MUCH FADO ABOUT NOTHING: PARTE DOIS

FARO FROM THE MADDING CROWD








Finally in the Algarve, we found ourselves with an evening to kill in Faro, and explored the town. It wasn't exactly kicking. Apart from a quite agreeable restaurant which Dr Gorbals turned up on his magic app, and a pleasant little bar where I had a cheeky ginginha, not much to report (although I quietly clocked the modern shopping centre near our hotel).  We were due to pick up one of our guests at Faro airport the next morning, but after he changed his flight times we found ourselves with the best part of Saturday to kill so pootled off to Olhao, a market town recommended by Lucy Pepper, and bought provisions for the villa.

On the motorway towards Carvoeiro, where our villa was situated, the skies darkened and it started to rain slightly.  There were flood warnings in place for Faro and Albufeira. The villa was straight out of 'Sexy Beast' or 'Mad Dogs', a real gangster's hideaway.  We dashed off to the local supermarket to stock up on basics.  The local Intermarché was a shopper's dream, with wide aisles, good lighting, floors clean enough to eat off, and a vast array of British, French, German, and Scandinavian products as well as Spanish and Portuguese brands.  The wine section was rather how I imagine Heaven.  Who knew there was such a vast range of wine in Portugal?  Vinho verde, branco, tinto, vinhos from the Alentejo, the Minho, the Dao, the Douro, the Algarve ...   The ultimate Euro supermarket.   We had to stock up with litres and kilos of stuff, which would no doubt end up with the cleaner - someone should design a Villa Pack of small quantities of condiments and toiletries to last a week.  We returned to the villa with a week's basics, to find The Blonde and Chef waiting outside the gates.

The Blonde used to be a Paris boiler room queen in the 1980s, a kind of Ladyfingers for the overheated financial derivatives sector.  Now retired on her ill-gotten gains, she had acquired a mortgage-default hacienda up in the spaghetti-western lunar landscape of Andalucia, and lived there alone, except for three dogs, two cats and an irascible French chef called, er, Chef.  Chef had some shady history involving Algeria and some missing gold.   He acted as her driver, bodyguard, cook and wine merchant.

As they settled in, I had to return to Faro to pick up our remaining guest, Metro.  Metro was a suave, urbane, metrosexual (hence his nickname) confirmed bachelor and ladykiller from London. He decanted from the plane with a suitcase the size of a house.  "Supplies," he whispered conspiratorially.   It took us half an hour to get out of the airport car park, due to minibusloads of tourists loading up their golf clubs and blocking us in.  Eventually we were on the road back to Carvoeiro, by this time the heavens had opened and I could barely see in front of me on the unlit motorway.  The windscreen wipers were going faster than the car.   We finally made it back to the villa around 9 p.m. to find Chef three sheets to the wind and nothing on the table.  Metro decanted his "supplies" which consisted of several bottles of high-end gin and mixers.  Dinner was served Andalucian style, i.e. around midnight.  Made mental note to remind Chef about the hour's time difference.

Chef was a bad-tempered Gascon who hated everywhere and everyone outside of France, and most of France as well. The only parts of the world he liked was the parts where they play rugby, and even then he bitched about the food in most of them (except in one village in the south-west of France).  He was particularly scathing about Portuguese food. French cuisine was superior to everything else, and was treated with religious devotion.  Thus there was the twice-daily mass, heralded by a short prayer:  "Bon, c'est l'heure de l'apéro,"  followed by the taking of communion, in the form of a cocktail concocted by Metro from one of the many bottles he had brought in his voluminous suitcase.  Then would follow a three-course lunch or dinner, with wine.    As soon as the dishes were cleared away, Chef would start planning the next meal.  He lived from meal to meal.  We started to feel like fatted geese by the end of the week, and didn't get out of the house much. 

Although the villa was perfect and exactly like in the photos, the famed Algarve weather did not live up to expectations.  A weather front was rolling in from the Atlantic, and continued to roll in.  For the rest of the week,  the weather changed from one minute to the next, resulting in Chaplineque scenes around the pool, running sunbed cushions in and out, Metro seizing every opportunity to top up his tan and Chef grumbling that only French weather was reliable.   The barbecue was abandoned by Tuesday, as the charcoal was so damp.   

