HAPPY BLOGMANAY

I dislike New Year's Eve. I put it down to my childhood, when I was subjected year upon year to the torture of Andy Stewart and the White Heather Club Hogmanay Party on black and white telly. For the first seven years of my life I thought I lived in Scotland. I never could work out how we could be at Trafalgar Square in half an hour on the train. As a result of this trickery I know all the words to "Donald Where's Yer Troosers" and have a morbid fear of sporrans. This year the Powers that Be have cancelled the fireworks (thanks to Flying Rodent for that last-minute news) so it'll be just me, Jools Holland and perhaps a small sherry to welcome in the New Year. If I can stay awake that long.

Following an invitation to dance from Doctor Maroon, who is admittedly a Scottish gentleman, though one who would not, one hopes, presume to thrust a sporran in my direction, I will be pitching a new idea to Bruce Forsyth in the New Year. Strictly Bloggers Come Dancing! The last series of "Strictly" was tedious, I didn't know who half the D-list "celebrities" were, they're really scraping the barrel now. Who is Alesha Dixon? Let's face it, how do you follow Mark Ramprakash? (His wife's detective agency may be able to help here). I think it's time to take reality TV into cyberspace. There is hidden terpsichorean talent in the blogosphere. We know Sam cuts a mean Highland Fling, and I'm sure Pat would be able to turn her dainty feet to anything, but can she be persuaded to dust off the WLA uniform and dance le rock with Crabtree? Che is practising his Argentinian tango in the cellar, Cream our own son of the desert is surely a maestro of the sand dance, while Spanish Goth is odds on to execute the perfect pasadoble, making elaborate use of his cape. My speciality is of course Latin American, and I bet you can't wait to see my cha cha. Yes, I think this could be a new direction for "Strictly". Even Gorilla Bananas is working on a new production of "Riverdance", as illustrated in this film clip:







I wish you all a pain-free Blogmanay, and see you all on the other side.

DOOMED, DOOMED, WE'RE ALL DOOMED!!

Nothing like a bit of Celtic gloom to see you through the festive season. Personally I'm rather sorry Malcolm didn't make no.1.

A CHRISTMAS MESSAGE

with plenty of






and


But don't forget why
we put ourselves through this every year:

THE SUBTLE KNIFE

Readers, I have been under The Knife.

I didn't want to tell you before, as I was nervous enough about it anyway and I know some of you might have found it amusing to scare me even more. Also, I am somewhat superstitious. The thought of general anaesthetic was the part that scared me most. I wrote my long-overdue Will. I made my peace with God, just in case He exists. I said a prayer to St Barbara. Of course I knew the chances of not making it were infinetisimal. But, you know, it's not a reason for not being prepared. I wrote down phone numbers, bank account numbers and put them in an envelope with instructions in the event of my you-know-what, which I carefully placed in my handbag the night before the off. I left Wee Scottie sleeping in his basket, vaguely concerned about who would look after him if I were no longer around. Would he stand guard over my tomb for years like Greyfriars Bobby? Or would the disloyal little mutt run yapping happily to the first stranger who offers him a Bonio?

The surgery was practically dental but had to be done under anaesthetic as it was a bit tricky, involving SAWING off the pointy ends of teeth (i.e. the ends INSIDE the jaw). The Belgian outpatients hospital was spotless, and did not even smell of carbolic. The nurses all wear practical pyjamas, instead of ridiculous starched uniforms and stockings. All very ER. The hospital also seemed to be not terribly busy. Lots of empty corridors, half-empty waiting areas, either the Belgians are very healthy or they manage their waiting lists very well.

I had never been in an operating theatre before, in any country. This one was nothing like on telly. It was spacious, all white, and had automatic doors so the staff didn't have to touch anything, just nudged a pad on the wall with their elbow to open the doors. The surgeon was in pyjamas too, and wasn't wearing an Anderlecht flag as a bandanna or playing heavy metal music. Sometimes you wonder if that Holby City is really a documentary. Sadly none of the doctors looked like George Clooney, but maybe that's just as well, I'd hate to have someone I fancied poking about in my mouth before we'd been properly acquainted. If Anton Meyer had walked in I think I wouldn't have needed any anaesthetic.

I don't know what it is they use to knock you out these days, but I had no memory of feeling sleepy or drifting off. One minute I was wide awake staring up at the big lamp and feeling a bit tearful, and the next minute the nurse was shouting at me in the recovery room and I've got tubes up my nose. Following maxillo-facial surgery, I have six stitches in my upper jaw over the gum, and one side of my face is puffed up like a hamster. But I can eat soft food (thank God I had some foie gras in the fridge!), and can drink, although my throat is still a bit sore from the tubes. I dare say my teeth will fall out shortly after the stitches anyway and I'll have to puree my Christmas dinner. But the good news is, I don't go back to work until January, so I'm finishing Vol.3 of His Dark Materials in bed, where I will remain until my face returns to its naturally fine-boned contours - hopefully before Vera Slapp's annual visit next week, although after a few banjos with her and Cyril down the Christmas market I probably won't care anyway.

