NUDGE, WINK

This post would ideally be best suited to Tom Joad's Word du Jour, but as he's sort of given up the ghost, I will treat you to some examples of the double entendre, which is defined by the OED as

"a double meaning; a word or phrase having a double sense, especially as used to convey an indelicate meaning' [emphasis added]. In these cases, the first meaning is presumed to be the more innocent one, while the second meaning is risqué, or at least ironic, requiring the hearer to have some additional knowledge."

The fact that we choose a French expression to describe this phenomenon speaks for itself, I feel. The irony of the situation is that double entendre doesn't mean anything in French. There is an expression which means the same, but which leaves the French with quizzical faces, usually followed by a Gallic shrug.


The double entendre has been an integral part of British comedy since the days of Shakespeare, some of whose plays read like the script of an early Carry On film. In the stuffy Victorian and Edwardian times, the double entendre was the benchmark to judge which side of the class divide you were on. While the upper classes put sleeves on their piano legs and held the bedpost whilst thinking of England, the hoi polloi were rolling in the aisles of the music halls at Marie Lloyd and her lewd winks and saucy innuendo.


Now I like a Carry On film as well as the next woman, but I cannot see why someone would titter at chocolate bars called "Big Nuts" or "Cha-Cha". A chocolate cha-cha is nothing to make light of. There is a crispbread that sounds like a reason for visiting the proctologist: "Crack' Pain" - nothing funny there. In Antwerp one of the local brews called "Bolleke" seems to be very popular with British visitors, and in France there was a brand of fizzy pop called "Pschitt" after the noise it makes when the cap is unscrewed which used to cause untold hilarity in the English quarter. Some people really need to grow up.



If the number of infantile comments on Gorilla Bananas' blog is anything to go by (the post about Fannies in particular), you bloggers have a level of humour which hasn't evolved since nursery school. I myself am far too sophisticated to find a tin of sardines funny just because it has an unfortunate name. I mean, John West might mean something rude in Chinese for all I know.



A girl walked into a bar and asked the bartender for a double entendre. So he gave her one. Pa-da-boosh!

LEAVING THE NEST

Time to say "Sayonara" to the Beijing Olympics- and didn't we do well! I lost count of the number of times I had to put down my chips and stand to attention for the national anthem. It was a bit difficult with McChe howling and pretending to roll in pain on the floor. "Look," I told him firmly, "You can have your country back when the oil runs out. In fact, leave us Chris Hoy and you can go now."

It was nice to see the young people pursuing healthy activity and staying away from drugs. I am not sporty myself, being cursed with weak ankles, poor eyesight and an aversion to getting my hair wet, but nevertheless I enjoyed watching the events, especially the ones involving muscular glistening-ebony-skinned young men in very tight lycra. Thanks to the men's 100m final I am guaranteed one multiple orgasm every four years.

Oh, wasn't he in it? Never mind ...

Athletes' kit is getting even skimpier. By London 2012 the women will be running in thongs. It's a long way from the aertex shirt, wraparound gym skirt and locknit knickers I used to wear for double games on a Wednesday afternoon. It was suggested that the mania for tattoos in Beijing was yet another way of getting performance-enhancing substances into athletes by undetectable means. It would be a brave inspector who would investigate Belarussian heptathlete Yana Maksimava's tattoo, especially while she's clutching that javelin.

Nastier looking than Nastia Lyukin.
Even Michael Johnson was scared.

AND FINALLY ....

Some people might be disappointed to learn that regime change is not brought about by an internet poll: Downing Street gently point out that signing petitions is really pointless.

GOD'S RAINBUCKET

It's not raining men

While an argument rages over at Manuel Stimulation's place about which football team the Blessed Virgin Mary supports, we in Brussels have more pressing matters to consider, such as whether Belgium should continue to exist in its present form or, indeed, at all. I'm not sure the Flemish secessionists have thought this through. First of all, French is still a more widespread and important language than Dutch. Not surprising, when you get metro stations called "Kunst Wet". Secondly, even if they do get independence, they could live to regret it.

The kunst is not the only thing that's wet in this country. A recent French comedy film (which broke all previous box office records in French cinema history) pretended that as you cross the county lines into the "Nord", the French region adjacent to Belgium, the heavens open on cue. I was reminded of this recently on the Eurostar from Paris to Brussels. About 40 minutes into the journey, the train barrelled into a wall of precipitation. I glanced at my phone. The network had changed from SFR to Proximus, indicating that I was now in ... Belgium. As if I needed telling.

