin who was executed by Saddam Hussein on trumped-up charges of spying, was commemorated with a headstone in black marble, although I'm not sure his remains actually lay underneath it. Another famous Iranian neighbour was Mansoor Hekmat, founder of both the Iranian and Iraqi Workers Communist parties, whose headstone below a bust of his handsome head bore a touching inscription from his widow: "To a great man, the essence of our lives, the polestar of my existence, the love of my life". Would that we all departed this world to such praise.

Redmond O'Neill sounded like a true Irish revolutionary, as hinted at by the quote from Che Guevara: "The true revolutionary is guided by great feelings of love". In reality his life was a little less exciting.

I couldn't find the graves of Malcolm McLaren, Beryl Bainbridge, Max Wall, Michael Faraday, or Alexander Litvinenko, some of which might have been in the West section, but did encounter the last resting place of Sir Ralph Richardson and - Lord preserve us - Jeremy Beadle, who is interred immediately adjacent to the esteemed literary agent Pat Kavanagh. In cemeteries, rather like on airplanes, you cannot always choose your neighbours.

I was touched by the small, plain, unassuming gravestone of Douglas Adams, author of my favourite book ever, "The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy". All it said was "Douglas Adams, writer, 1952-2001". I said a silent, belated farewell: "So long and thanks for all the fish".

Highgate, which opened in 1839, is a beautiful cemetery and heavily wooded. It nearly fell into disrepair and was saved by donations from the Friends of Highgate Cemetery in 1975. There is a £3 charge to visit Highgate East, and £7 for Highgate West, which can only be visited with a guide. You might think this is a bit steep to visit a cemetery, but the people on the gate told me that Highgate receives no public funding apart from a small English Heritage grant. I was appalled to learn that not one of the three boroughs it straddles (Camden, Haringey & Islington) contributes a penny to its maintenance. I dare say it's not cheap to be buried there, but only 35 or so plots are purchased every year, and the areas off the "celebrity walk" are becoming quite overgrown. There is a chapel in the West part, but a generally secular tone to the burial ground, which explains the appeal to left-wingers and revolutionaries.

THAR SHE BLOWS!

After much deliberating, pondering, mulling, throwing ideas up in the air and seeing if they fly, getting our ducks in a row, lining up our apples, and trying names on for size, the hitherto New Unnamed Brussels International Ladies Ensemble (NUBILE) have finally come up with a name.




It conveys our maturity, our femininity, our style of playing.




It is short, catchy, punchy, and provocative.





We play like a cross between the Hot Club de France and Jumping Jack Flash.


We are .....

HOT
FLASH !!!

Ba-da-boom-TISH !

Ay thang yow.



Take it away, girls.

BLOWING YOUR OWN TRUMPET

Since our new lady orchestra leader Waltraud "Wally" von Klampwangler was brought in to pull the KNOB* out of a hole, so to speak, after our humiliation at Euroompah! 2011 in Athens, the image of the band has changed quite radically. She has sacked all the men! Bert, Wolfgang, Manfred, Siegfried and the others were literally drummed out of town by a muscular fraulein, and departed muttering unfavourable comparisons with Angela Merkel. It was unseemly to continue under the name of the long-departed Kurt Nachtnebel, so we took a vote on a new, modern handle for our all-girl line up. Irmgard's suggestion "Deutschland's International Ladies Dance Oompah" was rejected as too long. Marlene's "Blow Job" was considered a little on the risqué side. Inge came up with "Heavy Metal" which accurately represented the statuesque proportions of our members, particularly the percussion section. I was a little worried we might be confused with the band from the Kit Kat Club in "Cabaret".



Heidi, who is quite a young thing and influenced by hippity hop and all that, wanted us to cover some rap music: all very well, but a bunch of mostly middle-aged, German and rather buxom matrons are not going to be able to convey the oeuvre of Snoop Diddly Dogg very effectively, even if I did, as suggested by Heidi, change my name to "Mos Daph". Our following is not so much from Compton as Old Compton Street. We racked our Alzheimer-raddled brains. It has to convey our female nature, our international line-up (11 Germans and me) the metallic shininess of our instruments, our contemporary non-bierkeller dynamic and our sturdy corsetry. I'll leave it with you.

Hypnotic Brass Ensemble - nice boys but not a lot like us

The downsizing is opportune in view of the economic climate, and means I have been promoted to First (and only) Triangle. It's an ill wind, and all that. Bert has bequeathed me his instrument, and every time I do a little 'ting' I think of him. Wally has revamped our repertoire - no more Oktoberfest drinking songs, she wants to turn us into a sort of brass section of the Ivy Benson orchestra. Wally is determined that we can successfully combine traditional instruments and modern music within a gender perspective.