Cataplana - Algarvian kitchenware

Occasionally the sun did come out and we braved an excursion, to Lagos or up into the hills.  Chef drove us to Monchique, and after a cursory glance in the window of a kichenware shop which was closed, declared the town of no interest and drove us back down.   Food markets and kitchenware shops were the only thing outside the kitchen that interested him, apart from rugby, and if there was no market, he would take a cursory glance inside the church and look at his watch.  He shopped every day at Intermarché, a French-owned chain of supermarkets.  We visited another supermarket, Apolonia, which made Waitrose look like Lidl, but he wrote it off as too expensive, although the real reason was probably that it wasn't French.  

The only thing Chef was not gastrofascist about was coffee. I made a point of preparing fresh cafetière coffee every morning, even though I am a tea drinker, to keep him happy, only to see him return from Intermarché one day with a jar of Nescafé.  He also had a penchant for instant mashed potato, which he admittedly gussied up with cheese, but even so I was shocked. I wondered where he had learned to cook. I believe he was in the Foreign Legion for a number of years. One night he was sulking and went on strike, so I rustled up one of my leftover pasta cheese bakes with powdered cheese sauce. He asked for seconds. 

All in all it was not an unpleasant week, although I have learned a lot about villa holidays and about Portuguese weather.  The pool was used precisely once.  However, my mission to investigate Portugal as the next and final stage of my international wanderings is still ongoing. As Dr Gorbals tactfully put it: Portugal would be a good place to die.  


 
  

MUCH FADO ABOUT NOTHING - PARTE UMA

MUCH FADO ABOUT NOTHING

We were flying over the outskirts of Setubal when Dr Gorbals, my 48-kilo Glaswegian attorney, announced he had just seen Jesus.   This took me slightly by surprise as to my knowledge he had only had one beer prior to takeoff and it usually took at least four before he started talking out of his arse.  I looked up from "Portuguese for Dummies" and followed his finger pointing excitedly to the ground a thousand metres below.   There indeed stood Jesus, Cristo Rei, with arms outstretched, and a "Hello, Lisbon!" bubble coming from his lips (in the cartoon which my attorney, also an amateur illustrator, later drew).   The plane banked over the mighty Tagus and prepared to land at Portela International Airport.  Bom dia, Portugal.


My mission was to scout for a region of Portugal that would allow me to live out my final years after retirement in a manner to which I might like to become accustomed.   Dr Gorbals' mission was to stop me handing over any cash directly to some opportunistic Portuguese peasant trying to offload a pile of crumbling old bricks, by sequestering said cash into his own pocket.  After recent events of 22 March, Brussels was starting to lose whatever charm it may have had and I was looking towards a retirement in the sun in (hopefully) four years with impatience.



Getting out of Brussels had been a long and arduous business,  five weeks after the bombings.  We queued through the car park, through the makeshift security under tents, then made our way up flights of stairs, along miles of corridors, to finally arrive at the proper security control where we were checked again.  



As you may remember, I visted Lisbon last year with the KNOB* and was quite smitten. This time I wanted to explore parts of the city I hadn't had time to see last year.  Dr Gorbals had never been to Portugal and was up for anything.  Affecting a kind of Yorkshire-mafia look with wraparound shades and a cloth cap, he took to Lisbon like a duck to water.  Within 24 hours he had learned that a 'tulipa' was a half pint of draft lager, an 'Imperial' was a pint, and his two new best friends were Sagres and Super Bock.

Alongside the main avenue Liberdade runs rua das Portes Sao Antao , a narrow street packed with little shops and restaurants and ginginha shops, tiny little concessions doling out thimble sized glasses of the local cherry brandy.  I usually have a rule that I do not drink until the sun is over the yardarm (although sometimes I mean the Tokyo yardarm) but I broke it on the first day and had a cheeky ginginha at 11:30.  The year of living dangerously!  

The weather was favourable for our time in the capital. We went on the famous Lisbon cable cars, although the historic trams were too packed with tourists, almost exclusively French.  We visited the castle, the Alfama district, which took some finding.  I am not very good at reading maps off phones, but Dr Gorbals infallible nose for a bar homed in on the fado capital of the world.   I have to admit I'm not a big fan, I rather prefer the sturm und drang of flamenco to the maudlin dirge of fado, which is music to slit your wrists by. We avoided restaurants which were hosting fado concerts, where the price of the menu would be bumped up x 5, but it was impossible to avoid it completely, so loud was the man singing in the nearest restaurant.  I would have preferred a bit of light jangly Amalia Rodrigues, but every now and again our meal was interrupted by a loud declamation of how his soul yearned for the old homeland during his enforced exile on a Paris council estate and how he dreamed of his childhood sweetheart waiting for him by the lighthouse even though he knew she had run off with a buff Brazilian pool boy called Nelson and was now working as an exotic dancer in a Rio nightclub.   O misery!  O the pain!  Gorbals said fado was like Portuguese blues, but without the lighthearted element.



