My Gay Umbrella

It has been bucketing down here in Brussels for the past few days, and it’s cold too. It’s hard to believe that just a couple of weeks ago we were expiring from the heat. Having lost my handy little brolly in Antwerp the other week, I had to dig out the big golf umbrella I bought on holiday in Spain some years ago. It is a gay umbrella. I didn’t realize it was gay when I bought it. But looking back, it should have been perfectly obvious. Once I realized, everything fell into place. Those friendly ladies at the station. The Dalai Lama was photographed with an identical umbrella recently, but I don’t think he’s gay. I don’t think he’s straight either. He’s above all That Sort of Thing.

Like a Proustian Madeleine, opening my gay umbrella brought back memories of that holiday with Harold in Sitges, just outside Barcelona. I didn’t realize when I booked the holiday that Sitges was the gay capital of Spain. I carefully deposited the guidebook in a waste bin in the departure lounge before Harold had a chance to see it. The leather trousers in Berlin were still fresh in my mind.

We stayed in the 4-star San Sebastian Playa, was expensive but so moi – a “boutique” hotel with only 50 rooms, our balcony overlooked the pool which was secluded and almost always empty. The best restaurant in town, without a shadow of a doubt, was Fragata on the sea front. Its exquisite decor, in a modern nautical style, shows amazing attention to detail. The toilets were a work of art, and even Harold was moved to describe the urinals in minute detail. The clientele was predominantly artistic, if you follow my drift, but this isn’t a problem when you dress like Harold. He was never going to be mistaken for Freddy Mercury.

The late Major was a frightful wine snob and normally wouldn’t drink anything but French appellation controlée. In Spain you can’t get anything but Spanish wine, but we were both pleasantly surprised. Unlike the Rioja that we’d sampled at home which leaves you with a stonking hangover, the wines served in Sitges were pleasant and pain-free, which rather makes you wonder if the Spanish would be so selfish as to keep the good stuff for themselves and export the rubbish? Surely not …

Barcelona is one of the truly great Art Deco cities of Europe, and the minute you arrive in the city you feel the tremendous buzz of a Very Happening Place. Of course I dragged Harold around all the Gaudi monuments, from the extravagant and unfinished Sagrada Familia cathedral to the whimsical Park Guell, up and down the Ramblas, and round the museums and churches.

Having trailed dutifully behind me round all the cultural sights, it was then his turn. Of course there was only one place he wanted to visit – the Nou Camp, home of F.C. Barcelona. We eventually found it in one of the less salubrious suburbs of the city, and I followed him up the steps into the huge stadium which resembles a massive spaceship. Inside is a museum showing exhibits from the history of the football club, which Harold found fascinating. The highlight of the tour is when you come out into the stands and gaze down upon the dazzling green carpet of the pitch. Harold was close to tears as he contemplated the very spot where Ole Gunnar Solskjaer scored that second goal for Manchester United in the 1998 European Cup Final. Hanging about in the museum while he and other middle-aged adolescents of all nationalities peered intensely at ancient pig-bladder footballs and 18^th-century boots with wooden studs, I occasionally caught the eyes of women who had obviously been press-ganged into coming along by their other halves. Dutch, German, French and Italian ladies made eye contact and without exception rolled their eyes to the ceiling in the international language of women, which said “I could be burning plastic in El Corte Ingles right now”. I saw the girls again later in the gift shop, yawning as they helped Piet, Hans, Jean-Pierre and Gianni decide between the long-sleeved away strip or the Barça baseball cap. Nothing unites women of all nations like football.

Back in Sitges, Harold treated himself to a pair of trendy sandals which he’d seen lots of other chaps wearing. Too late, he realized they were worn by the chaps with big moustaches and tight T-shirts going around in twos. I told him not to worry, as long as he kept his Barça socks on he wasn’t likely to run into trouble.

What (OIder) Women Want

Frontier Editor seems to have figured it out. He's been posting YouTube clips of some senior hotties such as Errol Brown and Tom Jones in their heyday shaking their thang. Tom Jones, there is a man for all seasons. I saw him recently on the Jonathan Ross show, and although a grandfather, he has still got a certain je-ne-sais-quoi, although I don't really know what. He wasn't even dancing, just looking like he would shag anything in a skirt. And do it well. Even Jonathan Ross was looking a bit flustered.

