Brussels is known for a few fairly insignificant, non world-changing things. The little boy having a wee. The Atomium. Sprouts. Johnny Hallyday. The European Commission.
But here’s something you might not know: the Communist Manifesto was written here in Brussels. In an inn. The Swan, to be exact, on the Grand’Place, where a plaque was put up this week to commemorate the very place where the opus was penned by Karl Marx and Friedrich Engels. Apparently the people who run the restaurant now occupying the building are not too happy about it, they fear they will lose customers. Particularly Americans. Personally I think they needn’t worry, the Americans will flock to eat in a tavern once frequented by one of the Marx Brothers.
Now think about this. A pamphlet which launched the international Communist movement, and following on from that the Russian Revolution, the Cold War, the division of the world for half a century bringing the planet to the brink of oblivion, not to mention the invasion of Hungary in 1956 and Czechoslovakia in 1968, the gulags, and the butchery of the Chinese cultural revolution, was written in a pub. A pub. Ye gods, it might as well have been sketched out on the back of a beermat. Picture the scene:
(The Swan pub, Brussels. 1847)
Marx: “I see Anderlecht lost to Man U, then.”
Engels: “Yeah. That penalty was a diabolical liberty. The referee should have been shot, blind twat. You writing it up for the Sport?”
Marx: “Too right. The tabloids are where the money is. I’m jacking in the revolution, I'm going to be a sports writer. I didn’t see the match, though. Here, talk me through it, I’ll make a few notes on the back of this old manuscript and turn in a clean copy to the Sport first thing tomorrow.”
Engels: “I’ll tell you something for nothing, that Prussian ref has got to be one of the great wankers of the world, even so, United were the stronger team, they’re through to the next round of the Cup, they’ve got nothing to lose now, but they need to change the line-up before they face Bayern.”
Marx: (scribbles) “’Wankers of the world … United … nothing to lose …. but a change,’ … right, pint of smooth was it mate?”
(Many pints later)
Marx: “Fred, you’re my besht mate, jew know that?”
Engels: “I love you, Charlie, I really, really, do ….”
Marx: “I can’t read a bloody word of this, my handwriting’s fucking terrible … have I ever told you my theory about the ownership of the means of production ….”
(Fade to red …)
I’ve just got back from Prague, where I accompanied Bert who was performing in a concert of the Kurt Nachtnebel Oompah Band, in which he plays the cymbals. And sometimes the triangle. The KNOB, as it is known back in the homeland, was formed when they were all at school doing their Abitur, or A-levels, and Kurt Nachtnebel was the founder and bandleader. Kurt unfortunately met an untimely end as a result of a blackbird falling down his tuba. But 40 years later the old comrades like to get together once a year for a bit of a trump. Most of them have not moved far from their origins and still live in and around the Neanderthal Valley, in more ways than one. This explains a lot about Bert. Charming and gallant he may be, in a Prussian sort of way, but a Neuer Mann he certainly ain’t.
My only previous visit to Prague had been with my late husband Harold, for Easter weekend 2001, when it was freezing cold and snowing and we had spent the weekend huddled in warm taverns, stoking up on dumplings and recovering from hangovers which felt like Kafka's giant beetle sitting on your head. At least the weather was more pleasant this time. The British influence was in our face all the time, from the presence of M&S and Debenham's on Wenceslas Square to the many groups of stag and hen parties we encountered dressed in team colours or fancy dress. A particularly British concept, the stag/hen citybreak, apart from one group of Americans, no longer in the first flush of youth, who had dressed as the cast of "Cocoon" ! How inventive. Bert thought they were just a group of OAP's from Florida "doing" Europe.
Prague has overtaken Paris and Venice as the most romantic city in Europe, and the clement weather and full moon would have added to the atmosphere, if it hadn’t been for the band. After a communal dinner with the KNOB, which of course ended up with singing of old German favourites such as “Roll out the barrel” and “Show me the way to go home,” we had a brisk march back to our hotel over Charles Bridge, serenaded by three-quarters of the percussion section in 6/8 time. Hardly romantic. I nearly put Manfred’s head through his big bass drum.
The Hotel Leonardo, supposedly a four-star, is in reality a good 3-star with pretensions. The public areas are very “design” and the rooms somewhat quirky. Mine was a little studio with the sleeping area and TV up a ladder on a mezzanine. And the telephone. Which made it a bit tricky if the phone rang while you were sitting on the throne downstairs. The bathroom had no bathtub but a shower big enough for two or even three. The towels however were on the Eastern European Towel Model. Thin and scratchy.
We had planned to see a “Black Light” theatre production, which I remembered from the good old days of Sunday Night at the London Palladium, when there was only one Black Theatre of Prague and it was all done with puppets and very original. Nowadays there are about 50 black theatres using real people (one hesitates to call them actors) with luminous costumes performing tableaux based on such fantasy literature as Alice in Wonderland and Frankenstein, or – scraping the barrel – a “rock extravaganza” based on the Beatles’ “Yellow Submarine”. We didn’t bother, and in the end went for dinner instead at “Square” on Malostranske Nam., which was excellent. A bottle of wine costs more than a 3-course meal in Prague, but the food and service were excellent, and a special mention to Karol, the delightful Young Man who managed our unruly group with good humour and professionalism. Vi Hornblower would have salivated at the sight of him.