In the Bairrio Alto we met up with lovely Luso adoptee Lucy Pepper who took us to a fab restaurant where Dr Gorbals had an emotional reunion with his appetite, AWOL for 20 years. We tasted specialities such as Queijo de Azeitao and Moscatel de Setubal, Bacalhao a Lagareiro and  Lucy kindly brought us a copy of her book "Eat Portugal" which she dedicated right there in the restaurant.  It was so exciting, and much more fun than queueing up in Waterstones.  It was so exciting in fact that I couldn't remember what I had eaten and had to get Lucy to message me later.  See "Daphne's Dinners" for the comestible part of our trip.

Another UNESCO world heritage site ticked off

We made an excursion to Sintra on the efficient and cheap Portuguese train network. Byron called it "Cintra's glorious Eden" and he wasn't far wrong. Last year I drove up to the Quinta da Regaleira and Montserrate gardens to see the follies created by 19th century drug addicted millionaires.  This year we stayed in the town and wandered up, down and through the municipal park, which is every bit as good as the Regaleira, and free to boot.  Sintra is full of new age hippies selling dreamcatchers and crystals, due to its reputation as being a bit spiritual.  If you can imagine Chelsea Flower Show held at Glastonbury. With Eurodisney inspired pavilions.  Quite bonkers, but quite gorgeous. The whole town is overseen by an imposing fortress built by the Arabs when they were in charge.  

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

On the Thursday we checked out of the hotel and went to pick up the rental car at the airport.  Anxious to get value for money I had booked through an outfit called Goldcar, who were suggested by the airline we flew with.  9 euros a day sounded perfectly reasonable to me.  And to everybody else on the recently arrived Vueling plane, it appeared, as there was a throng waiting at the desk, where two staff were taking half an hour to process each customer.  After waiting for fifteen minutes I noticed others clutching small tickets with numbers on, and realized I was supposed to take a number.  45 minutes later I got to the desk, by which time I was ready to sign up for the various extra charges which were explained in fluent and rapid English, but eventually we were behind the wheel of an Opel Corsa bearing only slight traces of damage caused by its previous occupant, and heading south of the river over the 13 km long Vasco da Gama bridge across the Tagus estuary, in driving rain.

Rental cars and me are a long and miserable saga, hence I had brought my attorney for back-up.  Belt and braces, really, as I had also brought a GPS device.  Unfortunately Dr Gorbals took an irrational dislike to the voice of the GPS and argued with it at every turn.  "In 500 metres, bear right," said Bruce, the GPS (I had set it to the Australian English).  "Ye dinnae ken whit ye're talking aboot ye antipodean eejit"  shouted Dr Gorbals.  "Go straight!"  Gorbals was reading from the map on his tablet, which did not indicate one-way streets or traffic holdups.   I eventually switched off Bruce and surreptitiously followed the route indicated on the screen, letting my attorney read off contradictory directions.  However since he cannot tell his left from his right, he did not notice that I was ignoring him.

We made a one-night stop in Evora, a small and pretty town with a Roman ruin, views over the Upper Alentejo and not much else to speak of. Luckily there was a free concert of Iberian-American music in the town square that evening and the rain had stopped.   In the main square a long-haired Chilean singer was entertaining the crowd with songs by Victor Jarra and sentiments of freedom and democracy, to general approval.  

We witnessed an incident which may well have made the front page of the local paper had there been a journalist present. Three elderly gents, spruced up for the occasion, were occupying a bench with a view of the stage. A chap in a hoodie standing in the arcades kept shouting "Olé!" loudly and clapping enthusiastically. Care in the Community possibly. One of the old chaps took serious umbrage. He'd either had too many cheeky ginginhas or was an old Salazarista who didn't like the Chilean lad's left-wing sentiments. He approached Hoodie quite aggressively, and at one point I'm sure I saw him briefly point a small pistol at him. Could have been a cigarette lighter, I suppose, Hoodie didn't seem perturbed.  Another of the old men tried to restrain his friend, unsuccessfully. It was like a Portuguese version of "Last of the Summer Wine".   Dr Gorbals was enjoying it immensely, especially when the enraged pensioner pulled a large screwdriver out of his pocket and brandished it in the direction of Hoodie, who roared with laughter.  Next thing, Compo is on his mobile phone. Within five minutes the filth were on the scene. Three extremely reasonable cops listened patiently to Compo, then went and listened patiently to Hoodie.  After another intrepid foray by Compo when he got within twenty feet of Hoodie, a young policeman took him by the arm and gently steered him out of the square. A posting to Evora must be the worst thing that can happen to a young ambitious Portuguese cop.

