A Perfect Day

I awoke this morning to the sound of the waves breaking on the beach, the silk drapes billowing in the warm Moroccan breeze, and Manitas de Plata serenading me from under my window. George Clooney was standing at the foot of my bed in his boxer shorts bearing a tray with a single red rose, a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice, a box of Neuhaus chocolates and a full English breakfast (and a copy of The Daily Mail). "Daphne, my love, this is YOUR day," he husked, his eyes devouring my size 12 finely toned and tanned body draped in Christian Lacroix pyjamas.

We breakfasted on the terrace overlooking the Caribbean, after which I took a long Radox bath and listened to John Peel's "Home Truths" on Radio 4 while George did the washing up and hoovered. I dressed in my pink Jaeger twinset (George says it matches my eyes) and my best Majorica pearls, misting myself generously with Youth Dew. George was happy to let me drive his brand new Volvo estate cabriolet, as he could never keep his eyes on the road when I was by his side. I drove expertly along the Corniche at an exhilarating 40 kph, my long dead straight blonde hair fluttering in the wind. We dropped anchor in a secluded cove where George sang to me in Tom Jones' voice. Later, we lunched in a small Paraguayan coastal fishing village on lobster and champagne and strawberries (and chocolate), and George laughed at all my jokes. "God, Daphne, but you're gorgeous," he sighed. "I want to have your babies." "Oh George," I pouted, flicking my jetblack curls out of my emerald green eyes, "You know I'm still in mourning for Harold. Contain yourself until 3 o'clock."

We spent the afternoon shopping at Bloomingdale's and George said my bum didn't look big at all and carried all my bags. After my afternoon nap, during which George put up a few shelves and mowed the lawn, I was whisked off by a Touareg tribesman with bedroom eyes and Thierry Henry's legs. He carried me to his tent at the top of the Eiffel Tower and fed me couscous royal and Chateauneuf du Pape (and chocolate), while Il Divo strummed their guitars. We gazed out over the lights of Istanbul, and he whispered sweet nothings in his native Serbo Croat.

We returned to my suite at The Grand where Mick and Keith popped in for a cup of Bournvita, and we all watched "Casablanca" together on Sky Movies Gold. Omar Sharif (for it was he) carried me effortlessly to my pocket sprung mattress and I fell asleep to the soothing tinkle of Richard Clayderman's Pop Classics, and didn't snore at all. It had been the best birthday ever.

THE END

What's another year?

(That by the way was the title of a Eurovision entry by Ireland's own Johnny Logan. They don't write 'em like that any more.)

I won't tell you what's happening on Monday, but this card just received from Vera Slapp might give you a clue.

Vorplay durch Technik

Sometimes I have trouble believing that Germany was the birthplace of the Romantic movement. Baron Heinrich von Fuchs-Langezeit, known to his friends as Bert, appeared on my doorstep the other night unexpectedly, clutching a large bunch of flowers.

“Meine kleine Pumpernickel”, began Heinrich, kissing my hand and clicking his heels.
“Yes, Hun?” I answered. (That went straight over his head).
“Mein pussykatzchen,”
“Oh get on with it Bert, Eastenders is on in a minute”.
“I haff a little tank...”

I closed my eyes to shut out the image of Lieutenant Gruber from Allo Allo that had just loomed into my sights.

“A little tank you, Daphne, for your mit meine hosen helping.”

The Germans are charming people, with beautiful manners. However, spontaneity and impulsive behaviour is a foreign land to them. I have a theory that national behavioural patterns are influenced by the language. How on earth can you be spontaneous when you always have to think what verb you’re going to use, conjugate it, get the right tense, store it away till you’ve got the rest of the sentence out and then stick it back on the end? This kind of patience I am not often having.

The assistance with his trousers he was referring to was this. There is something very anal about Bert’s dress sense. It’s not the lederhosen that bother me, he’s got quite good legs really, as one would expect of a 1966 World Cup squad substitute. It’s when he tries to do smart casual that he comes undone. So to speak. Jeans with creases, jacket and tie just makes him look like he’s going to his first day at school. All he needs is a cap and a satchel.