Prague, especially the old town, is full of Pretty Things. To Bert this meant the willowy Czech gels, although to my mind they can’t hold a candle to the young Polish lassies. 
To me, much prettier were the shiny and sparkly things to be found in every other shop window – amber, garnet and crystal. The jewellery shops were still open at 10 p.m., no doubt hoping to catch the tourists with a skinful of Pilsener Urquell and the spirit of romance. No such luck with Bert, who was more interested in the military surplus stores knocking out fake Red Army fur chapkas, officers’ caps and even weirder headgear such as MiG pilot’s helmet and even an astronaut’s helmet. Puppets, Russian dolls and hand-painted woodcarvings, Mucha posters, as well as Arsenal and Barça T-shirts, made-in-China beer steins and the ubiquitous fridge magnets lure the tourists in droves. I fear Prague has sold its soul to Mammon. Kafka would shake his feelers in despair.
It gets better and better. I was going to tell you all about my trip to Prague last weekend, but not only do I have the same viewing problem as before - cannot view anything since the test card post - I can't even get in through the dashboard now. I am afraid normal service is going to have to be suspended indefinitely, as I just do not have the time to fix this right now.
My bananas are wobbling with indignation.
And the good news is, I can see my thing again! No, not a miracle weight loss program, but patient perusing of Bloghelp, and I finally figured it out. Part of the therapy is a new frock, so here is this season's model. Pink is so Barbie isn't it? I can also see Gorilla Bananas' thing again too, which pleases me no end, as he is one very entertaining ape. Strangely enough no other blog was affected by this little anomaly except our two. I feel adversity brings us closer together, somehow.
In fact it's been nothing but celebrating lately. A week ago on Saturday marked a year since The Last Time I Saw Harold, and so officially my mourning period is over and I can wear French knickers again. It was also the celebration of my upgrade to the Nouveau Wayne-Bough Towers, as well as the historic meeting of two Grandes Dames – moiself, and the stately Aunty Marianne, who arrived in a coach and four with her gold-tipped cane, opera cape and monocle, her matching chihuahuas borne on silk cushions behind her by faithful retainers Zed and Quarsan. I know I can be quite scary, readers, but frankly, she made me feel about as formidable as Mavis from Coronation Street. However, she kindly presented me with a set of much needed champagne flutes, one of the most essential items in the Wayne-Bough household (along with a hostess trolley and fondue set, which I always travel with). A woman after my own heart. The glasses were promptly filled with some decent bubbly and clinked several times: to new houses, new friends, and new kitchens. And new beginnings.
By coincidence, the Hornblowers were celebrating their very last evening in Belgium at the Paradiso, before returning to vegetate in Blighty. Desmond refers disparagingly to my fellow bloggers as my “imaginary friends”. I was looking forward to seeing his face when he saw them in the flesh. We were already seated when the Hornblowers arrived, Desmond still in his slippers. “Hello Daphne,” he yawned as Vi steered him to his seat. How rude, I thought, not to acknowledge my friends. Vi has better manners, and came over to our table. “Hello dear, mwah, mwah,” she greeted me. “Why are you sitting on your own? Come and join us.”
I peered curiously at the other three. One of my party had spilled cream sauce down his T-shirt and was happily playing with his food in a manner reminiscent of Harold. The other two were giving their massive bosoms a rest on the table and quaffing campari and orange juice in industrial quantities. If these were figments of my imagination, there was something seriously lacking in my powers of invention. After all, if I’d wanted to think up my own imaginary friends, I would have imagined something a bit more glamorous than those three, wouldn’t I?
As promised to myself on my last visit to Paradiso, I ordered the tuna carpaccio with capers drizzled with truffle oil, which was DIVINE, darlings. I didn’t really need a main course, much less a dessert, but just to be polite had kidneys in a marsala sauce (with CHIPS!) followed by a zabaglione into which the chef had emptied half a bottle of cooking sherry, all washed down with a good deal of red wine, and finished off with complimentary amarettos. I have no idea what anyone else had, or how or when I got home. By the end of the meal I couldn’t see anyone else either.
Due to circumstances beyond my control (pressure of work, travel, bloody Blogger still farting about) I shall be silent for the next few days. Don't worry, it won't last.
But here’s something you might not know: the Communist Manifesto was written here in Brussels. In an inn. The Swan, to be exact, on the Grand’Place, where a plaque was put up this week to commemorate the very place where the opus was penned by Karl Marx and Friedrich Engels. Apparently the people who run the restaurant now occupying the building are not too happy about it, they fear they will lose customers. Particularly Americans. Personally I think they needn’t worry, the Americans will flock to eat in a tavern once frequented by one of the Marx Brothers.
Now think about this. A pamphlet which launched the international Communist movement, and following on from that the Russian Revolution, the Cold War, the division of the world for half a century bringing the planet to the brink of oblivion, not to mention the invasion of Hungary in 1956 and Czechoslovakia in 1968, the gulags, and the butchery of the Chinese cultural revolution, was written in a pub. A pub. Ye gods, it might as well have been sketched out on the back of a beermat. Picture the scene:
