Why Belgium?

My half-formulated question of the other day, about why Belgium of all places was chosen as the seat of a united Europe, just answered itself. It is blindingly obvious. Belgium is where the most bloody battles of the first and second world wars were fought. The names Ypres, Passchendael, and the Somme are engraved on the collective memory.

The EU was born out of an ideal conceived by two Frenchmen, Robert Schuman and Jean Monnet, in the aftermath of the second world war. Never again should European countries try to destroy each other. It started with the European Coal and Steel Community in 1951, made up of France, Germany, Belgium, Italy, Luxembourg and the Netherlands. It became the European Economic Community in 1957. Britain, the Republic of Ireland and Denmark joined in 1973, Greece in 1981, Spain and Portugal in 1986, Austria, Finland and Sweden in 1995, and then a raft of former Eastern bloc countries plus Malta and Cyprus in 2004.

So now we are 25. I’m looking out of my window tonight at the Berlaymont, the symbolic power base of Brussels. And today, on the 88th anniversary of the Armistice, it looks to me like a monument engraved with the words “never again”. So when you feel like bashing Brussels, just be thankful it's not Berlin.

Of course it had to be Belgium.

In Flanders Fields

Every year at this time I plan to go up to the WW1 battlefields in Flanders and pay my respects. Every year I bottle out. I don't think I could do it without falling to pieces. This is why:

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep,
though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

John McCrae, May 1915

Pffft

My blogging tackle was finally obtained last week after staying in for most of one day waiting for the telephone company to come and check the line, then waiting for the modem to be delivered (despite the fact that I've got a built-in modem, I have to spend 50 quid on a box with flashing lights which plugs into the phone socket) and having finally to slog across town with a stinking cold to collect it from a depot (they try to deliver it while you're at work, you see, then leave a note, and when you try to phone them to tell them to deliver it to your work address, you can't ever get through and spend a fortune phoning from your mobile because you haven't got a landline yet) then wait for them to activate the line, then oh joy! two days of blogfest and phonefest and .... by last night it had died.

Pffft.

Glorious Daphnevision

Cue the Alleluiah Chorus. After some two months without internet access from home, I am finally reunited with my blogging tackle. I won't tell you how I've been managing to maintain my high standards throughout the wilderness months, but it's been reminiscent of a Cold War spy novel at times, dead disk drops and whatnot. I can finally hang up my false nose and beard, and blog happily away into the wee small hours from the comfort of my own home.

I am not one to bite the hand that feeds me, and there's nothing worse than an immigrant ungraciously slagging off the host country. But frankly, readers, I'm a bit disappointed with Brussels. I'd thought that the nerve centre of Europe, where we're all working to "make Europe the most competitive and dynamic knowledge-based economy in the world" (to quote the Lisbon Agenda, with which you are all of course familiar) might be a little more, er, competitive and dynamic. Brussels has a timeless quality, a bit like old re-runs of Dr Who. Parts of the city are horribly dated and run down, such as the Central Station, which is woefully in need of renovation. And the Services Directive (or "Bolkestein" as we Eurocrats refer to it, as in "it's a load of old Bolkestein") would have got off to a better start if anyone here had some understanding of the word "Service". With the forceful trade unions, high unemployment and surly attitudes, it's reminiscent of Britain in the 1970s.

But I don't want to be unfair in my criticism. In the past month or so, reports have been published in UK which declare Great Britain to have the most obese citizens in Europe, the most teenage pregnancies in Europe and the worst-behaved teenagers in Europe. There is probably one coming out soon which will prove that the Pope is a Catholic. Anyone who has lived in UK in recent years will not be surprised by any of these reports.

If you have access to BBC World anywhere on the globe you will be exposed to reality shows from UK which will make you hang your head in shame. “How clean is your house?”, “Life of Grime” etc. show Britain and its citizens to be filthy. Documentaries about the unhappy lot of the policeman provide a terrifying view of British town centres on a Saturday night, the streets awash with binge-drinking and projectile-vomiting spotty youf being courteously cautioned by long-suffering police officers (on camera, at least – I bet the truncheons came out as soon as the camera was switched off!). And these programmes are documentaries. i.e. Not Made Up. Add to that comedy inventions such as Vicky Pollard, and it becomes clear that the BBC is not working hand-in-hand with the British Tourist Authority. And I don’t even watch ITV. I daren’t.

The situational dramas are not much better. Anyone facing surgery had better switch off when “Holby City” is on, unless you are partial to doctors with drug, sex and gambling addictions and a propensity to transplant animal organs into humans. “Casualty” is no better – the doctors and nurses spend more time getting drunk at parties and discussing their complicated love lives than caring for their patients.

These programmes are being beamed across the globe. Have we no shame? If it’s some covert attempt to deter would-be immigrants, it’s targeting the wrong viewers: the undesirables are not likely to be able to afford satellite TV. Unfortunately, these damning indictments of UK society are being watched by the wealthier middle classes who might be the sort of free-spending tourist Britain does need. The TV companies are only interested in UK ratings, but have not taken on board the wider implications of advertising British social malaise across the world.

