More tea, General?

The excitement of the Labour Party Conference (yawn) might have deflected your attention from the international news. There has been the odd rumbling here and there. Demonstrations in Hungary. And the most frightfully polite coup d’etat in Thailand. Now I have experienced the odd coup in Africa, when you are confined to quarters for days until you’ve found out who’s in charge. Sometimes they were so frequent I hadn’t even found out the name of the new supremo before he was deposed by someone else. But in Thailand they’re so terribly nice, it could have been planned in a tea room in Surrey. The Generals appeared on television and said they were most frightfully sorry, they really didn’t want to cause any alarm, but things had got a little … well, distasteful, with the corruption and so on, and it was sincerely hoped this slight interruption of democratic rule, although necessary, would not last long, measures were already being taken to re-establish the electoral process as soon as humanly possible, so please bear with us ladies and gentlemen, normal service will be resumed as soon as possible. Not a drop of blood was spilt. So they say, anyway. The outgoing Prime Minister was kindly invited to accompany the officers to army headquarters. Such lovely manners. Sandhurst trained, doncha know. The soldiers had obviously had been drilled in calm and effective crowd management by the Edinburgh Polis, and you would have thought they were simply managing a Monday morning diversion at Hanger Lane giratory system. The top echelons togged up in their best dress whites with all their gongs nice and shiny, and paid allegiance to the King, who was obviously in on it from the beginning.

I do hope our Top Brass were watching. If there are not some changes by next year we might need to resort to something similar in England. With our usual sang-froid and good manners, we will probably call it something else (much as we don’t have anything as sordid as “corruption”, we have “irregularities” instead). And it would be done on a bank holiday, so as to cause the minimum possible disruption. It would probably merit a couple of inches on page 2 of The Times. The Sun’s front page would trumpet “OWZAT !!” or something equally irreverent. Today's news indicated that our boys in the sandpit are getting a little impatient and would like to come home. It wouldn't take more than a couple of quick e-mail exchanges with Her Majesty, and Bob's your uncle. Regime change starts at home.


BBC’s new series Robin Hood is quite addictive from five minutes into the first episode, even though we all know the story, there is always a new spin to be added. Did I detect the occasional topical reference, such as “standing shoulder to shoulder with Rome” ? Are we to read into this an incitement to rise up against Bad King Tony? Tune in next Saturday, UK viewers, and in the meantime keep an eye out for tanks rumbling down your street. Our boys would appreciate a nice cup of tea while they're doing the Junta.

Strictly Couch Potato

I promise I won't blog about telly every post, but I have discovered some wonderful things through the goggle box. Bollywood video clips, for example. The dance routines are rather silly, but the songs are getting better with the influence of Bhangra, and the young men and women are very decorative. I’ve always been partial to a dusky gentleman, and men from the subcontinent are about as good as it gets in oriental charm. My interest in cricket was always fuelled more by the thought of being bowled over by Imran Khan or Mark Ramprakash than by any interest in working out the difference between silly mid-on and silly mid-off.

The highly rogerable Ramprakash is my tip to win in Strictly Come Dancing. I used to be quite fond of Peter Schmeichel the former Man Utd goalie, but seeing a man on the dance floor can change your impression totally. The delightful little Russian dance pro Lilia Kopalegova makes anyone she dances with look good, although she had her work cut out with Matt Dawson the rugby player in skintight fuchsia pink. I am something of a mover myself on the dance floor, and even in the lower sixth my Funky Chicken was much admired. More recently, in West Africa, my rhythmic hipswivelling got nods of approval from the African ladies, and one actually marched across the floor at the end of a very long number, hit me with a high-five and said “Respect, sister!”. That’s the African equivalent of winning Strictly Come Dancing.

Ooh err missus

Last night I watched Ready Steady Cook, EastEnders, Holby City and Up Pompeii!! Frankie Howerd was brilliant, wasn't he? He went to school with my uncle, you know. While I'm name dropping. The irony of ITV4 scheduling Up Pompeii and I, Claudius on the same evening probably went over most of their viewers' heads.

At 11 p.m. I zapped through all 300 channels and couldn't find anything worth watching. So I went to bed.

Satellite of Love

Cue "Telstar".

I have just had my life made complete by the wonderful Frank, who has made an old woman very happy.

I have had a satellite dish installed. It is magic. I watched Dr Who last night (isn't it so much better than the old series with the cardboard sets?) and David Dickinson searching for his Armenian roots (I always thought there was something not quite Anglo-Saxon about that man, and not just his orange skin) - this morning I was reunited with the dulcet tones of James Naughtie and Sarah Montague. On Saturday I will be in bed with Jonathan Ross.

I will probably be spending my non-working hours for the next week or so in an open-mouthed stupor, clutching the remote control and zapping through 300 channels. Most of them are garbage, but ALL BBC and ITV channels including regional ones, and Film Four, which is enoughto keep a girl happy throughout the winter months. I have six weeks of Eastenders to catch up on, for heaven's sake. I do hope Phil Daniels is still in it.

Meanwhile, to feed your addiction to the lives of the glitterati, I will share with you this postcard I just received from Vi Hornblower, who has returned with Desmond to Blighty.



Hello Daphne Darling,

Hope this finds you well and still enjoying life in the big metropolis that is Brussels. Desmond is most impressed with your blog and is thinking of starting one himself - if he can stay awake for long enough. Desmond is, unfortunately, commuting to London, to his little job as Complaints Officer at the Department for Pond Life, or whatever his minor ministry calls itself these days. One just doesn't know where one is with New Labour. Bring on David Cameron is what I say. And at least he isn't Scotch (although one can never be too sure with a name like that). Of course, the one thing Desmond loves about commuting is the opportunity it offers for extra sleep. It is no problem in the morning, when he can't go any further than Euston, but I have told him that if he expects me to pick him up from Coventry one more time when he overshoots Milton Keynes, then I will be sending him to Coventry. Permanently. He has now invested in a mobile phone so that I can ring him when he gets to Leighton Buzzard, and again ten minutes later to ensure that he has not dropped off again. It is working well so far.

