NON, NON, NON

This is Amy Winehouse saying "No, no, no." Didn't Margaret Thatcher once say the same?. I could not go off to my week in The Diary (the blogging equivalent of the Priory) without reminding you that this coming Sunday is the 50th anniversary of the signature of the Treaty of Rome, which marked the birth of what is now known as the European Onion. Because it brings tears to your eyes. I suppose it has done what it was created for, i.e. to keep Germany under control. Although I'm not sure Bert was informed.

I will leave you with Quarsan's witty take on the official logo of the anniversary.

A CAUTIONARY TALE

"My name is Daphne Wayne-Bough and I am a blogaholic."

Until exactly 12 months ago today I had never blogged. I was clean. My worst vice was a tendency to write restaurant reviews for Embassy magazines. And then, mad with grief after the loss of my beloved Harold, I read an article about blogging and a year ago today posted the very first piece on Chocs Away! about the Binche carnival. (Yes I know there's one dated August 2005, but I didn't actually post it until March 2006). Little did I know it would lead to an addiction which would consume most of my spare time and quite a bit of the day when I'm actually paid by someone to do something else.

I did not get a comment until my eighth post, on 18^th May, and I placed it myself just to see what it felt like. It felt good. On my ninth post (20^th May) Zoe of My Boyfriend is a Twat left a comment. She had to really, the post was about her. On the tenth post (21^st May), someone said “I really enjoyed looking at your site, I found it very helpful indeed, keep up the good work.” It was that nebulous character “Anonymous”. My eleventh post on 25^th May got two favourable comments from other users: Robin who said it was a “Tour de France” and Wrath of Dawn who said it made her scream. Whether from pleasure or pain was not clear. By June (15^th post or thereabouts) Zoe had linked to me and I was starting to benefit from the patronage and pimping of blogging’s answer to Heidi Fleiss, with visits from Peter of Naked Blog, Pat of Past Imperfect, and Vicus Scurra of West Hampshire (VSOWH). Anonymous was still a faithful visitor, and kept telling me how much he or she liked my blog.

The first time my comments box went into double figures, 20^th June, it gave me a "buzz", as I think the expression goes. The fact that the ten comments were a three-way conversation between me, Zoe and Peter is irrelevant. I was hooked. Sometime during the fateful 2006 World Cup I actually met Zoe and Quarsan, the world-famous Twat, in person. Vi Hornblower thinks blogging is giving me hallucinations and calls them my imaginary friends, but I know they are quite solid, some more than others.

By the end of June, Aunty Marianne, f:lux, ProblemChildBride and Cream had joined this particular circle of Hell. They linked to me, I linked to them, the blogging equivalent of sharing needles. On 6^th July came the second landmark, 20 comments. I was starting to feel like Judy Garland in “A Star is Born”. An apt analogy, as it would turn out. In August the comments started to creep up into the high 20’s, and on 15^th August the pinnacle of my blogging career – 36 comments for “My Gay Umbrella”. Never matched since. In October I jogged along at a steady 10-15 comments per post, and was getting more and more regular hits from the likes of Shyha, Banana, Frontier Editor, Dr Maroon and Calamity Tat. Sometime during that month I installed Site Meter and started to count hits. I remember being very excited when I went past 1,000! But of course I was already craving more, more, more. I was on a hiding to nothing.

By November I was occasionally hitting a heady 30 comments on a post, although sometimes as few as 5. I started getting careless, and made silly mistakes. I made a passing reference to a certain notorious North African head of state and was bewildered to find I had suddenly acquired a regular visitor from the People’s Jamarahiya. I ambushed him/her/it into betraying its presence, then deleted all references to the good colonel in every post and it disappeared. Proving it was a spy computer. Although I like to think of the great Muammar himself sitting in his pyjamas in front of his PC, chortling over my blog.

I made contact with more denizens of Brussels low-bandwidth society such as MKWM, Sir Gawain of England Expects, and the incorrigible Tippler, all avowed addicts with no ambitions to quit. We made a sorry little group, sat around a table in a Brussels pub, discussing hit counters and html, each of us secretly itching to get away and back to our keyboards. Apologies to all other blog abusers who visited me and who I have not mentioned. Blogging knackers your memory.

