Dirty Tricks

I've discovered a couple of blogs that made me titter: Screamers, written by an exotic creature that lives in the badlands whence cometh our beloved Commissioner for Trade, and Harry Hutton's Chase me Ladies, I'm in the Cavalry which made me laugh so much my toenails ached. A quote from Harry which will touch a nerve: "Having testicles is like being chained to the village idiot". Vicus Scurra will no doubt know what he's talking about.

Health report: my voice is gradually modulating from the honk of a wounded sea lion to the baritone rasp of Leonard Cohen impersonating Marlene Dietrich. I finally fell back on the antibiotics which seem to be kicking in slowly. This was no normal flu. After my blog being "buried" by Google, I suspect foul play. I have been the victim of germ warfare. Who would be behind such a dastardly trick?

I think they're all barking up the wrong tree where national security is concerned. It's not your Iraqi or your Afghan they should be harrassing. Leave the Moroccan corner shop guy alone. The last person I spoke to before I went down with this bug was from ... Portugal. The way they played in the World Cup, I wouldn't put anything past them. They don't call those jellyfish Portuguese Men-o'-War for nothing you know.

Schadenfreude

Bert arrived back from the Fatherland looking very despondent. He packed away his whistle, his scarf and his spiked helmet, for another four years. “Ach vell,” he pondered, “Rome voz not in a day gebuilt.”

I was quite upset myself, as I wanted Germany to be stuffed by England, not by Italy. But I put aside all personal animosity and cooked Bert a delicious meal of Italian meatballs with spaghetti, panini, parmesan cheese, fava beans and a nice little Chianti. The soul of sensitivity, I put on a CD of Pavarotti singing “Vinceró” and wore an Armani dress, Prada shoes and Versace perfume.

Bert ate in teutonic silence. “Some Neapolitan icecream for dessert?” I suggested brightly, “Some Tiramisu? Panna Cotta? Zabaglione? or just an expresso?”

O o o O o o O

So, it’s France v Italy for the World Cup final on Sunday. Much as I admire the Italians’ footwork, not to mention their menswear and leather accessories, I’m afraid I’ve got to support France, for old time’s sake. Many years walking the streets in the City of Lights have endeared me to the old place, even if it is a bit of a dog’s breakfast these days. And the French team almost feel like our own boys, when you count how many of them play in the English Premiership. Thank God we sent Barthez back to Marseille though. What a butterfingers.

Zinedine Zidane is exactly the sort of man I was talking about the other day. Naturally masterful. Did you see him take that penalty against Portugal? Cool, calm, collected, he looked like he was just going to B&Q to buy a box of spanners. That’s my kind of man. The strong, silent type (well let’s face it he wouldn’t get a word in anyway with me). It is rumoured that Madame Zidane wears the pantalon at home. Now isn’t that proof enough that a man who is bien dans sa peau doesn’t need to throw his weight around on the domestic front? I’ll bet Zizou gets his pinny on and gets on with peeling the spuds whenever he is asked. Ooh that’s an erotic image. There’s nothing that gives a girl a frisson like the sight of a man doing domestic tasks. (Do you think that will work, girls?)

W.O.M.A.N., I'll say it again

Struck down once again with one of those vicious little viruses that seem to pervade the air space in this country (you’d think Nato, or at least Eurocontrol, might do something about it), my thoughts have turned of late to my own mortality. There comes a time when you wake up and think: “Christ! Is that the time! It’s past 50 o’clock!” You realize how much there is still left to do, and how little time left to do it in. Is there still enough time left to become a best-selling novelist, an award-winning photographer, a fluent Russian speaker, a flamenco dancer, the next Mrs George Clooney, get back down to a size 12 and get the recipe for gratin dauphinois right? When I am finally laid to rest, the epitaph on my tomb will scream “BUT I HADN’T FINISHED!!”

In the event of being knocked down by a bus or some other unexpected accident befalling me, I would like it to be known that there is only one surgeon allowed to apply the scalpel to my delicate flesh: Dr Anton Meyer, formerly of Holby City, now somewhere in America. I still miss him. Rick Griffin is very good, but he lacks Anton’s hauteur and noblesse. Funny how only French words will do when you’re talking about degrees of arrogance, isn’t it?

The thing about Anton was, he was so … masterful. I do like a man to be in control, contrary to anything Harold may have told you prior to his untimely demise. He may have compared me to Rosa Klebb, Ann Robinson, Golda Meir … however, in reality I am but a helpless damsel, seeking a pair of strong manly arms to swoon into. They would have to be strong manly arms, as I am no flimsy floozy. Men just don’t seem to have the gallantry of yore. I suppose it’s our own fault, feminism and all that. We didn’t realize we were putting out mixed messages, and over-estimated the poor dears’ capacity for reading between the lines. Men are such simple creatures. They need simple, clear instructions, such as “Put it HERE” and “Stop NOW”. We overestimated their capacity for change, and now we are paying the price.

Unreconstructed “old” men still understand their role in the scheme of things. Mowing the lawn, paying in restaurants, having a shed … but in return we must live up to their expectations and behave like laydees. Even if it’s not in our nature. Fake it, girls, fake it. A little girlish giggle here and there at their pathetic idea of a joke will not kill us. Fluttering an eyelash and ignoring the spelling mistakes in their tattoos is a small price to pay. Even watching the odd football match can be suffered for the cause (especially at the end where they all take their shirts off).

And as for our appearance, if we dress like builders, we shouldn’t expect to be treated with kid gloves. Leave the Doc Martens at home, ladies – if you want to be sent flowers, say it with a flowery dress (and matching shoes and handbag).

However, I absolutely draw the line at stockings and suspenders. If that’s the price I have to pay, I’ll drive myself to the hospital thanks.

Speechless

I'm still speechless. Which is just as well. Because what I would have said regarding the England v Portugal match was unrepeatable. I watched the extra time and penalties in the middle of a crowd of Portugal fans on my second day at Couleur Cafe. Perhaps the laryngitis was God's way of making me keep my mouth shut.

Well we've seen the French prime minister in charge of the Argentina World Cup team, let's now hear it for the Brazilian Minister of Culture doing a gig at Couleur Cafe. Gilberto Gil (for it was he) has not gone all elder-statesman since he became a government minister. He's grown dreadlocks. He is one of the most perfectly preserved over-60's I have ever seen. He is well fit, as my friend Cynthia might say, and his voice is as powerful as ever. He looks rather like what I imagine Bob Marley might look like now, were he still with us. And he sang a few of Marley's songs, if I had had a few more sherbets I might have thought it was the shade of the old Buffalo Soldier himself. He is a good 12 or 13 years younger than James Brown, but I suspect has looked after himself a bit better and will just get better as he gets older. Brazilians seem to have such good genes, which I hope will not be diluted by recent imports such as Ronnie Biggs and Grant Mitchell. However, I do think this practice of government Ministers going round playing gigs should be stopped. If we're not careful, Tone will be back on the road with the Ugly Rumours.

Gilberto went off to watch Brazil v France (poor man, I bet he wished now he'd stayed and given us "Girl from Ipanema"). Before heading for the main attraction, I visited a couple of other tents to see what else was going on at Couleur Cafe. Amparanoia and Think of One were starting up in different tents. Not bad - Amparo is almost certainly Manu Chao's long-lost twin sister. Didn't know what to make of the other lot, the heavy drumming nearly brought on an angina attack. I wandered round some craft stalls, watched a drumming lesson, watched the giant carnival figures with their drummers wander through the crowd, and had a plate of delicious rice and chicken from the Nigerian stall. I strolled back to the main tent to await Seun Anikulapo Kuti & Africa 80.

Seun’s late father, Fela Anikulapo (“He-who-carries-death- in-his-pouch”) Kuti (Woyayah! Praise be to his ancestors!) was a remarkable musician (sax and keyboards) and Nigerian political activist. Seun and his older brother Femi are carrying on the tradition, both sax players, taking their dad’s infectious highlife-funk mix around the world tinged with a political and environmental message. The Kuti family have the distinction of representing a whole genre of music - Afrobeat - all by themselves. Although Seun had to start off playing to a half-full tent, being in competition with the Brazil-France match, by the end of his set the tent was overflowing and everyone, including your intrepid reporter, was wagging their posterior like Baloo the Bear. I nearly had to reach for the angina tablets again. The Kuti boys are also well fit. I'd have put a photo up ladies, but the Couleur Cafe site has gone a bit haywire and can't get any links in, so search for them yourselves on Yahoo Images, you old slappers. You know who you are.