Belgium must be the wettest country I have ever lived in. I have seen rains of much greater volume, in West Africa during the rainy season, but never such constant, relentless, persistent, determined, unremitting, in-yer-face, all-year-round wetness as here. Alongside chocolate box ribbons, beer bottles, and beer glasses I have now started a collection of umbrellas. And yet it never seems to flood the way it does in the UK. What should one deduce from this? That the drains and rivers are better maintained in Belgium? That there is not such a mania for concreting over gardens as in UK? Or that Belgium, like Rob McKenna, is a raingod? In the words of the immortal Bubble, who can say?



As I write, sheets of rain are hurtling past the window towards the Gare du Nord like Flemish commuters at knocking-off time. If what they say about global warming is true, weather will be the undoing of this country, and those silly people in the North will be hoist with their own petard, because when the Netherlands turns into Atlantis, the French-speakers will be able to head for the hills of the Ardennes or the mountains of France, whereas the Dutch-speakers will have nowhere to go but very flat Flanders, which will rapidly join the shallow end of the North Sea. Reminding us of the tale of the foolish virgins, who didn't make it onto Noah's Ark. That will teach them to think ahead.

THE MATRIX RELOADED

Last week in Paris I met up with my old chorus line from the Folies Bergère, Dolores Ibrahim, née Entwhistle, 'Orinoco' Flo McCluskey and Hattie Mildew-Spliff. If you are a long-time reader of this blog you will remember that the last time we met up for a reunion, in 2005, it caused some devastation in the Francophone African community. Flo has gone on to start an online correspondence course for "marabouts" or witch doctors, and the "Hellcat Matrix" formation has been patented and sold to the Pentagon, and is apparently being used to some effect in the nightclubs of Basra.

Dolores is still lithe and supple and can still point one leg directly at the ceiling. It comes in very handy in the rush hour. She used to perform under the stage name of Fanny by Gaslight, for obvious reasons, but she has hung up her G-string due to her recent marriage to a very devout Moslem. There is no way to attach caribou feathers to a hijab and carry it off with aplomb, so with regrets we had to put her on the bench.

The next to bail out was Hattie, who has phlebitis and couldn't get her sparkly tights on. Orinoco Flo was game, but the 40 Gauloises a day were catching up with her and her wheezing drowned out the playback music. As for moi, it's no secret that I haven't been able to get my leg up and over for several years. So sadly, we had to reluctantly call off our planned triumphant reunion gala and repair to the nearest café for kirs (orange juice for Dolores), reminiscences and goosing young waiters. In Sarkoland, there is no place for an elderly showgirl.

Dovima with Elephants, Evening Dress by Dior, Cirque d’ Hiver,

Paris, 1955 -Richard Avedon MOMA New York)

There was an exhibition in the Jeu de Paume museum about the life and work of Richard Avedon, famed photographer of Harper's Bazaar in the 1960's, and later for Vogue. I thought of our very own favourite cover girl PI Pat, who would have become his muse had they met either side of a lens, I'm sure. I love photographs, and am saving up for a decent digital SLR so that I can take some decent shots to fill up the space on this blog when I run out of things to say. If anyone can recommend a model that is easy to operate, but versatile, lightweight but stable, and won't involve a second mortgage, I am open to suggestions. I used to be quite good with an SLR in my younger days, and now you don't have to mess about with darkrooms and developing and all that palaver, and Photoshop has made picture editors of us all, I rather fancy I could find a niche for myself as the Annie Leibowitz of the Eastbourne retirement home circuit.

"That's it my darling (click), can you take your teeth out for me my love? Lovely, (click, click) now just undo the top two buttons of your bedjacket for me, ooh that's really sexy, (click, click) let's just have a tiny glimpse of your pop sox my love, fantastic (click, click), now straddle the zimmer frame, (click), open your mouth a little bit, wet your lips, (click, click), you're going to knock 'em dead, literally (click), look at me like you want it (click), yeah baby!"

I'm off to watch the Beijing Olympics opening ceremony now, but I'll leave you with a clip of one of Dolores' more famous routines where she showed off her agility and a bit more. Cabaret's loss is Islam's gain.

OOH LA LA

I om basting from Puris on a Frinch koybeard so I shall say zees only once. I'll tell you all about it next week. Meanwhile, talk among yourselves and enjoy this short film which tells you how I met Harold in the City of Lights all those years ago. Even McChe has a small (ha ha!) role in it, you see his hand sketching something which bears no relation to the subject, as usual.

A la semaine prochaine!