In January of this year I turned my first 10,000 hits and in February my first restaurant review was published in UpYours UpFront, the Brussels monthly edited by Tippler. Things had got so bad I had been forced to prostitute my talent in order to eat. I didn't clean the flat for, oh, at least a week. There was an itinerant eco warrior living under the dining room table for a month before I noticed he was there. It was Sid and Nancy in the Chelsea Hotel all over again. I was saved only by Scrumpy, the dear sweet boy, who forced me to go cold turkey by hogging the computer for two months solid, running clips from YouTube incessantly day and night, in a selfless vigil to keep his Aunty Daphne on the wagon.

Last week I was proud to be a contributor to Shaggy Blog Stories, a compilation of blog posts sold for charity. Although this is some kind of temporary redemption, I feel almost certain to relapse. Blogging will be the ruination of me. I am therefore going into rehab this Saturday for a week, and hopefully will come out clean and rejuvenated. Until the next time.

The moral of this sorry tale is, for any disheartened novice bloggers out there, that a blogging habit takes perseverance. If you don't want to end up like me, don't even start. Just say no. If you do want to end up like me, however, follow the advice of Robert the Bruce, during a bout of cold turkey:

"If at first ye dinnae succeed, try, try, try again. Git they fuckin' spideys awa', the noo."

Indeed, a few more tries would have come in handy last Saturday in Paris.

NOBLE IN DEFEAT

Body revived and mind reslain. Or is it the other way round? I have just staggered off the Thalys high speed train from Paris, feeling exhausted, jaded, hungover, and bloated. A good weekend, in other words, despite the disappointment of the match result. I may have contributed to Scotland's defeat slightly by cheering every time France got the ball for the first 20 minutes. It was that "Ecosse 2007" written on their shirts that confused me. I was growled at by the great hairy Scotsmen all around me, and Angus McSporran only cheered up when he saw the result of the England v. Wales match.

I also attended a rather exclusive gathering at the Town Hall of the 18th Arrondissement, where the Lothian & Borders Police Band entertained us with much skirling of the pipes and waggling of the sporrans. A man in a kilt standing near me muttered in a worried tone: "Who the hell's keeping an eye on ma hoose?".


There were also lots of people in funny hats who were not Scottish, from the Commanderie du Clos Montmartre, or friends of the Montmartre vine, who made interminable speeches about the Auld Alliance, firewaters French and Scottish, and initiation of various dignitaries into the ancient and sacred brotherhood of the raised elbow. We were about to nod off when we were rudely awakened by the warlike drumming of Clan an Drumma, a bunch of fierce and wild-haired tattooed Highlanders who made a hell of a noise, amplified even more by the acoustics of the elegant Town Hall atrium. I had slight palpitations, partly brought on by the drumming, but largely due to all the men in kilts.



On Saturday morning before the match the Police Pipe Band entertained the Parisians in the Place des Abbesses. The timing could have been better. They arrived just as the church bells started ringing. And ringing. And ringing. Eventually they decided to start playing, in competition with the very loud bells. The pipes won, needless to say. Even God is silenced by Scotland in full battle cry. The pipers were a huge hit with the locals, and before they set off for the stadium, dropped into a number of hostelries and raised the rafters, in return for which they were plied with complimentary tankards of foaming lager, which they bravely tried to decline I am sure, being policemen in uniform after all, but it's so hard to refuse well-meant hospitality.

Not usually being one to blow my own bagpipes, I must overcome my natural shyness and urge you all to go ahead and buy Mike Atkinson's Shaggy Blog Stories, in which you will find contributions from such leading blogueuses as three-time Bloggie winner Zoe of My Boyfriend is a Twat, three-times a night man Tippler Does Brussels, and three times a lady Peter of Naked Blog. I think I also spotted Vicus Scurra and one or two other reprobates in the list, although the post-Parisian fog hasn't quite cleared yet so I'm not sure. Oh, did I mention that I'm in it too? £4 or something per book goes to Comic Relief, so click HERE. Now. Go on, you know it makes sense. And while you're at it, go and visit Mike on his own excellent blog Troubled Diva.

I'm having an early night. Too much enjoying oneself at my age takes it out of you.

DONALD, OU EST TON PANTALON?

Heartfelt congratulations to Brussels' very own Zoe of My Boyfriend is a Twat who has just won the Bloggie for BEST EUROPEAN BLOG for the third year in a row! Round of applause!! Round of drinks! Well done everybody! (Oh my God she'll be perfectly insufferable now). Honestly, it's quite an achievement, I don't think any other Bloggie winners have ever done the hat-trick. And no other blogger has achieved such renown for just talking about her Twat. Apart from Girl with a One-Track Mind, of course.

