Blond Bond

The next James Bond, Daniel Craig, is apparently a very good actor. I have this from an unimpeachable source, my friend Cynthia who goes to the theatre a lot and has seen him on the stage. I saw him in the film “Munich” where he played a hit man and was quite deliciously ruthless. I can’t wait for the new Bond movie, which is apparently in the making as we speak. I feel Craig could be the best Bond since Sean Connery. I do hope he has an attractive little speech impediment, too.

Another chap who has apparently expressed a desire to play Bond is Robbie Williams. I have to say he has the smouldering good looks. He’s a bit young at the moment, but I think when he’s a bit older and has been to acting lessons he could make a fine Bond. He’d have to get rid of the Stoke accent though. That’s one speech impediment too far.

I have on occasion been compared to Rosa Klebb, usually by Harold when I was compelled to rein him in from a particularly excessive bout of lunatic behaviour. Quite flattering really, not quite on a par with the Divine Margaret whose gimlet eyes could freeze a gin and tonic (usually Denis’s) at 50 paces, but quite an accolade nonetheless. Bert had no idea who Rosa Klebb was. I had to show him a copy of Der Spiegel before he would accept that she is in charge of Germany.

I wonder how they’ll get on against Argentina next weekend. I have a feeling my England v Germany final might have to wait until 2010.

A Political Football

France, aka ArsenalManutdChelsea, managed to get through to the next stage without Cissé or Zizou. Some of their players have such soppy names. One of them is called Lilian, for heaven’s sake. And almost all of them play in England. A few years ago there was a friendly match between England and France played at Wembley. Most of the French team arrived by taxi.

I'm on my soap box again about creeping globalisation, but it’s even permeated football now. The manager of the Japanese team, who is from Brazil, was caught out on camera singing along with the Brazilian national anthem. And excuse me, but one of the Japanese squad looked suspiciously non-Japanese. I suspect we’re sliding towards the Zola Budd syndrome in football. I think we should be told. I was even more astonished to see the French Prime Minister moonlighting as manager of the Argentinian squad. Mind you, the way things are in Paris right now, it might be just as well to have another string to his bow.

Is it no coincidence, surely, that Brussels should choose this particular moment to release a new 160-page report about EU’s attempt to stick its nose into the regulation of football, a process kicked off (so to speak) by the “infamous” Bosman Rule of 1995. No, ladies, this is not a variation on the offside rule. It’s all down to the Belgians again. I haven’t got time to explain it now, I’ve got legs to wax and a soufflé in the oven, but it’s all in Wikipedia. Suffice it to say that once the Eurocrats get possession of the ball, in future World Cups we could end up with just one team for the whole of Europe. (Now there’s something to keep you gentlemen busy: name your European dream-team. No, there are no prizes, it’s just to keep you quiet for half an hour.) Just imagine an EU-regulated football squad: poor teamwork, language difficulties, time-wasting, posturing, diving, cheating, ignoring of yellow cards, backhanders, inflated salaries … quite unheard of in the present game.

A long and happy life

Charles Darwin's tortoise has just died aged 175 years. The same age as Belgium. Spooky, no?

Here is a picture of Charles Darwin's late tortoise. I think a minute's silence would be appropriate. I wonder where it will be buried. And what music will be played at the funeral.

I think Eric Idle's "One foot in the grave" might be appropriate.

Forza !

Italy appear to have won the World Cup, to judge by what was going on in the centre of Brussels late this afternoon. The entire Italian community of BXL was out in their cars blocking the main artery, Boulevard Anspach, between Gare du Midi and Place de Brouckere, which I suppose is the nearest thing Brussels has to the Champs-Elysees, hooting and waving flags. The centre of town came to a standstill, the cops were out in force looking fed up, a few shy Ghanaians joined in the fun, and a morose North African man gazed miserably and said "There's going to be a war". If they win the Final, Brussels will explode (along with many other cities outside of Italy). I will certainly be down there to join them for a celebratory drinky, although I suspect it might be difficult to get a pizza that night.

But I'm still keeping an eye on Ghana.

Nostalgia ain't what it used to be

Three cheers for the W.I. ! After the stunning nudie calendar which inspired a successful film starring the ageless Helen Mirren, they have now gone on the warpath against excessive packaging. I wholeheartedly approve. Apart from the fact that a plastic carrier bag is the height of scruffiness (unless it’s a green and gold one, and even then), all that plastic is really clogging up the planet’s arteries. I am old enough to remember when milk came in a returnable glass bottle, and fruit and veg were weighed out on scales with metal weights and poured into one’s wicker basket by a florid gentleman who would oftimes throw in one for luck. I am starting to sound like Prince Charles, or John Major, with his warm beer and cricket on the village green. I am listening more and more to the test match on Radio 4, even though I don’t know my LBW from my silly mid on. I find it soothing.

I am a relic from a gentler, more organic age. I empathize with the Edward G. Robinson character in a much underrated 1973 film called “Soylent Green” in which real food and the simple pleasures of nature have been usurped by a faceless military-industrial complex which feeds people unknowingly on the ground-up remains of human corpses dyed in various colours and pressed into tablet form. So far, so unappetizing. Euthanasia is encouraged as soon as people are no longer productive, and special centres are set up for the elderly to go and turn themselves in, their sacrifice rewarded by a gentle chemical-induced death surrounded by a 360° screen showing a sort of “Look at Life” (remember those?) film of the Earth as it once was, accompanied by Beethoven’s 6th symphony (aka the St Ivel butter advert).

I wondered what I would choose for my “dernière séance”, were I given a choice ? Woodstock maybe, or the Stones Steel Wheels concert of 1998 in Imax. What would you choose for your final reel, readers? You should write it down somewhere, you never know, truth is sometimes stranger than fiction.

Now, where did I put those frozen spinach chips again ….