Peel me a grape, Scottie.

THE LIVES OF THE SAINTS - 2: BABS

Today is the Feast of St Barbara. Of all the saints in the Catholic pantheon, St Barbara is certainly among the A-list. Born in about 280 A.D. in either Roman Egypt or Roman Turkey, depending on which hagiography you prefer, she was a beautiful girl with very long hair, who had three windows put in her bathroom to remind her of the Holy Trinity. History does not tell us if they were double or triple glazed and whether she put up curtains or Venetian blinds. Her father (a heathen) was most put out to learn that she had become a Christian and was flashing her bum at the world, and chopped off her head. As you do. He was immediately struck by lightning and killed. Which is why you never have an electrical point inside the bathroom any more.

Barbara became a cult in the 7^th century, and has a global following that the modern day Madonna would kill for. The Catholic Forum website lists her as specializing in insurance policies for the following mishaps or professions:

against death by artillery; against explosions; against fire; against impenitence; against lightning; against mine collapse; against storms; ammunition magazines; ammunition workers; architects; armourers; artillery; artillerymen; boatmen; bomb technicians; brass workers; brewers; builders; carpenters; Colleferro, Italy; construction workers; dying people; explosives workers; fire; fire prevention; firefighters; fireworks; fireworks manufacturers; fortifications; founders; geologists; gravediggers; gunners; hatmakers; hatters; lightning; mariners; martyrs; masons; mathematicians; military engineers; milliners; miners; Montecatini Terme, Italy; ordnance workers; prisoners; safety from storms; sailors; saltpetre workers; Santa Barbara, California; smelters; stone masons

So that’s got everyone and everything pretty much covered. Except bathroom glaziers or window fitters, oddly enough.

The mining industry all over the world reveres Saint Barbara. In Poland, where miners have special status, although for how much longer is debatable, the miners wear a special black uniform with a red plume on their hat in honour of the “Babórka” or Barbara Feast. In the UK the redundant miners are still praying for Margaret Thatcher to be struck by lightning.

When the African slaves were shipped to the Caribbean and had Catholicism forced upon them, they secretly transposed their own gods into the images of the Catholic saints they were told to worship. Hence, as St Barbara rang bells with slaves from West Africa who were familiar with Shango, the ancient Yoruba god of thunder and lightning (the Nigerian national electricity board NEPA used to have a statue of him outside their Lagos HQ) she became a top idol in the Santeria cult which they created out of a rather confused mix of Catholicism and voodoo. Babs herself would have totally disapproved this bowing to graven images and undermining of Christianity.

She is also a popular subject for so-called “miraculous” medals. The US military has an Honorable Order of Saint Barbara, which awards medals of distinction to artillerymen who have shown outstanding valour. In Paris there is a “Chapel of Our Lady of the Miraculous Medal” (nothing to do with our Babs but worth a mention) tucked away on the rue du Bac, behind a department store, which commemorates St Catherine Labouré’s vision of the Virgin Mary, who told her to go and have this medal mass-produced, which would make loads of money for the church. Unfortunately it was ordinary people who were doing the genuflecting; the priests, bishops, cardinals and Big Ben should be the ones thanking her for financing the Vatican’s spiffy new website among other things. (Goth and Tippler - don't go there. It'll just make you mad.)

The Catholic church is allegedly parodied by Philip Pullman in his trilogy “His Dark Materials”, the book behind a newly-released film starring Daniel Craig and Nicole Kidman. I read this trilogy about a year ago, after recommendations from Aunty Em and others. I laboured through Vol 1, tore through Vol 2, and lost interest halfway through Vol 3. I didn't really see the Magisterium as the Catholic church, simply as any controlling establishment which wants to suppress free speech. It could just as well have represented the Burmese government. So I’ll probably have to go back and start again if I want to understand anything about this film. It sounds a bit more racy than Harry flaming Potter though.

In the meantime, a happy Babórka to all Barbaras, especially the British ones:

The late Barbara Castle, in a straight fight with Thatcher
I'd have put my money on this Old Labour battleaxe

The divine Biba, proof that Polish immigrants
are good for Britain

Ooh-er, what a carry-on! The merry lives of
Barbara Windsor, our favourite pub landlady

Style icon and something of an inspiration to moiself,
the late Dame Barbara Cartland. You've got to admire
a woman who can put on make-up without a mirror