THE SOUND OF ONE MARACA

The Queen Mother of Boogie-Woogie

In order to warm up for the marathon of partying that is May in Brussels, at the end of last month I dragged Scouse Doris and her swain Rupert Posz-Jordie to see Jools Holland and his Rhythm and Blues Orchestra at the Ancienne Belgique.  Jools was accompanied by his 16-piece band, comprising a 12-piece brass section that filled the KNOB-shaped hole in my life: all superb musicians, as well as singers Louise Marshall, who reminded me of Amy Winehouse with talent, and the magnificent and Junoesque Ruby Turner, who turns out every third Wednesday in August for Jools on his televised New Year's Eve Hootenanny, and in the flesh is quite something to behold:

Every number was a foot-stomping boogie-woogie, and the house was rocking.   Each musician got a solo spot, and drummer Gilson Lavis' five-minute virtuoso drum solo (during which the rest of the band went out, had a cup of tea and a fag and a quick nap, phoned home, then ambled back in), the likes of which had not been heard since Cozy Powell, whipped the crowd into a frenzy.  Jools' tinkling of the ivories was up to his usual standard, and he did his party piece which involved taking a rollicking boogie number, segueing into a long stretch of Bach, and then seamlessly segueing back into the blues again.

All the brass section were superb, but a special mention for Rico Rodriguez, aged nearly 80 and still going strong.  He can still blow that 'bone, and led the crowd for the final encore in a rousing chorus of "Enjoy yourself, it's later than you think."   We certainly did.  It certainly was.

The grand old man of ska

I feel like writing to UNESCO to recommend they give Jools "Intangible Cultural Heritage" status.  Or to the Culture Secretary reiterating Prince Charles' recommendation: "Why don't you make Jools an official National Treasure, Hunt?", although that would inevitably elicit the question "Where did you dig him up from?"    

If Jools and his band are touring anywhere near you, I highly recommend you go and see them.  If you don't come out singing, check your pulse, there's something very wrong.

Now if you'll excuse me, I've got to apply some Superglue to my maracas.  I got so carried away during Gilson's drum solo that I cracked them.  A new pair are on order from Nicaragua. Meanwhile, a true diva can always perform with one arm tied behind her back:

BETTER DEAD THAN ..... MAUVE

Tomorrow, under a peculiarly Belgian system, the employees of every company in the kingdom with more than 50 staff will vote their union representatives onto the works committee and health & safety committee, choosing from 3 lists representing the three main trade unions:  the Greens (Catholics), the Reds (Socialists) and the Blues (Managerial).  Nowhere else in the world, I believe, is democracy so compulsory.  Personally I think it's because their only decent football team has chosen mauve as its emblematic colour.  MAUVE!  Which self-respecting beer-swilling Belgian woman would want to be seen dead in mauve?  So, instead, they dress up in red or green bin liners and march through Brussels at the drop of a hat.  Demonstrating, along with tax evasion, is the national sport of Belgium.  It is particularly popular round about this time of year, and cafés on the main north-south road through the city make a killing on refreshing the revolutionary spirit at regular intervals along the march.

Hot Flash has a works council and H&S committee, and I have been co-opted onto one of the lists (modesty forbids me from saying which, but let's say the binliner matches the cherries in my fruit basket) since it was thought that my gay umbrella and my fruity hat would be vote catchers.  Now, much as I support the rights of the working woman, I am personally a bit backward in coming forward.  I don't like speaking in public, although I don't mind standing at the back and tinging my triangle.  I hate confrontation.  But, as is the way in the workers paradise, those with the loudest voices will inevitably impose their will on the more timid, and I feel it is incumbent upon me to be the elder stateswoman in the nest of menopausal vipers that lurks at the heart of Hot Flash.  


However, it is probably a little early in the day to apply the soft pedal.  Wally von Klampwangler, our lederhosen-and-monocle wearing lady bandleader, has turned out to be something of a dictator, and is more concerned with correcting our fingering and tonguing than giving some overall direction to our musical productions or feminising the programme.  It doesn't go down too well with the musicians.  Millicent Tendency, the head of the "red" delegation, is a lady with a sax to grind.  It is turning into a bit of a Mexican stand-off between Millicent and Wally.  I am standing firmly - well, lurking furtively actually - behind Millicent.  But it could get very nasty in the next few months.


I am by no means a fifth columnist.  I do not really want to be on the works council at this stage, but I could not say no to Millicent, especially when she was holding an AK47 to my head.  I am only there to make up the numbers.  So whatever you do, don't vote for me. No offence to any of our simian friends reading this, but I don't want to end up like Stuart Drummond, alias H'Angus the Monkey, who is now serving his third term as Mayor of Hartlepool after entering the election as a joke in 2002 on a manifesto to provide free bananas to schoolchildren (which he broke as soon as he reached office, of course).  It explains a lot about Boris Johnson's recent victory in the London election.

The thrice-elected Mayor of Hartlepool

My long-term strategy is to insinuate my reasonable ideas slowly into the delegation's modus operandi, and embarrass the top brass into giving us what we want.  I shall gradually introduce tea-drinking to union meetings, which I think will calm down the raging hormones.  If it gets too bad, I may be forced to add some HRT to the PG Tips.  Having lived through the 1970s in Britain, I am all too aware that strident militancy led directly to strident Thatcherism.  If Arthur Scargill had only used his maracas to play a gentle samba to Mrs T rather than banging his big drum, history might have taken a completely different turn.