Eurovision

For once, I think the Eurovision Song Contest was more scary than Dr Who. How times change. At least Terry Wogan didn't disappoint. He has done for the Eurovision song contest what Tony Blair did for (or to) the Labour Party. Some of his gems were worth writing down:

"Spain lost the plot years ago"
"Last year was a navel year, this year the legs have it"
"Well it wasn't Riverdance" (on the half time entertainment)
"Who do you think you are, Lord Haw Haw?" (on the German rapporteur)
"I don't believe it!" (on Belarus' award of 12 points to Russia)
"Who in heaven's name picked that eejit?" (on the Dutch rapporteur drunkenly flirting with the male Greek presenter)

However, some of Vi's text messages were even better. "Latvian tomcats on the pull", "Lithuanie, nul points", "Another Irish dirge" and "Isn't that Bill Bailey on keyboards?" (on the Finnish entry).

Do real people actually vote for these songs? I can't believe Russia has so many fans in the former Eastern Bloc, even though their boy was a pretty young thing. Germany's 12 points to Turkey was believable - "The Gastarbeiter, of course!" (TW again) - but Poland's 10 points to Russia was laughable. And Holland's 12 points to Turkey in the present climate was a bit doubtful as well. Unless it was those Gastarbeiter again of course. I tried myself to text a vote for Finland to the Belgian number given on the screen and couldn't get through.

The Commission might take Eurovision Song Contest a bit more seriously than it takes itself these days, as it reflects perhaps a more accurate snapshot of Europe's real state of mind. Wogan's remark that the French don't like it that the whole contest is not done in French will ring a few bells over Schuman way. Latvia's decision to "keep the big boy happy" by giving 10 pts to Russia, coupled with the "old Balkan foxtrot" as Sir Terry referred to the backscratching between members of the former Yugoslavia may be indicative of the allegiances of some of the new member states. Perhaps Sir Terry Wogan should be the next President of the Commission? Let's put it to the vote ... nul points, you say?

Falling Standards

I really MUST put a word in about Zoe, whose blog “My Boyfriend is a Twit” has become part of my daily reading material, along with the Daily Mail and Points de Vue-Images du Monde (just to check if their Majesties are in town so as I know to check my invitations very carefully). Vi Hornblower insists that it’s actually called “My Boyfriend is a Twat” > but I couldn’t find the word in my pocket dictionary, so there must be a spelling mistake or something wrong with Zoe’s typewriter. Vi suggested starting her own blog called “My Husband is a Count” (although she spelled that wrong as well). “Is he really?” I inquired with some surprise, being quite unaware of Desmond’s aristocratic connections. “Most definitely,” replied Vi, then added cryptically “Some days more than others.” Zoe’s blog is very entertaining, although her language is a little on the colourful side, but then I think she lives over Tervuren way, the local dialect is bound to rub off.

Must sign off and watch “Dr Who” followed by the Eurovision Song Contest, which is becoming quite difficult to understand these days. Whatever happened to the likes of Johnny Logan and Mary Hopkin? Can any readers tell me? And what exactly gets into Terry Wogan once a year? He’s such a gentleman the rest of the time. If Her Majesty watched Eurovision, I think she’s have that Knighthood back off him.

Dream Team

Feeling a little like a fish without a bicycle since Harold boldly went over into the beyond, I ventured recently, with some trepidation, into the world of internet dating. Goodness there are some strange people on the xpats.com website aren’t there? I resisted the temptation to reply to the chap who liked it “Greek style”, the nudist and the couple looking for a third party, the lovegod looking for married women, anything involving sub or dom and those who said they were “very good-looking” (i.e. most of the rest).

The one that intrigued me most said he was looking for a woman with a Sony 150cm Ultra Plat. I thought there must be a mistake. I mean, a lady of Jordanian dimensions would hardly be deemed ultra plat. And Sony don’t make bras anyway. Turned out he was referring to the size and type of her TV screen, which along with a large sofa (for his mates), proximity to a chip shop and ownership of a brewery, is one of the principal attributes a girl needs to have if she’s going to have a man about the house at all (and keep him there) between 9th June and 9th July. And don’t even dream of him noticing you exist while that monster plasma screen is showing 22 men chasing a small white spherical object on a green background. Yes, the World Cup is upon us again. Oh joy. Last time that came around we were in Poland, the tournament was about 10 hours away, and Harold was found dancing the samba with a Brazilian ladyboy at 8.00 in the morning in the middle of Pole Mokotowskie park in Warsaw. Happy days.