Should we be telling it like it is, or telling it like we want it to be? What are we effectively saying to the world at large? “Here we are, warts and all, take us as you find us", and in the words of St Bob of Geldof, that great role model: "if you don’t like it, feck off” ? (Pardon my French) Should we not rather be saying: “This is a total fiction but if there’s one thing we British have always done superbly, it’s hypocrisy” ?

I think it is time to do away with all this reality and revert to a televisual portrayal of our country which depicts a nation of pride, integrity and rounded vowels, to set an example for the great unwashed and maintain our dignity on the world stage. Even if it isn’t true. Whatever you might think about Eastenders, you will notice that because of the watershed there is never any bad language. It’s not realistic – people in the East End of London swear like troopers. But that’s not the point. It is a modern morality tale and some of the more stalwart female characters such as Dot Cotton, Peggy Mitchell and Pat Evans teach us valuable lessons about Christian faith and forgiveness, familial loyalty, and redemption of fallen women. I’d just make them all speak nicer. Annie Walker, the former landlady of the Rover’s Return in Coronation Street, was famously well spoken. As for “lifestyle” programmes, the popularity of Jamie Oliver and Ainsley Harriott did not prevent the creation of the deep-fried Mars Bar. The hoi polloi care not a fig for lemongrass and rocket, and, er, figs, what they need is good nourishing home-made pies! Away with pretentious Mockney chefs and bring back our Fanny! Scrap Emmerdale and put The Archers on the small screen. Let’s do away with all this negative publicity about the true face of Britain, and bring back edifying programming such as The Forsyte Saga, Dixon of Dock Green, Emergency Ward 10, the Billy Cotton Bandshow, the test card and the National Anthem at the end of the day’s viewing. We could put it all back into black and white while we're at it.

In fact, Britain should be more like Belgium.

Chips With That??

I was laid low for the latter half of last week with a severe cold, and spent a guilty couple of days indulging myself. Staying in my negligée all day long, eating runny omelettes, spending the afternoon in bed with Philip Pullman, watching daytime TV, it’s good practice for retirement. Aunty Marianne and Scouse Doris dropped by with the full omnibus edition of His Dark Materials and a witchy herbal remedy, before dashing off to a coven meeting. It’s at times like this when good girlfriends are worth their weight in chocolate.

One of the great guilty pleasures of being home on sick leave is listening to Desert Island Discs on Radio 4. With my intense interest in all things culinary, I was avid to hear Heston Blumenthal, the celebrity chef who has been awarded 3 Michelin stars and Best Restaurant in the World award of 2005 for his restaurant The Fat Duck in Bray, Berkshire. His culinary creations are said to be most original. I must say the thought of snail porridge makes me heave, I have seen what they do in the garden. Entirely self-taught, he turned down the offer of an apprenticeship with Raymond Blanc, and worked as a debt collector whilst teaching himself French cuisine in the evenings from cookery books, in his mum’s kitchen. I learnt some very useful tips from this interview, for example that the best chipping potatoes (look away now, Pat) sink in heavily salted water, whereas those that float should be used for mashing. When I am next visiting Vera Slapp and Cyril down in deepest Berkshire I might be persuaded to have a nibble on his triple-fried chips. He has a very scientific approach to cooking, apparently. He is also, like moiself, an amateur of world music, and his desert island discs were an eclectic mix of exotic airs, rock and opera.

I am a great lover of fine dining. Do not be fooled by the number of times I mention chips in this column, my reduced circumstances due to my precipitated departure from Africa and arrival in Brussels as a refugee will not last forever. I am saving up my luncheon vouchers and will soon be seen again dining at the best tables in Brussels. THE table to be seen at in this town is Comme Chez Soi, where I have not yet had the pleasure, although Vi Hornblower has. In Paris the best - and most exclusive - table I ever graced was the British Ambassador’s. His Excellency has a famously well-stocked wine cellar, and a noble collection of single malt Scotch Whiskies which are offered as a very British alternative to cognac. I was only a little disappointed that His Excellency didn’t offer me any Ferrero Rochers. Budget cuts, I expect.

If a suitor really wanted to impress me (pay attention, Bert) he would book a table for two at El Bulli near Barcelona, this year's Best Restaurant in the World. This restaurant is only open for six months a year, and all bookings for 2006 were already closed by mid-2005. The menu comprises 16 courses, all of them tiny but exquisite and experimental. If any readers have managed to get a table there I would be most interested to hear about it. Or any other outstanding estaminets you may have visited. My future as a restaurant reviewer depends on hot tips.

One person who won't be eating at El Bulli is Saddam Hussein. His shouting over the judge who was trying to read out his death sentence yesterday rather put me in mind of Catherine Tate's Lauren. I wonder what is the Arabic for "Am I bovvered? Am I? Bovvered? Me? Do I look bovvered? I'm not bovvered! I'm NOT BOVvered!"