Angus McSporran is taking me to Paris this weekend for the France-Scotland rugby match. We are also going to drop in at the annual "Ecosse à Montmartre" festival, which has been running for some years now, and is very popular with the French, especially as it is timed to coincide with the Frog-Jock clash during the Six Nations. The sight of a pipe band marching through the Place du Tertre and the subsequent "battle of the bands" with various Breton and other traditional French groups has to be worth the train fare. Luckily, it being France, there'll be plenty of cheese handy to stick in my ears. There are also going to be Celtic drummers dressed up as extras from Highlander. It'll make a change from the 11th century Irish chieftain I keep bumping into here at the Belgian carnivals.

On Friday evening I am invited to a very posh Caledonian evening at Montmartre Town Hall. I shall be sporting the formal evening attire of the White Heather Club ladies. Over my white organza ballgown I shall be sporting a sash of the McSporran tartan and a sprig of heather in my tam-o'-shanter. I have been rehearsing the Gay Gordons for the inevitable ceilidh - I am all a flutter at the thought of all those men in traditional Scottish dress tartan. Scottish formal receptions are the only ones you'll go to where the men look better than the ladies. I have a weakness for a man in a kilt. There's something devastatingly attractive about Celtic men, but especially Scots. Think Sean Connery. Think John Hannah. Think Robert Carlyle. Think Ewan McGregor. Think Hamish Clark (Duncan from "Monarch of the Glen"). Think that bloke who sings with The Blue Nile. What is it about them? Is it their great hairy sporrans, or their mighty cabers and the way they toss them? Angus is not in the Sean Connery league, but he has a certain Rab C Nesbitt quality which is rather endearing.

Not a lot of people know this, but my grandfather was actually a Scot, from a small town near Glasgow called Gore Balls, which I believe was a rather select area. Or at least the people who lived there were very sought-after. He was head hunted at a very young age and left to seek his fortune in America, where he did well promoting Scotch whisky to the New Yorkers between 1920 and 1933. I attribute my flawless complexion to my Caledonian and Celtic roots, with a little help from Estée Lauder, whose husband Harry was quite popular in the Scottish music halls back in the day.

The restaurants of Montmartre will be serving Scottish fare during the whole week - I can assure you that I once witnessed a group of Parisian food buyers brought to their knees in admiration by top quality Scottish grub. I'm very partial to a sliver of oak-smoked salmon and prime Angus beef, especially washed down with a nice Chateauneuf-du-Pape. There will also be tasting of whiskies in various watering holes. I shall be partaking of a Laphroiag or two and conversing fluently with other rugby fans in their native dialect. My fluency in Scots comes mainly from the poems of Robert Burns and the novels of Irvine Welsh.

After the Scottish XV have followed in the footsteps of their English cousins and thrashed the French on Saturday afternoon, up on the hill there will be fun and frolics. A number of Scottish designers have been invited to participate, and I am particularly looking forward to a fashion show by 21st Century Kilts, whose trendy leather and see-through PVC kilts will be modelled by six French amateur rugby players, who I am assured will be wearing the kilts in the traditional manner. I'd better have a wee dram before I go to that, to steady my nerves.

And while I'm singing their praises, here are two more reasons to love oor pals awa' over the border:

SHAGGY BLOG STORIES

Red Nose Day is upon us soon. It's red nose day most mornings for me, until I've liberally applied Estee Lauder Maximum Cover nos 5 and 7 (oh yes, I blend my own shade of foundation. You don't think I wake up looking this good do you?).

Our Teuchter* friend in California, Sam, has alerted me to the following Worthy Project which involves contributing a post to an anthology of funny blog posts being compiled by Troubled Diva, proceeds to go to Comic Relief to the tune of £3 or £4 per book sold.

This is where you come in. Which one should I contribute? It should be short, and of course funny. I've got such a hectic weekend that I haven't got time to plough through my great opus of hilariousness, so I need your help. Which one made you laugh most?

You might as well help me do this, as I certainly wouldn't be seen dead in public wearing a plastic red nose. And please buy the book too, whether or not I'm in it.




* Teuchter = Scots term meaning peasant.