Is this what is meant by Portuguese rock?

Thinking of Bert

Getting out of Evora the next day was tricky. I forgot to switch on Bruce and ended up with a choice of risking a narrow passage between two buildings - with my record on damaging hire cars, not an ideal option - or driving up the main commercial road which was off limits to all vehicles except deliveries.  I was waved at angrily by irate shopkeepers but eventually got onto the road heading south. We spent most of the morning at a megalithic site about 10 km from Evora.  It was drizzling and cold, and the road to the site was a dirt track filled with massive potholes.  I had to recall my rough-terrain driving skills from Umbongoland, and remember that I was not driving a big old Datsun Patrol but an already dented Opel Corsa from a hire company that was willing me to inflict further damage.  The megalithic stones were however pretty impressive, even in the rain.  At one point we caught up with a guided tour, and recognized the participants as the people who'd been sitting at the next table in the Evora restaurant where we had dinner the previous night.   



After a lunch stop in Beja, an underwhelming little town, we headed for Faro the pretty way, over the mountain. And then over another mountain. And another one. And then two more. And one last one. By the time we rolled into Sao Bras de Alportel, in yer actual Algarve, I was exhausted.

Finally in the Algarve, we found ourselves with an evening to kill in Faro, and explored the town. It wasn't exactly kicking. Apart from a quite agreeable restaurant which Dr Gorbals turned up on his magic app, and a pleasant little bar where I had a cheeky ginginha, not much to report (although I quietly clocked the modern shopping centre near our hotel).  We were due to pick up one of our guests at Faro airport the next morning, but after he changed his flight times we found ourselves with the best part of Saturday to kill so pootled off to Olhao, a market town recommended by Lucy Pepper, and bought provisions for the villa.

On the motorway towards Carvoeiro, where our villa was situated, the skies darkened and it started to rain slightly.  There were flood warnings in place for Faro and Albufeira. The villa was straight out of 'Sexy Beast' or 'Mad Dogs', a real gangster's hideaway.  We dashed off to the local supermarket to stock up on basics.  The local Intermarché was a shopper's dream, with wide aisles, good lighting, floors clean enough to eat off, and a vast array of British, French, German, and Scandinavian products as well as Spanish and Portuguese brands.  The wine section was rather how I imagine Heaven.  Who knew there was such a vast range of wine in Portugal?  Vinho verde, branco, tinto, vinhos from the Alentejo, the Minho, the Dao, the Douro, the Algarve ...   The ultimate Euro supermarket.   We had to stock up with litres and kilos of stuff, which would no doubt end up with the cleaner - someone should design a Villa Pack of small quantities of condiments and toiletries to last a week.  We returned to the villa with a week's basics, to find The Blonde and Chef waiting outside the gates.

The Blonde used to be a Paris boiler room queen in the 1980s, a kind of Ladyfingers for the overheated financial derivatives sector.  Now retired on her ill-gotten gains, she had acquired a mortgage-default hacienda up in the spaghetti-western lunar landscape of Andalucia, and lived there alone, except for three dogs, two cats and an irascible French chef called, er, Chef.  Chef had some shady history involving Algeria and some missing gold.   He acted as her driver, bodyguard, cook and wine merchant.

As they settled in, I had to return to Faro to pick up our remaining guest, Metro.  Metro was a suave, urbane, metrosexual (hence his nickname) confirmed bachelor and ladykiller from London. He decanted from the plane with a suitcase the size of a house.  "Supplies," he whispered conspiratorially.   It took us half an hour to get out of the airport car park, due to minibusloads of tourists loading up their golf clubs and blocking us in.  Eventually we were on the road back to Carvoeiro, by this time the heavens had opened and I could barely see in front of me on the unlit motorway.  The windscreen wipers were going faster than the car.   We finally made it back to the villa around 9 p.m. to find Chef three sheets to the wind and nothing on the table.  Metro decanted his "supplies" which consisted of several bottles of high-end gin and mixers.  Dinner was served Andalucian style, i.e. around midnight.  Made mental note to remind Chef about the hour's time difference.

Chef was a bad-tempered Gascon who hated everywhere and everyone outside of France, and most of France as well. The only parts of the world he liked was the parts where they play rugby, and even then he bitched about the food in most of them (except in one village in the south-west of France).  He was particularly scathing about Portuguese food. French cuisine was superior to everything else, and was treated with religious devotion.  Thus there was the twice-daily mass, heralded by a short prayer:  "Bon, c'est l'heure de l'apéro,"  followed by the taking of communion, in the form of a cocktail concocted by Metro from one of the many bottles he had brought in his voluminous suitcase.  Then would follow a three-course lunch or dinner, with wine.    As soon as the dishes were cleared away, Chef would start planning the next meal.  He lived from meal to meal.  We started to feel like fatted geese by the end of the week, and didn't get out of the house much. 

Although the villa was perfect and exactly like in the photos, the famed Algarve weather did not live up to expectations.  A weather front was rolling in from the Atlantic, and continued to roll in.  For the rest of the week,  the weather changed from one minute to the next, resulting in Chaplineque scenes around the pool, running sunbed cushions in and out, Metro seizing every opportunity to top up his tan and Chef grumbling that only French weather was reliable.   The barbecue was abandoned by Tuesday, as the charcoal was so damp.  

Cataplana - Algarvian kitchenware

Occasionally the sun did come out and we braved an excursion, to Lagos or up into the hills.  Chef drove us to Monchique, and after a cursory glance in the window of a kichenware shop which was closed, declared the town of no interest and drove us back down.   Food markets and kitchenware shops were the only thing outside the kitchen that interested him, apart from rugby, and if there was no market, he would take a cursory glance inside the church and look at his watch.  He shopped every day at Intermarché, a French-owned chain of supermarkets.  We visited another supermarket, Apolonia, which made Waitrose look like Lidl, but he wrote it off as too expensive, although the real reason was probably that it wasn't French.  

The only thing Chef was not gastrofascist about was coffee. I made a point of preparing fresh cafetière coffee every morning, even though I am a tea drinker, to keep him happy, only to see him return from Intermarché one day with a jar of Nescafé.  He also had a penchant for instant mashed potato, which he admittedly gussied up with cheese, but even so I was shocked. I wondered where he had learned to cook. I believe he was in the Foreign Legion for a number of years. One night he was sulking and went on strike, so I rustled up one of my leftover pasta cheese bakes with powdered cheese sauce. He asked for seconds. 

All in all it was not an unpleasant week, although I have learned a lot about villa holidays and about weather fronts. My mission to investigate Portugal as the next and final stage of my international wanderings is still ongoing. As Dr Gorbals tactfully put it: Portugal would be a good place to die.  





* Kurt Nachtnebel Oompah Band

QUANTUM OF COCKFOSTERS

Douglas Adams' "The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy", or H2G2 as it's known to its fans, is my Bible. Yes I'm one of those people who always plays 42 on the Lottery and have been known to ask barmen if they've got any Old Janx Spirit. I don't know what the H2G2 equivalent of a Trekkie is, but I am probably one. Adams studied English Literature, which becomes evident when he is critiquing Vogon poetry: "the third worse in the Universe. The second worst is that of the Azgoths of Kria. During a recitation by their Poet Master Grunthos the Flatulent of his poem 'Ode To A Small Lump Of Green Putty I Found In My Armpit One Midsummer Morning' four of his audience died of internal haemorrhaging, and the President of the Mid-Galactic Arts Nobbling Council survived by gnawing one of his own legs off."

Say what you like about Douglas Adams, he knows his poetry. 

In his seminal meisterwerk, Adams explained obscure mathematical constructs such as the Improbability Drive, the Total Perspective Vortex and the Pangalactic Gargleblaster. He defines an intergalactic measure of speed thus: "R is a velocity measure, defined as a reasonable speed of travel that is consistent with health, mental wellbeing and not being more than say five minutes late. It is therefore clearly an almost infinitely variable figure according to circumstances, since the first two factors vary not only with speed taken as an absolute, but also with awareness of the third factor. Unless handled with tranquillity, this equation can result in considerable stress, ulcers and even death. .... R17 is not a fixed velocity, but it is clearly far too fast."

Adams was not a scientist. All things being equal, it may start to dawn on you, very slowly, that not everything Adams wrote is true. 

o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o 

The other day I saw this brilliant little film from the California Institute of Technology, CalTech to its friends, for which they had managed to rope in the participation of Sir Stephen Hawking. No idea who the other guy is.

Now I don't mind admitting a lot of this went over my head, so I had to go and do some research. I learned that the word "quantum" comes from the Latin "quantus", meaning "how much". Or, as my late husband The Major was oft heard to exclaim in a tone of incredulity, "HOW MUCH????" Quantum of Solace meant something quite different to dear Harold, especially on the hard shoulder of the motorway on the outskirts of Wroclaw. 