Left in time to make it home on the tram. Last night France won the World Cup. The cars were still careering around Brussels with flags flying, but it was the French Tricolor now. I can't help being pleased for the Frogs, they've had a rotten couple of years, they really needed a boost. So it's going to be an all-European final. Which means Brussels goes nuts whoever wins. Tune in next weekend, same time, same channel. I got home and switched on a German TV sports programme where the presenters were laughing their heads off about England's defeat. They showed a clip of the England team singing the national anthem, with the words overdubbed into German, and the new words went along the lines of "We haven't won the Cup for 40 years, but we won't shut up about it ...." followed by something rude about Victoria and David which I didn't quite catch. I cracked up. Nice to know what other countries think of us, isn’t it?

I will definitely go to Couleur Cafe again next year, and will get a 3-day pass, which works out much better value. The price is my only complaint about this festival, which is superb in all other respects. The event is extremely well-organized, and there are plenty of stewards, medics, etc. on hand to look out for problems. The site was kept remarkably clean, mainly by the punters themselves who obediently put all their rubbish into the bins provided. The toilets were immaculate. There was an abundance of food stalls from all over the world - it's almost worth going just for the grub - and the dishes were fairly cheap (mostly 5 euros a throw) and excellent. No burgers, no hotdogs, no chips. Beer tents were plentiful, and drinks were affordable at 1.60 euros a small beer or soft drink. Nobody was drunk - not even the England fans (and you would have forgiven them under the circs). I did detect more than the occasional whiff of what we used to call illicit substances on the air. But (a) I'm not sure if they're illicit any more in Belgium, and (b) everybody was so chilled out, they've got to be an improvement on alcohol. (I don't indulge myself, you understand - a lady of my status wouldn't want to be seen dead rolling her own - but look at some of our football fans flying the flag in Germany in their own inimitable way, and then look at the peaceful though pungent dreadlocked youngsters dancing away this weekend, I think if I had teenage kids, I know where I'd prefer mine to be). The general atmosphere was one of "pissanlove" as we say on this side of the Channel. Just my luck - when I wanted to be a hippy first time round, I was too young. Now I want to be one again, I'm too old.

James Brown is an equal opportunities employer

There is a 3-day festival of weld music on in Brussels at the moment, Couleur Cafe, at the massive Tour & Taxis trade fair site, which has been turned into a mini Glasto for the occasion. I arranged to go there last night with Dubious Company and her other half. But before hitting the global village, DC and I kicked off (geddit?) the evening at a scuzzy Irish pub in the centre of Brussels to watch the match. The venue was moderately improved by the presence of a number of decorative young men from South America, thankfully not sporting pan pipes or ponchos for a change. DC immediately spotted an opportunity to score (geddit?) and started shouting for Argentina. Quelle tarte. Loyal to my current Teutonic gentleman friend, Bert, I cheered loudly for Germany. As you all know by now, it went to a penalty shoot-out, and this was where German precision prevailed. Vorsprung durch etc. Think BMW, think Mercedes-Benz, think Bosch. And Bosch! was the sound that finished it. I shouted "Ja, ja, ja!" trying desperately to keep my right arm in a safe position. The pub sounded a bit like a small Nuremberg rally. DC scowled, as her chance of pan-pipe lessons had just left in a huff.

On to Couleur Cafe, where things were hotting up in preparation for the performance of James Brown, the Godfather of Soul. We wolfed down some Lebanese (food! what were you thinking?) before DC's other half frogmarched us off to the main tent to await the Great Man. He's very good for an old man of 94, and James Brown wasn't too bad either. The old boy battles gamely on, but frankly I was a little disappointed. The build-up is part of the act, but they did drag it out a bit too much, and he needs an awful lot of help these days. There must have been about 20 people on stage with him, including what appeared to be the Cheeky Girls, and a quartet of Junoesque matrons in shimmy dresses - full marks to Mr Brown for employing the over-50's! If I ever get kicked off the jewellery counter at Grace Brothers I may apply for a job as one of his backup singers. His band played on gamely, but he didn't do many of his big hits, and the ones he did were fairly unrecognizable. He didn't even do that bit of comedy where he falls down on his knees. Probably too dangerous, he might never get up again. I thought the poor old sod should be allowed to retire, but I guess his ex wives won't let him.

Or perhaps I was just fatigued. It was well past my bedtime when he finished, so I left DC and her minder waiting for somebody called Burning Spear and wended my weary way homewards, through the now regular blockage of the town centre by over-excited Italians. Yes, it appears they won the World Cup again last night. I found I had managed to lose my voice with all the shouting. Oh! the irony of it! And Harold no longer around to enjoy the sound of my silence. I imagine he has a broad grin on his face, wherever he is.