Who would have thought the trailblazers in all-women brass ensembles would hail from the land of the geisha? Tokyo Brass Style give coloured tights a whole new lease of life. Hit it, girls.

*Kurt Nachtnebel Oompah Band

KEEP IT IN THE FAMILY

Mr and Mrs Helle Thorning-Schmidt

The newly-elected Danish PM is married to the son of Neil and Glenys Kinnock, heralding a new age of political interbreeding not seen since Princess Maud of Wales married her first cousin Prince Carl of Denmark, later to become King Harald of Norway and echoing the tactical alliances of the descendants of Queen Victoria of the United Kingdom (including Wales) and King Christian IX of Denmark into virtually every royal house in Europe. It makes one wonder about the political possibilities of betrothing (for example) 11-year-old Leo Blair and 10-year-old Sasha Obama.

This also puts young Kinnock into a position of "First Husband". He could do worse than to consult the Duke of Edinburgh on the duties of a male consort (since Denis Thatcher is no longer with us). Philip, of course, knows all about this as well as the dangers of inbreeding. He is a cousin of his wife thanks to the generations of strategic coupling that went on between descendants of Queen Victoria and King Christian IX of Denmark.

In recent years some younger royals have avoided the temptation to inbreed by choosing muscular sportsmen or women as spouses - Princess Cristina of Spain courted controversy by marrying a Basque handball champion, Princess Anne's daughter Zara Phillips tied the knot with rugby captain Mike Tindall, and Prince Albert of Monaco has recently married South African swimmer Charlene Wittstock following in the Grimaldi tradition of marrying for looks rather than breeding. This of course can backfire - as seen with Albert's youngest sister, Her Serene Chavness Princess Stephanie,

Which of Albert's two escorts do you think was born into a royal household?

Political dynasties are crumbling in the Middle East, where the last of the Assad crime syndicate is clinging on by his privates, and it looks like the Gaddafi boys are not now going to inherit the earth. In the moderate Arab monarchies such as Jordan and Morocco, the smart young kings know it's a case of modernize or die, and are keeping their turbans down.

But elsewhere dynasties are back in fashion. In France, Marine Le Pen, daughter of the odious Jean-Marie, is now at the head of the National Front and looking like a serious threat -- to France as a whole, not just to Sarkozy. She may find herself up against Socialist Martine Aubry, herself the daughter of Jacques "Up Yours" Delors.


The Americas favour a Mr & Mrs alternation -- particularly in Argentina where President Cristina Fernandez de Kirchner, the wife of previous President, has followed in the teetering stilettoes of Eva Peron, as well she might; and north of the border we all know about Billary Clinton. The Far East likes a bit of sibling rivalry - 44-year old Yingluck Shinawatra, sister of the disgraced and exiled former PM Thaksin, has just won the Thai elections. Some cynics have inferred it's a way for politicos to remain in power past their mandate. I couldn't possibly comment.

Thaksin's little sister

Everyone loves a grieving widow - Sonia Gandhi is the President of the Indian National Congress Party and de facto Mother of All India, Corazon Aquino surfed into power in the Philippines on the waves of grief following her husband's assassination, as did the disgraced husband of the late Benazir Bhutto. India is into its fourth generation of nepotism, Nehru-Indira Gandhi-Rajiv/Sonia - Rahul, whereas in Pakistan there seems to be a power-sharing agreement between the Bhuttos and the Zias.


All this is quite unBritish - we haven't gone in for political dynasties in this country since the William Pitts Elder and Younger.

Milibands minor and major

Benns senior and junior

Sir Herbert Morrison - former Home Secretary, Foreign Secretary and Deputy
Prime Minister (1940-51) -- remind you of anyone?

Grandson Mandy - a chip off the old block (except grandpa was a Socialist)

NOT WITHOUT MY TEAPOT

People are sometimes very critical of immigrants who do not integrate into their host society. As an immigrant, I feel I must defend my right to my own culture. The older I get, the more I revert to the national stereotype. I drink tea, watch almost exclusively UK television, read for pleasure in English, and even do a large part of my shopping in the UK these days. They tried to make me eat mussels, but I said no, no, no.

It was not always thus. As a young gel, with the ink still wet on my advanced typing certificate, I hopped aboard the Hovercraft with gay abandon, eager to cast aside a lifetime of cultural conditioning and embrace the world of wine, all-day smoking and Edith Piaf. Like many Brits at the time, I thought France was vastly superior to the UK in virtually everything, especially Sacha Distel, and that I could shake off my adolescent problems by adopting a new identity.