There is a poster in the Brussels metro at the moment showing a man of advanced years wearing 1970's disco shirt and white John Travolta trousers, reclining in what he obviously thinks is a come-hither position. The product is not immediately apparent, but I suspect it is some variation on viagra. I'm afraid it makes me titter every time I see it. He just doesn't have it, you see. The oomph. Even dosed up to the eyeballs with viagra, he wouldn't do it for me.

What many men, young and old, are lacking these days is CHARM. The ability to hold your gaze and make you feel like you are the only woman in the world, even if he is just asking you to do some photocopying. The confidence to invade your personal space to a degree that would constitute sexual harrassment by anyone else and get away with it. Ultimately, it all depends who's doing the harrassing. And who's being harrassed. There was a time when a wolf-whistle from a building site would have me tossing my head contemptuously and stomping off with a scowl. Now, on the rare occasions it may happen, I not only stop and graciously acknowledge the compliment, but bring them sandwiches the next day with individual letters of thanks. If I go to Italy and I don't get my bottom pinched, I ask the travel agent for my money back. If an attractive man invades my personal space, I capitulate immediately and surrender. True charm, gentlemen, is when you can make an older woman feel 20 years younger. Get a Tom Jones DVD, boys, watch and learn.

This is totally gratuitous but some of you ladies will appreciate a picture of another charmer who, although sadly no longer with us, would still make us wet our knickers were he alive today. He would be 76. He might have made it had he packed in the fags.

Steve McQueen,
1930-1980

We are the champignons

I have been infuriated of late at the lack of progress with local administration. In July and August it is pointless trying to get any response from anyone - the bank, the tax authorities, the landlord.

"I feel like a mushroom," I told Bert. "They keep me in the dark and feed me bullshit."

"You are more like a twuffle zan a mushwoom, Daphne" he replied.

"Is that because I am precious and rare, perfumed and expensive?" I smiled winsomely, twirling my curls with a come-hither look.

"Nein, schatzi," he replied teutonically. "It is because everyone asks me where ze hell I dug you up!"

Come-hither turned to wither instantly. Bert dodged the impact of my fully weighted handbag with a neat body swerve. Being a former German international footballer, he is methodical and good in defence. He thought he was very clever making such a good joke in English.

But I had the last word. "If I'm a truffle, who is the pig?" I shouted from the 4th floor window at he roared off down the street in his little tank.



And they say Germans have no sense of humour.

Bring on the dancing girls

It has been nothing but party, party, party recently. I finished off my summer season last night with a trip to Antwerp to see Femi Kuti, the multi-talented Nigerian musician and bandleader, older brother of Seun Kuti who I saw at Couleur Café last month, and eldest son of the late great Black President, Fela Anikulapo Kuti (Woyayah! Praise be to his ancestors!) the scourge of many a Nigerian dictatorship. I saw Femi play once before during my days out in the tropics with Harold, many years ago at the Peninsula Club in Lagos. I never got to see his esteemed father (Femi’s, not Harold’s) play at his Lagos club The Shrine, as it took a lot of organisation and security in those days to make the trip across town at night, and in any case Fela never came on stage before 2.00 a.m., which even back then was way past my bedtime. I regret it now, as Fela died in 1997. Femi is his father’s son, and although the concert started at 8.30 with a warm-up band, he didn’t come on until 10.00 p.m. The concert was at the open air theatre in the Rivierenhof park, a delightful location, and luckily it was a dry evening and not too cold.

Femi is accompanied these days by an 11½ piece band – a 5½ piece brass section (the ½ being Femi’s 10-year-old son, quite a mean sax player already, promising the continuation of Afrobeat for another generation to come), no less than 3 percussionists, 2 guitars, keyboards, not to mention the trademark dancing girls (3) in African tribal costumes, who are probably the most popular part of Femi’s band, especially among his male fans who welcomed them with a great woyaya. They are solid young ladies, with thighs like rugger players, and worked extremely hard for the duration of the concert, their versatile backsides shimmying like a windfarm in a Force 9 gale. Femi did a stonking set, and a large number of the crowd were on their feet from beginning to end, waving their herbal cigarettes in the air. I didn’t find him quite as danceable as his brother Seun, Femi having moved towards a jazzier variation on their father’s Afrobeat sound, but it was great music, and Femi is still a fine figure of a man, especially when he takes his shirt off to reveal a six pack that Jagger can only dream of (the ladies cheered at this point). Femi’s songs are still very political, and several of them mentioned President Obasanjo in a less than flattering light. I don’t know why, the Pres got an award last year, for running the most corrupt country in the world or something. He must be doing something right.