On the plus side, ladies, there will be some prime beefcake on the box during the tournament. I got together with a few of the girls to put together our First XI of World Cup Willies:

• David Beckham (England): still gorgeous, and the only natural blond in the squad! ( is this right? DWB)
• Ronaldinho (Brazil): all his own teeth and hair and plenty of both!
• Thierry Henry (France): plenty of va-va-voom there!
• Raul (Spain): rhymes with drool ! (Who he? DWB)
• Theo Walcott (England): Vi’s choice, only 17 – ooh, young MAN !!
• Henrik Larssen (Sweden): Millicent Tendency’s favourite, half Scot, half Swede, all gorgeous !
• Chawki Ben Saada (Tunisia): Wouldn’t mind a date with him! (Geddit?)
• Gibril Cissé (France): Don’t let the mad hairdo fool you, he’s no sissy ! (Geddit?)
• Roque Santa Cruz (Paraguay): wouldn’t mind going on a cruise with him! (Geddit?)
• Patrik Berger (Czech Republic): A real beef-berger ! (Geddit?)
• Cesc Fabregas (Spain): Crazy name, crazy guy!

(That’s enough - Geddit? Ed.)

Workers of the world, unite!

I painted the town with a friend whom I had not seen since May 1968 in Paris. With Millicent Tendency, red was the only colour to paint it. We chucked a few paving stones together on the Boulevard St Michel back during that heady summer, alongside the likes of Dany “Le Rouge” and Peter Hain, and shouted slogans such as “C.R.S. – S.S.!!” and “Sous les pavés, la plage!”. But whereas I (and Peter Hain) have mellowed into a middle-of-the-road, Independent on Sunday reading type of non-committal average couch potato, and Dany Le Rouge is now Dany Le Vert, Millicent is still hanging on desperately to the Cause and trying to persuade the workers of the world to unite. She spends her life going from conference to workshop, seminar to debate, across the world, militating, agitating and trying to convince the Great Unwashed to put down the remote control for the telly and take up arms against a sea of globalisation. Fat chance.

We dined at Chez Vincent, 8-10 Rue des Dominicains, just off Butchers’ Alley. This is a very old, established Bruxellois brasserie which is packed every night, so reserve in advance, even mid-week (Tel: 02 511 2607/2303). The service is impeccable, and the young, handsome waiters (that twang you just heard was Vi Hornblower snapping on a thong) are so helpful. They parked Millicent’s banners in the umbrella stand and stashed her megaphone over the coat rack. We received two complimentary glasses of fizz while making our minds up. I chose Vincent because there’s very little on the menu that Millicent could object to. In fact there’s very little in general that Millicent can find to object to these days, which must make her life very difficult. It was so easy in the early 70’s – when you’d eliminated anything South African, Chilean, Greek, Portuguese, Israeli, or with lovely big sad eyes, you were basically left with chips. Since the lifting of the Iron Curtain, the fall of the Berlin Wall, the release of Nelson Mandela, the defeat of the miners and the death of socialism, there is a shortage of causes célèbres to fight. It’s been nice to see the youngsters in Paris reviving some old traditions recently.

The menu at Chez Vincent is simple and resolutely Belgian: their standard dishes are Moules, in various sauces, steaks, and a limited choice of fish and meat dishes. The house style is brasserie – nothing chichi or frilly, concentrating on classic dishes prepared with perfect ingredients. Millicent approved, it smacked of solid working-class values. For starters I had the Terrine de Légumes au Saumon which was elegant simplicity, simply fresh spring vegetables (carrots, leek, beans) and pieces of salmon preserved in clear aspic and served in a tomato coulis. Millicent had the Panier à Salade de Saison. Thankfully she has not nailed her colours to the mast of vegetarianism, and went for the Rumsteak au Poivre Rouge for main course, whereas I could not resist the Rognon de Veau – usually served whole, but at my request cut into small pieces before cooking. Offally kind of them. Millicent goes ballistic at the sight of a Coca-Cola logo, so we had a bottle of Beaujolais St Amour and some fizzy water. The desserts are worth holding a space for. The Crêpe Vincent was extremely yummy, and Millicent opted for Non-Profiteroles. With a couple of coffees, the damage came to a fairly middle-class sum, but it’s not every day you relive your youth. We laughed so much about the famous baton charge down the Boulevard St Michel that I could almost smell the CS gas.

I tipped the young waiter generously, which raised a disapproving frown from Millicent who doesn’t believe in gratuities, but a dazzling smile from the young man. You support the workers in your way, Millicent, and I’ll support them in mine.

Smoke gets in your eyes

I made a brief visit to Paris last week in the company of my two glamorous fashionista friends, Allora Gobbi (the original barefoot Contessa, and Liverpool’s answer to Joan Collins), and Tarquin de Folle (Wanstead’s answer to, er, Joan Collins). They arrived sporting identical (fake) designer sunglasses looking like Will and Grace, leaving me in the role of Karen, I suppose. They were somewhat put out to learn that they were going to have to leave their giant LV suitcases (3 for a pound in the market) behind to make room for a large consignment of wine I planned to bring back in the jalopy.