My other bible, Wikipedia, had this to say on Quantum Dynamics:  "In physics, quantum dynamics is the quantum version of classical dynamics. Quantum dynamics deals with the motions, and energy and momentum exchanges of systems whose behavior is governed by the laws of quantum mechanics."

I am sure we're all the wiser for that piece of information. Now for the science bit. Wiki say about Quantum Mechanics:   "(QM; also known as quantum physics or quantum theory) including quantum field theory, is a fundamental branch of physics concerned with processes involving, for example, atoms and photons. In such processes, said to be quantized, the action has been observed to be only in integer multiples of the Planck constant, a physical quantity that is exceedingly, indeed perhaps ultimately, small. This is utterly inexplicable in classical physics."

It occurred to me that there was a degree of similarity to Douglas Adams in such explanations. 

I checked out quantum computing and quantum chemistry. I invite you to read any source you can and tell me if it makes any sense at all. Like H2G2, it all SOUNDS very erudite and scientific, but underneath, is there any real substance? 

Now I am a world-renowned conspiracy theorist, and my tinfoil hats have won prizes, but there was a pervasive pong of piscine putrefaction starting to assault my delicate nostrils. The more I tried to pin down the elusive quantum, the more nebulous and convoluted the definitions got. Something, to quote Mr Donald, was going on.

A selection of my award-winning tin foil hats

It follows that if you can have quantum mechanics, quantum physics, and quantum computing, you can have quantum medicine, quantum architecture, quantum maths and quantum history. Possibly even quantum cooking, quantum football or quantum swimming. Certainly quantum athletics, since there is such a thing as a Quantum Leap. Quantum table tennis certainly is A Thing, how else do you think they'd have come up with "Pong"? 

Anecdote: When I was a bright young thing of 21, in my final exams I disproved Descartes' famous philosophical proposition "Je pense, donc je suis" by dismissing it as a bit of linguistic jiggery-pokery. I can't remember the exact thought processes that possessed me in the exam, but my professor was dead impressed. "Miss Harridan, all this last year I thought you weren't listening!" he exclaimed.

Permit me at this juncture to digress a little and mention a popular game on a BBC radio programme, called "Mornington Crescent". The short description of the rules on Wikipedia says merely: "The game consists of each panellist in turn announcing a landmark or street, most often a tube station on the London Underground system. The apparent aim is to be the first to announce "Mornington Crescent", a station on the Northern Line." This is clearly written by someone from outside of the M25, who has understood nothing of the game. It's a bit like me trying to explain cricket, the reality of which is also open to discussion (see H2G2, "Krikkit"). The subtleties of Mornington Crescent are far too extensive to be pinned down to one paragraph. It is a game in which the possibilities for invention and creativeness are infinite, in the Adamsian sense of infinite, meaning too vast to fit inside the human imagination. It is also totally made up.

After watching the CalTech film, the loud "bong" of a penny dropping into an infinitely deep hole resounded throughout my being, and I started to laugh, and I couldn't stop, because I realized I had understood the principles of quantum theory. They are almost identical to the rules of Mornington Crescent. i.e. you make it up as you go along, using the most obscure references you can think of, comedic titles and an air of knowledgeable superiority. Whatever you do, keep a straight face. A nodding acquaintance with Hawking's A Brief History of Time will help, but ultimately, as the CalTech film says, Anyone Can Quantum. There are hints all around us. None of this is to be taken seriously.

Worth noting that in my edition of "A Brief History of Time", Stephen Hawking points out that the first edition was published on April Fool's Day.

By George, I think I've got it.

The greatest sit-down comedian of all time

TRUMP SOFTLY, LOVE

As followers of this blog will know, every four years, with my German friends in the KNOB*, I participate in EUROTRUMP, the European Oompah Band championships.  This is always a mad affair, with bands from all over Europe competing for the hallowed Golden Euphonium, which they are allowed to take home and display for four years.  It's a bit like a mini Edinburgh Tattoo without the bagpipes or kilts.

 
This time it was in Paris, which was a nostalgic experience for me, having lived there for a number of years in my younger days, when I was an exotic dancer at the Folies Bergère.  The theme was marching bands.  Brass bands, or 'fanfares', are an institution in France, particularly with universities which each have a 'fanfare' often performing in markets and festivals, playing modern hits in a disorganized and carefree way, sporting wigs and silly clothes.  The south-west of France with its Spanish influence has a great tradition of the 'banda', which has echoes of the Spanish bullfight bands.  The current All-European Oompah Champions are French, rather modernistic, trying to change the image of European oompah by integrating hip-hop, grunge and bhangra into their repertoire.  However, there were rumblings that the fans wanted a return to old school trumping and to stop all this fusion nonsense.

As readers will know, I play the humble triangle in the KNOB*, having stepped in at the last minute several years ago to replace Bert, my wurstwhile fancy man.  I also provide the 'totty' element, dressing up in a dirndl with a vertiginous décolleté.  Being of a modest demeanour, I try to hide behind the triangle, and sometimes wish they had given me the sousaphone.   Bert has now gone back to the Fatherland and launched his own oompah ensemble, and was also competing - against us!  

Paris was perhaps not the best choice of venue, as it is difficult to parade through the streets of the Latin Quarter in the rush hour.  We were performing in the Maison de la Mutualité, former crucible of revolutionary socialism.  The inaugural congress of the French socialist party took place here in 1946, Jacques Brel played in 1961, and more importantly, The Kinks in 1965.   As befits French champagne socialism, there was a 3-Michelin starred restaurant in the building. 

In homage to the history of the building, the KNOB* decided to choreograph an entry reflecting the history of the people's struggle.  My visit in July to the People's  History Museum in Manchester was the source of much useful material, and with the help of some lady friends who are nifty with a needle and thread, we made a magnificent banner which Gerhard and Uli carried between them.  This made it difficult for them to play their instruments however, needing both hands, so we put one leg of the frame down each of their trouser legs.  However this meant that they had to remain exactly two metres apart at all times. 

I modelled my costume on a suffragette, as depicted by Glynis Johns in Mary Poppins.  Our playlist comprised a medley of commie favourites such as The Red Flag, The Internationale, Ciao Bella Ciao, etc.   Gerhard and Uli managed well with the banner, until it came to turning.  Predictably, half way through 'Avanti Popolo!' there was the sound of ripping material, the banner collapsed in on itself, and an unscripted trombone wail ensued.  Quick-thinking Eckhard and Dieter closed ranks in front of them, and I shouted "Matrix!"  


Avid readers of my oeuvre will remember this was a dance routine I used to perform at the Folies with my old hoofer pals Dolores Entwhistle and Orinoco Flo McCluskey and which, ironically, I last performed in 2005 in this very city.   The KNOB went into the well-rehearsed hatband formation, which admittedly makes marching quite difficult, but managed to finish the number and get off stage with their dignity intact.  Needless to say, we did not finish in the top five.

The British DID mention the war, of course.  After all the WW1 and Battle of Britain commemorations, they sent a marching band dressed as Dad's Army to perform a medley of wartime favourites, which elicited a walk out by half the Italians and Germans in the audience.  Bert wagged a finger at me from the wings.  He was on next.

 

'Marching band' was always going to be a problem for the Germans, and I gave Bert full marks for stepping up to the plate.  Those of you who have followed this blog for many years might remember that Bert has an ego somewhat bigger than Jean-Claude Juncker's and it was no surprise when he produced a totally over-the-top extravaganza of operatic proportions.   Also, everybody in his band appeared to be Chinese.  I suspect him of a degree skulduggery since he's become national Direktor of German oompah.

 
The "youth" section of the competition is always fun, as the youngsters don't stick to the traditional oompah image, unless it involves black leather.  These British youngsters had been practising under the Pont Alexandre III, and nearly brought the house down, I wouldn't be surprised if there's some structural damage to the bridge too.  They walked off with the Best Newcomers award and their lederhosen halfway down their Calvin Kleins.

The best entries by far in my book were from the Alps:  the fabulous Austrians Mnozill Brass, who did a whole comedy/dance routine with brass instruments.  Their footwork was as good as their fingerwork.  And the Swiss blew everybody away with the unconventional Kadebostany:  Heidi's certainly grown up! 

In the end it was the Italians wot won it.  An ensemble called Il Padrone from Trieste recreated an old-school Italian funeral march, and gave us a selection of Morricone and Nino Rota favourites.  They played the mafia theme to the hilt, all dressed in pinstripe suits and even placed a non-playing member of the band behind each judge with a violin case.  Hilarious!

After the victory celebrations, we were treated to a cocktail and a video of Il Padrone's greatest gigs.

The room dispersed quite quickly after this, after a number of fans came to kiss the hand of Il Dottore, the leader of the winning band.   You're going to hear a lot more European oompah in the coming years, I feel.  We have ways of making you listen.  Trump softly, love, and check under your duvet before you turn in for the night.

 
I, for one, welcome our new Italian champions. No more Mr Nice Guys.









*Kurt Nachtnebel Oompah Band

PIGMALION: PART ONE

The little chimney sweep stared up in awe at the great house, and wondered how he would reach the great brass door knocker.  As he wondered, the highly polished door opened of its own accord, and a well dressed Grande Dame swept out of the house, nearly knocking him down the steps.  

"Out of my way, boy!"  she cried, in a haughty manner.  She glanced down at him.  "Good God, child, you're filthy!" 

"I'm a chimneysweep,"  explained Gorbals (for it was he).  "I'm supposed to be filthy."

She paused, and inspected her bustle, brushing away imaginary soot.

"Hmm ..."  she pondered.  "We need the chimney sweeping.  Haven't you got one of those modern contraptions that sucks all the soot out without dirtying anything?"

"No, Ma'am,"  he murmured.  "I've just got ma brushes here.  But I'm cheap!" 

"How cheap?"  

"Sixpence, Ma'am."

"Sixpence!  You're hired.  Take your boots off first though."  

The lady turned on her heel and pulled a handkerchief from her pocket, which she used to push him into the house.  Gorbals had never seen such a magnificent house.  The carpets were all white, and crystal chandeliers hung from the ceilings.  But when he entered the parlour, he gasped aloud.  The walls were lined with books.  Books ... he loved books. 

"Jings!  Crivens!  Help ma boab!"  he ejaculated.

Lady Daphne (for it was she) looked askance at him.  

"Where are you from child?   Romania?  Bulgaria?"  

Gorbals looked at her incredulously.

"Scotland" he replied flatly. 

She made a face as if smelling something unpleasant and made a sound which to Gorbals' untrained ear sounded like "Air".  

"Excuse me, Ma'am," he asked, "But how come ye've got all these books?  Is this a bookshop or what?"  

Lady Daphne's laughter was like the tinkling of a silver spoon against a crystal champagne glass.  

"A bookshop? Good Lord no.  These are all my books.  I am Professor Daphne Higgins, renowned expert in regional dialect and teacher of elocution." 

"Charmed I'm sure," replied Gorbals. "Mr Gorbals McChe at your service.  Scholar, chimneysweep, Scotsman on the make.  Just come doon from the Isle of Skye.  I'm no very tall but .....  "

"Get on with the job, will you?"  Lady Daphne cut him off abruptly.  "Mrs Pearce my housekeeper will keep an eye on you, and pay you your sixpence.   I must be off to the hairdresser."

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Gorbals set out his dustsheets carefully and set about preparing the first fireplace.  As he poked his brush further and further up Lady Daphne's chimney, he glanced around at the books.  There were hundreds of them.  What he wouldn't give for a library like this!  He dare not touch them for fear of dirtying them but when the housekeeper came in she found him standing gazing at a wall of books, his mouth hanging open.  

"Can you read, child?"  she inquired kindly.

"Aye, I can read." replied Gorbals proudly.  "And I can write my name."  he glanced out of the window at the building across the street with the word "GORBALS" tagged across it in graffiti style.  Mrs Pearce was a kindly woman and did not like to see child poverty (or graffiti). 

"When you've finished the chimney you can have a bath and I'll give you a meal," she offered.   Gorbals didn't fancy the sound of the bath much, but he hadn't eaten in days.  He decided the ordeal by soap and water was worth it. 

"Hae ye got that Wright's coal tar soap?"  he asked hopefully.  

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When Lady Daphne returned from the hairdresser, she called down to Mrs Pearce for some supper.  The housekeeper appeared a few minutes later with the newly washed and fed Gorbals following behind carrying a second tray.  Lady Daphne looked up briefly from her copy of Phonetics World. 

"Mrs Pearce, is this your new kitchenmaid?"  

Gorbals came out from behind the voluminous aprons of Mrs Pearce, and said shyly:  

"I wash me face an' 'ands before I come, I did."

Lady Daphne looked up again slowly, and stared this time. 

"The noble savage ..."  she mused.  "I do believe this creature from the wilds might be tamed.   Would you like to be a proper English gentleman, child?"

Everything in Gorbals' heart screamed "Would I fuck!" but his stomach and his head argued back eloquently.   Three meals a day, and all the books you can read.   He smiled in the most English way he could manage.

"Oh yes please Ma'am."  he replied. "Ah dinnae hae mich education but I aim tae improve masel.  Beggin yer pardon Ma'am."

"What did he say?"  asked the renowned expert in regional dialect.