A few words about Antwerp before I settle down once more to dismal monotony. I am dead impressed. It is worth going there for the railway station alone, which is like a cathedral. Last time I went it was a national holiday, so the shops (apart from the diamond merchants) were shut. This time everything was open and I discovered an exciting, vibrant city with what has to be some of the best shopping in Europe. Some of the designer clothing made me stop in my tracks – and I’m a C&A girl as everyone knows. I must have been distracted, as I managed to lose my umbrella without even sitting down! There are more restaurants than you could manage to eat in if you stayed there a year, and of an amazing variety – South African, Indonesian, Argentinian, Croatian, Cuban bars, Irish pubs, karaoke clubs, you name it, there is something for everyone in Antwerp. Even the people were better-looking than in Brussels, particularly the gay men. (Was that the sound of Peter's suitcase snapping shut?). Although I do not speak or understand Flemish, all the waiters and shopkeepers and even the bus drivers speak English and French. I shall definitely be going back there frequently, especially as I plucked up the courage to venture into a diamond shop and get some prices. Dangerously reasonable. There’s a little ½ carat honey up there with my name on it. You will be the first to know.

Yo ho ho

I lunched yesterday with Zoe, her other half and a shadowy dealer who was feeding Z's current DVD addiction. We went to Il Buongustaio, her favourite little Italian trattoria. And very nice it was too. I said I’d give them a mention. I had pasta. I think. Can’t remember much, Quarsan kept filling up my wineglass.

As the weather had broken temporarily and it was too damp and grey to visit Brussels-les-Bains, the artificial beachfront along the canal modelled on Paris-Plages (apparently Amsterdam are doing it too -- are there no new ideas left in the world?) I decided to get Z away from the telly for a few hours and dragged her off to the cinema to see Pirates of the Caribbean II: Dead Man's Chest (her kids had made their own arrangements to see it, before anyone accuses me of leading a Good Mother - ha! - astray). There are some quirky little art-house cinemas in Brussels, as well as a number of thumping great multiplexes. The UGC cinema at Place Brouckère, in the centre of Brussels, has several screens, but one is spectacularly huge with great ornate golden Egyptian-themed frescos and mouldings, reminding me of the ground floor of Harrods. One almost expected a man playing a Wurlitzer to rise out of the orchestra pit. Seats are comfy with loads of leg room. Food and drink is allowed (which I disapprove of) but as it thankfully wasn’t heaving with kids (the advantage of waiting a few weeks after a film is released) the smell of a few bags of chips didn’t pervade the whole cinema. I am a bit of a Film Bough (geddit?) and love the experience of going to the pictures, or the Bioscoop, as our Flemish friends call it. Big screen, complete darkness, I can completely lose myself in a film. A couple of hours in the cinema watching a good movie and I am refreshed as if after a week’s holiday. Don’t tell my employers that, though.

Anyway, back to the film. It was a Jolly Good Romp, although not as good as Pirates no.1. They’d gone overboard (geddit?) on the special effects, which were a bit overdeveloped, in any case the Johnny Depp scenes are best. Something about a man in eyeshadow. “Captain Jack” obviously got the best lines and hairdresser, but there were a few clever little throwaway comments, including a fleeting poke at the National Rifle Association which made me smile. Apparently Bill Nighy is in it, not that you’d know. I don’t think it is suitable for small children, there is a significant amount of gratuitousness scariness. I jumped out of my seat once or twice myself. The musical soundtrack was wonderful, great swashbuckling stuff composed by Hans Zimmer (a German! must tell Bert), and you can listen to extracts on the film's website

The film finishes on a cliffhanger, leaving you panting for Pirates III (which has already been filmed, I gather, and may or may not feature a cameo appearance by Keith Richards, fag-end and coconuts optional). On a tip-off from one of Z's readers, we sat through about 20 minutes of credits (how many best boys does one film need for heaven’s sake?) for the little scene at the end, which is worth waiting for.

I give Pirates II a a DWB Ten out of Ten. Nothing like a bit of total escapism to sweeten the bitter pill which is the end of the holidays.