On arriving in Paris we approached the Porte de St Cloud, at the slightly scruffier end of the very posh 16th arrondissement, near the old rugby stadium Parc des Princes. Cars were parked everywhere, and it was only after my skilful driving narrowly missed the projectile vomiting of a rugger bugger from Gloucester that we realized it was a match night. We finally managed to park somewhere near Dijon and walked back to the hotel.

The Hotel Exelmans at 73 Rue Boileau, off boulevard Exelmans, is quite a pleasant small hotel with a delightful courtyard where it would have been nice to take breakfast had it been warmer, but some rooms were better than others. Room no.7 is very pleasant with a lovely bathroom, but avoid the 3rd floor (rooms 8 to 12). It is always fascinating to see how French hoteliers do not see any need to freshen up paintwork in corridors or staircases. Still, for 73 euros a night, breakfast included (internet rate), you can’t expect the Ritz. Do check before you book whether there’s a rugger match that day – out of season they have a couple of parking spaces that you can book (which we should have done). You can book online, simply use a search engine such as Yahoo and type in Hotel Exelmans Paris. It is situated close to the Brussels Café, where you can slake your craving for moules and frites once you have got over the Thalys jetlag.

Allora and Tarquin are not as well-travelled as Yours Truly, and still thought the Café Costes was the Last Word in chic. We popped in for a kir royale, but there was nobody of any import to observe, only Gerard Depardieu slumped over a pint of cider and Ines de la Fressange picking the varnish off her toenails in a corner. Where were Gwyneth and Chris and Apple, Angelina and Brad, Paris and Paris, George and Kenny? Allora and Tarquin were disappointed. The only French celebs worth talking about these days live in England. Juliette Binoche is so passée. Catherine Deneuve has had her frites. Even Thierry Henry pretends he doesn’t know the French for va-va-voom.

I persuaded them to abandon their metrosexual ambitions and go in search of La Vraie France, somewhere untouched by the Atkins diet and New World wine, and where you don’t wear Prada shoes if you’re planning on using the toilet. There are still places in Paris like this. I took them to Polidor, at 13 rue Monsieur le Prince, just off boulevard St Germain. This restaurant close to the Sorbonne was a favourite haunt of impoverished students at the turn of the century, when Paul Valéry and André Gide had lovers’ tiffs over the cassoulet and art students would pay for their meals by painting a mural on the walls – one still remains, in the back room. The menu is simple, nourishing and untouched by sundried tomatoes, rocket or pancetta. Good thick sauces, fresh baguette to mop them up with, and bustling no-nonsense waitresses who treat the diners like their own adolescent children. And save some space for pudding, as the house speciality is the home-made Tarte Tatin, served with an optional dollop of crème fraiche. We staggered out into the night, Allora attempting somewhat inelegantly to disengage her thong and Tarquin complaining that he was starting to look like Elton.

We went in search of Edith that night. Alighting at metro Pyrénées, we walked down the steep slope of Rue de Belleville, passing the doorstep at no. 72 where La Mome was born in the street (allegedly). At the end of the narrow rue Piat is the most stunning view over Paris, marred only these days by the tacky twinkling of the Eiffel Tower every hour on the hour, like a cheap Chinese Christmas decoration. On the night air drifted a familiar voice, which we followed to the steamed-up glass door of an unprepossessing bar. It was packed with drinkers and smokers, and right at the back was a young woman belting out Piaf songs like the old sparrow herself. When she launched into “La Vie en Rose” Tarquin burst into tears, and poked a large-denomination euro note into her ample cleavage, prompting her to finish on a gusty rendition of “Milord”.

The Parisians have admirably resisted the trend towards smoke-free public places, and smoking is still compulsory in most cafes. Apart from Madrid, it is possibly the only city where you will find a queue for the smoking area, while the two non-smoking tables by the toilet remain defiantly empty. Sadly, one doesn’t see the old Disque Bleue gaspers so much these days. You knew you were in Paris when you detected the acrid aroma of dark tobacco mingled with the burnt-rubber smell of the metro wheels and the garlic breath of one’s fellow travellers. Nowadays there is a pervasive and creeping Americanisation of Parisian café society, reflected in the packets of Marlboro and Camel sitting alongside the double expressos. McDonald’s has been a favourite with French teens for a couple of decades (although thankfully they seem to grow out of it on reaching adulthood) and it is rumoured that there is even a Starbucks somewhere in the Houston-like concrete jungle of La Défense. So smoking is about all the French have left to stem the tide of cultural imperialism, even though their poison of choice is, er, American. Inhaling is a political statement these days. They are defending their national identity by sacrificing their health. And for that, you have to salute them. Even if their hotels could do with a bit of an American invasion.