In Paris I remade myself in the image of Juliette Gréco. I learned to eat cheese before dessert, drink tiny shots of strong coffee, shrug and go "pffffft merde alors", and push old ladies off the bus without a backward glance. (I would recommend several years in Paris as a self-assertion course). When women on the bus gave me the Paris stare, I returned it eyeball to eyeball, and won. I walked quickly everywhere, eyes fixed on the ground, in order to (a) avoid eye contact with predatory men of dubious means and (b) to avoid stepping in dog poo. I flirted outrageously with complete strangers - as long as they were not the aforementioned predators of dubious means.


I learned how to fashion a silk scarf into an elegant accessory with a couple of deft twists, and became a French wine and food snob (and still am, when I can afford it). I went to the hairdresser regularly, never so much as took the milk in without makeup on and started to fancy I looked a bit like Jean Seberg with freckles.

Like any self-respecting Parisienne I thought the world stopped at the périphérique, and that bread was baked freshly five times a day as a matter of course. (What a surprise when I went into a 'bakery' back in Blighty and asked what time their next baking was.) The French are blessed with an innate sense of superiority, and do not shilly-shally about customers always being right or any of that old nonsense. In a restaurant once with English friends, we were running late for the theatre and asked the patronne if she could possibly serve the cheese and dessert together to save time. She bristled and said: "Non! You will have your cheese, THEN you will have your dessert." We got our revenge the only way we could, by not leaving a tip. At the time, I admired this kind of arrogance. However, it palls after a few years.


I went to a Communist wedding, where the happy couple tied the knot under a portrait of the right-wing Mayor of Paris (Mr Chirac at the time I believe) while the congregation fanned themselves with copies of L'Humanité and sang the Internationale on the steps of the Mairie. I realized that in France, socialism does not rhyme with austerity, and their version of communism is "champagne for all", although they're pretty vague about who will pay for it. Even the concierge would invest in a few bottles of Veuve Cliquot at Christmastime. I found it a refreshing change from the rigid class structure of England. I used to take a very posh bottle of bubbly back to England for Aunt Flossie every year, until she finally confessed: "Actually, dear, I've always preferred Asti Spumante".


I had to queue up for months to get a French ID card, and once obtained, learned to carry it on me at all times. The French may criticise us for our surveillance cameras, but they are one of the most controlled societies in the so-called free world. You need a bit of paper for everything. I even heard of a man being asked to provide a certificate to prove he was still alive - a "certificat de non-décès". I can quite believe it. The French would not accept a British passport as an ID document -- they said it was a "travel document" and did not carry the requisite details (address, etc.) to serve as an ID document. They could not believe our UK driving licences which folded out to A5 size and carried no photograph. A policeman said to me: "But how do I know it's you?" I replied "Because I say so." He looked baffled.


I learned to drive in Paris, and had to tackle the place de la Concorde on my second driving lesson -- this exercise alone managed to kill any instinct I may have had for self-preservation and to this day I drive like an architect (Belgian epithet, not very flattering), which has come in handy in places like Warsaw, Lagos and Accra. Meanwhile, post 1981, Mitterrand was turning France into a showroom of excellence with his "great works" such as the pyramid of the Louvre and the Arch of La Défense, not to mention innovative projects such as Airbus and the TGV. All Britain had to show for itself was the Angel of the North.




The new wave of stylish French cinema threw out groundbreaking directors like Luc Besson and actors like Isabelle Adjani and Christophe Lambert. Café-concerts were a precursor of today's comedy clubs, and even French stand-up hit a peak with Coluche. It was an exciting time to be in France, which couldn't seem to put a foot wrong in the 1980s. I went to avant-garde theatre productions, saw tattooed men juggling chainsaws and other men dressed in frocks with no knickers on, caught fleas in insalubrious cinemas showing bizarre "art-porn" films, went cruising in the Bois de Boulogne at night to see Brazilian trannies, drank absinthe and lost my integrity in various bars, which I could never find again in daylight. The bars, or my integrity.



I embraced the whole je-ne-sais-quoi, looking askance at my fellow Brits and failing to see what was funny about 'Allo 'Allo. I read Libération and sneered at Le Figaro, smoked incessantly, talked politics and religion at dinner parties and -- short of the black polo neck sweater - became a French poseur par excellence. I even came to think that French pop music was quite good -- it did hit its peak in the 1980s -- and started collecting the works of Serge Gainsbourg and La Compagnie Créole. I could even sing the Marseillaise all the way through. By the time of the Bicentennial in 1989 I was almost totally brainwashed and was even thinking about taking French nationality.


Only when Harold swept me up and rescued me on his white horse (well, red Ford Fiesta, right-hand drive) did I realize the extent to which I had been hypnotized by Gallic cultural imperialism. It was Stockholm Syndrome, only in Paris. I had become enamoured of my captor - my captor being the city of lights. Oh tempore! O mores! I should have stayed in Sidcup.


After a few years back in Blighty I started to hanker for the other side of the Channel again. More than hankered -- I pined. But the old adage is true, it's never as good as the first time. Paris took on the personality of a spurned lover who wanted to punish me for walking out on her. (Yes a spurned lesbian lover). We had a number of unsuccessful trysts, and eventually I got the message and accepted that we were no longer an item. I moved on, but I always kept a photo of the Eiffel Tower in my wallet.




When I came to Brussels, therefore, it was on my own terms. There's no way I was going to try to become Belgian. Luckily, I didn't have to. In Belgium there is no pressure. Particularly in Brussels, where something like 50% of the population is non-Belgian. I have cable TV with all the BBC channels, order my English books by post from the UK, and make occasional trips out to Stonemanor to stock up on Bisto, pork pies, Branston pickle and Robinson's barley water and generally do not make the slightest effort to integrate. Worse, I flaunt my difference -- I wield my Union Jack umbrella (a gift from Gorilla Bananas) with gusto and try to poke out the eye of passing Frenchmen.

Photo credit: G. Bananas

I have no plans to remain here beyond retirement, which as things stand, if they don't move the goalposts again, will be some eight and a half years away. I like Belgium well enough, but I'm going to remain a tourist this time. The chips are great, but I keep a bottle of Sarson's in my kitchen.

THEY TRIED TO MAKE ME GO TO REHAB ....

Strewth! Now the cobbers have gone back to Oz, I am settling back into a healthier lifestyle. It took a good week before the alcohol had been flushed out of my system. My cousin Bonzer, as I explained last week, was bitten by a small but deadly snake about six months ago and nearly died, the snake venom causing his renal functions to almost shut down completely. However, that snake had picked the wrong foot to bite. Bonzer was such an action man in his time that even at 70, he had the presence of mind to jump in his car and drive himself to the hospital. The amount of alcohol in his blood must have diluted the snake venom and although he was pretty poorly for a while, he made a complete recovery and was back to his pre-snakebite alcohol consumption by the time he came to Brussels. The snake, on the other hand, is not feeling so good.

Still sobering up: Common Eastern Brown Snake

In any case, I am finding that too much healthy living is not good for one. I had reduced my consumption of cigarettes to practically nothing, and my reward has been a chronic and mysterious cough which I have had for the past two years. During the party atmosphere that reigned while the Aussies were here, one night I smoked like a trooper, and didn't cough at all the next day! QED.

I am still losing the battle of the bulge, despite my diet of salads, soups and McChe's homemade organic sourdough bread. The Amy Winehouse diet seems to be the only one that really works for me. Once a week, usually on a Friday, I crack open a bottle of chilled rosé and invite my lodger to partake of a glass or two on the front balcony, which doubles as the fumoir. Being a Glaswegian, I factor into the equation that he is going to sneak in as many extra glasses as he can - for example, when I go to the loo - and thus I only get two glasses out of a bottle, so the reserve bottle has to come out.

While sampling the Anjou region's best and helping American tobacco workers hold on to their jobs during the recession, we discuss the pressing matters of the day - the phone hacking scandal, the 9/11 anniversary, the state of the economy as judged by the price of mobile phones and iPods (the McChe school of economics) and who's going down to Mr Patel's for the third bottle. McChe usually volunteers, especially when I do not have anything smaller than a 10 euro note in my purse - the poor scrawny wee thing always seems to be buckling a bit under the weight of his rucksack when he comes back. Such a good boy.

Three bottles between the pair of us is usually our limit, and on draining the last dregs I will collapse on the sofa to catch the re-run of EastEnders while the tech guru will retire to his corner, put his cans on and fight the Vietnam war single handed (or whichever shoot-em-up game he's playing this week) with the help of several cans of lager which mysteriously appear after the wine has run out. By this time I'm too pickled tired to prepare any food and not hungry anyway, and that is about the only way I'm going to be able to skip meals.

Well you must admit, Amy Winehouse didn't put on any weight. But you must be careful not to take it to extremes, like she did. The other weekend we'd got the flavour, and decided to push the envelope. A bottle too far, unfortunately. We stalled. The next morning I awoke to find a half-finished bottle of red wine in the kitchen and the lodger curled up asleep in an overflowing ashtray. I was impressed to find I had managed to clean my make-up off before collapsing into bed fully-dressed.

And I was so hungry I had a full English fry-up for breakfast. Back to wearing black .....

THE LAST ACTION HERO

My cousin Bonzer dropped in for a few days - literally. He used to be in the British Paras, and I only flinched slightly when he abseiled through the French windows. I waited patiently while he darted from room to room shouting “Bandits at 3 o’clock !” and “Look out, they’re on the roof!”. Finally, satisfied that the house was safe, he consented to have a cup of tea and a vol-au-vent. Conversation proved to be a bit difficult in morse code, so he resorted to a stage whisper. “Really, Bonzer, don’t you think this is a little over the top?” I protested. "If you want a biscuit, help yourself."


Bonzer and Doreen have retired to a remote spot called Porpoise Spit in Queensland, which sounds delightful - the snakes in the sand dunes only come out at night usually, and they only had one shark attack last year. They can't wait for me to go out and visit. They are very active pensioners: Bonzer took up skydiving after leaving the Regiment, and finds it's the quickest way to get to the nearest Spar shop.




They were touring Europe on a Kawasaki 750 – I recognized them straight away, as no-one else wears his ‘n hers balaclavas. Not on top of their crash helmets, anyway. Bonzer is very fit for a man of advancing years, considering he has broken virtually every bone in his body due to stalled parachutes, helicopter malfunctions and angry natives, and recently been bitten by the most poisonous snake in Australia, which he said was still preferable to facing Doreen after a three day bender up the Sunshine Coast.


Bonzer is a master of disguise. He used to prefer to masquerade as a woman when on "special ops", since they elicit less suspicion. And because he likes painting his toenails. But his methodology is questionable - if you want to blend into the crowd in a Delhi bazaar, you’re not going to pull it off by dressing as Marilyn Monroe in “The Seven Year Itch”. The fakirs recognized him immediately and shouted “Welcome back, Bonzer Sahib!”. But it’s an ill wind and whatnot. He was offered a the lead female role in a Bollywood blockbuster.

You'd have a seven year itch too if you stood over a subway grating.
Lends a whole new meaning to "going commando".

Bonzer is the soul of discretion. You won’t find him selling his stories to the tabloids. (He’ll tell them to anyone in the pub, though, for a pint of smooth). He’s hung up his balaclava now, but has been quite the action man in his day. I can’t say which regiment he was in, but I don’t think I’ll be breaching the Official Secrets Act if I tell you it’s the one where they wear ladies’ underwear. Needless to say, Bonzer isn’t his real name. But I’ve probably said too much already. You never know who’s listening. Sometimes I wonder if Bonzer’s a touch paranoid, but a basic knowledge of morse code can come in quite handy once you’ve mastered a few key phrases, such as “See you down the Scud & Wombat once she’s dozed off”, and “Don’t move, you’ve got a scorpion on your nose”. Although he was too old to take part in Gulf Wars one and two, he organized his local Neighbourhood Watch back home in Porpoise Spit into nighttime search-and-destroy patrols. They were disbanded when they took the owner of the local kebab shop hostage, but were let off after a warning from the local constabulary to stay off the XXXX. Mustafa stopped the old OAP-specials after that.


Bonzer’s regimental motto is “No worries mate” (Who Dares Wins, surely? - Ed.) and he is of an irritatingly cheery disposition, whistling Rolf Harris songs at the crack of dawn as he crashes about in the kitchen. A perfect house guest, as you can imagine. His tales of derring-do, especially after a few jars, are always good value. There’s one I particularly like about being stripped naked, covered with marmalade and left next to a beehive. I think that was on his stag night in Dunstable. He barely made it to his own wedding. And once at the altar, he would only state his name, rank and number. The future Mrs Bonzer had to stab him in the buttock with her bayonet before he coughed “I do”.


Mrs Bonzer is a woman of infinite patience and loyalty, as can be seen from her tattoos (“Who Glares Wins” on the left shoulder and “What Time Do You Call This, Then?” on the right), always at Bonzer’s side, gripping the chain only as tight as is necessary. For years she accepted without complaining all the inconveniences of Bonzer’s profession, such as live hand grenades in the tumble dryer and tunnels under the herbaceous borders. Not many women would put up with their husband being away for months at a time without a clue where he was. Especially when he only went out for a packet of Hobnobs. Mrs B waited patiently, chain-smoking Woodbines and gazing steadfastly through the razor wire, until the warrior returned. She never asked questions, and always abided by the Queensberry rules. A bit like Lara Croft in an anorak. Bonzer’s a very lucky man.


I wish I could post a picture of cousin Bonzer. Unfortunately, in the only one I have of him without his balaclava, he is in a compromising position with the regimental goat, and I don’t think that would do at all.

They still write to each other