A week or so ago he turned up to take me out dressed like Just William. If I was not to be mistaken for Violet Elizabeth Bott I needed to take immediate action. I deftly undid his tie and threw it out of the window. Bert gulped. I then reached for his belt buckle. This was more spontaneity than one man could cope with. He fainted. When he came to, the creases had mysteriously disappeared, and he was looking like a model of crumpled chic. He still hasn’t worked out how I did it, but ever since he saw a woman do that trick with the bra (you know the one, popping the fastener with one hand behind your back and pulling it out through your sleeve), he is convinced that I have Houdini-like powers of getting people out of their clothes without undoing so much as a button. I can’t bring myself to tell him that I yanked them off him, soaked them in the bath, tumbled them dry and got them back on him again while he was passed out. And got a good view of Mönchengladbach into the bargain.

Anyway, as a result, barmen have stopped telling him he is too young to drink alcohol, although on the down side he has to pay full price in the cinema. Unless he wears the lederhosen, in which case I thkweam and thkweam until I make mythelf thick.

Eurovision

For once, I think the Eurovision Song Contest was more scary than Dr Who. How times change. At least Terry Wogan didn't disappoint. He has done for the Eurovision song contest what Tony Blair did for (or to) the Labour Party. Some of his gems were worth writing down:

"Spain lost the plot years ago"
"Last year was a navel year, this year the legs have it"
"Well it wasn't Riverdance" (on the half time entertainment)
"Who do you think you are, Lord Haw Haw?" (on the German rapporteur)
"I don't believe it!" (on Belarus' award of 12 points to Russia)
"Who in heaven's name picked that eejit?" (on the Dutch rapporteur drunkenly flirting with the male Greek presenter)

However, some of Vi's text messages were even better. "Latvian tomcats on the pull", "Lithuanie, nul points", "Another Irish dirge" and "Isn't that Bill Bailey on keyboards?" (on the Finnish entry).

Do real people actually vote for these songs? I can't believe Russia has so many fans in the former Eastern Bloc, even though their boy was a pretty young thing. Germany's 12 points to Turkey was believable - "The Gastarbeiter, of course!" (TW again) - but Poland's 10 points to Russia was laughable. And Holland's 12 points to Turkey in the present climate was a bit doubtful as well. Unless it was those Gastarbeiter again of course. I tried myself to text a vote for Finland to the Belgian number given on the screen and couldn't get through.

The Commission might take Eurovision Song Contest a bit more seriously than it takes itself these days, as it reflects perhaps a more accurate snapshot of Europe's real state of mind. Wogan's remark that the French don't like it that the whole contest is not done in French will ring a few bells over Schuman way. Latvia's decision to "keep the big boy happy" by giving 10 pts to Russia, coupled with the "old Balkan foxtrot" as Sir Terry referred to the backscratching between members of the former Yugoslavia may be indicative of the allegiances of some of the new member states. Perhaps Sir Terry Wogan should be the next President of the Commission? Let's put it to the vote ... nul points, you say?

Falling Standards

I really MUST put a word in about Zoe, whose blog “My Boyfriend is a Twit” has become part of my daily reading material, along with the Daily Mail and Points de Vue-Images du Monde (just to check if their Majesties are in town so as I know to check my invitations very carefully). Vi Hornblower insists that it’s actually called “My Boyfriend is a Twat” > but I couldn’t find the word in my pocket dictionary, so there must be a spelling mistake or something wrong with Zoe’s typewriter. Vi suggested starting her own blog called “My Husband is a Count” (although she spelled that wrong as well). “Is he really?” I inquired with some surprise, being quite unaware of Desmond’s aristocratic connections. “Most definitely,” replied Vi, then added cryptically “Some days more than others.” Zoe’s blog is very entertaining, although her language is a little on the colourful side, but then I think she lives over Tervuren way, the local dialect is bound to rub off.

Must sign off and watch “Dr Who” followed by the Eurovision Song Contest, which is becoming quite difficult to understand these days. Whatever happened to the likes of Johnny Logan and Mary Hopkin? Can any readers tell me? And what exactly gets into Terry Wogan once a year? He’s such a gentleman the rest of the time. If Her Majesty watched Eurovision, I think she’s have that Knighthood back off him.