There is so much to do in the village, that I am spoiled for choice. Not only is there a Women's Institute, but there is also a Ladies Luncheon Club, which I think I will have to join. I have suggested to Desmond that he take up bellringing (as the noise will help to keep him awake) but he is not keen as he has taken a violent dislike to the vicar who calls himself "Father Gary". Desmond was less bothered about the Roman connotations, but more that Father Gary looks about 12, and he fears that it will encourage the youth of the vilage to be promiscuous - ie if a pillar of the community can be a father at such a young age, why shouldn't I be? etc etc...

The house is rather small, not what we are used to at all, but after all we do live in reduced circumstances these days.

Best, Vi

Life in the Fast Lane

It was another Nurofen-for-breakfast weekend. I’m trying not to enjoy myself so much, but I can’t seem to get off the roundabout. Not that I’m trying terribly hard.

On Friday night my young newlyweds from Poland were in town. I took them to my favourite Brussels eaterie, Chez Léon. It was a warm night and we sat outside. Sadly the service left something to be desired this time. We all had very Belgian dishes, prawn & cheese croquettes to start, carbonnades flamandes, and Waterzooi. Some Belgian beers, and a bottle of Alsace white. I took them on a quick tour of the Grand’Place, where I pointed out the Swan pub, whizzed them up the Galeries de la Reine and into a taxi where I pushed them out at their hotel before stumbling home to bed. It had been a hard week.

Saturday I didn’t really feel like schlepping over to the Goethe Institut for my weekly German refresher class, but I’m doing it for love. I want to know what Bert’s talking about on his mobile all the time. We are a varied bunch in my German class. Half of the class are Belgian, the other half are a disparate bunch, including a Bulgarian, an Estonian, a Swedish au pair (really!), etc. etc. The ages range from a schoolboy to, er, me. My fellow students seem to have just as hectic lives as I do, as we’re all a bit zonked for the first half of the morning and can’t tell our Prädikat from our Präteritum. Our poor teacher Eberhardt, who has dragged himself away from a warm duvet to teach this bunch of hungover Germanophiles, does his best but his teutonic enthusiasm is lost on us.

Some rushing around catching up with myself in the afternoon and I needed a lie down. While I was putting my feet up, Aunty Marianne phoned and invited me for cocktails with her and her friend Doris at Pablo’s on the Rue de Namur, a Tex-Mex cantina where you can have Sex on the Beach and shake your maracas to Santana and other latino favourites. No Carmen Miranda, sadly.. This was a watering hole that I had not yet encountered, so I pulled on my slingbacks and went to meet them. Doris was a most sociable Liverpudlian, not unlike Lily Savage, and we found we had a great deal in common, chatting away nineteen to the dozen while Aunty tried to explain to the bartender how to make a Pangalactic Gargleblaster. The bartender was a courteous young man called Rafael with a vague resemblance to a young Che Guevara, although he turned out to be as Belgian as mussels and chips. Women of our age do like a young maaaaan. He seemed quite happy to ply us with Harvey Wallbangers (Doris), Caiparinhas (Aunty) and Gin Fizzes (moi) in lieu of Pangalactic Gargleblasters – you can’t get the Old Janx Spirit any more, apparently – doing all the fancy stuff with the cocktail shaker to amuse the three increasingly noisy matrons who were leering across the bar. Well, two of us were leering, Doris was peering as she’d forgotten her bifocals. The conversation sparkled, and a number of obscure facts were revealed, such as Hitler's aunt living in Liverpool before the war, and Che Guevara being a Tottenham supporter. I think at least one of these facts may not be quite accurate. Aunty also gave me a tutorial in Wi-Fi but due to an excess of Gin Fizz the knowledge had evaporated in the morning, along with the German grammar.

We had food at some point in the evening. Aunty and Doris went for the Mexican option, which involved combinations of mince, refried beans and pancakes folded in different ways. Mexican dishes are all the same really, as Billy Connolly once observed. If you’re served fajitas and complain that you ordered enchiladas, they just take it away, and bring it back folded differently. I find Mexican food a bit basic for my refined palate, and went for a Pabloburger with chips. Sometime after midnight, after a bit more juggling from our young maaan, Doris and I tottered out into the night on our high heels (Aunty had hirpled off earlier, being the youngest of our group she couldn’t keep up) blowing kisses to Rafael with a cheery “Viva la Revolucion!”.

On Sunday I met my Waterloo. Not the Eurostar terminal, but the small town just outside Brussels where Napoleon got stuffed. Which is pretty much what I was – stuffed with food by my Belgian friends, before they pushed me up the 226 steps to the Lion who stands guard, facing towards France, in case the diminutive dictator ever tries it on again. Unfortunately the Germans cheated in 1940, and sneaked up on the Lion from behind.

I fell into bed on Sunday night, and had just enough presence of mind to set my alarm clock and prepare two Nurofen and a glass of water for breakfast, before falling into a deep sleep and a disturbing dream involving riding on a roundabout with Che Guevara and Napoleon, who was talking about Wi-Fi in German.

Will this relentless round of fun never stop? In the words of Lili von Shtupp, the Teutonic Titwillow: “Goddamit, I’m exhausted.”