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