GOD'S RAINBUCKET

It's not raining men

While an argument rages over at Manuel Stimulation's place about which football team the Blessed Virgin Mary supports, we in Brussels have more pressing matters to consider, such as whether Belgium should continue to exist in its present form or, indeed, at all. I'm not sure the Flemish secessionists have thought this through. First of all, French is still a more widespread and important language than Dutch. Not surprising, when you get metro stations called "Kunst Wet". Secondly, even if they do get independence, they could live to regret it.

The kunst is not the only thing that's wet in this country. A recent French comedy film (which broke all previous box office records in French cinema history) pretended that as you cross the county lines into the "Nord", the French region adjacent to Belgium, the heavens open on cue. I was reminded of this recently on the Eurostar from Paris to Brussels. About 40 minutes into the journey, the train barrelled into a wall of precipitation. I glanced at my phone. The network had changed from SFR to Proximus, indicating that I was now in ... Belgium. As if I needed telling.

Belgium must be the wettest country I have ever lived in. I have seen rains of much greater volume, in West Africa during the rainy season, but never such constant, relentless, persistent, determined, unremitting, in-yer-face, all-year-round wetness as here. Alongside chocolate box ribbons, beer bottles, and beer glasses I have now started a collection of umbrellas. And yet it never seems to flood the way it does in the UK. What should one deduce from this? That the drains and rivers are better maintained in Belgium? That there is not such a mania for concreting over gardens as in UK? Or that Belgium, like Rob McKenna, is a raingod? In the words of the immortal Bubble, who can say?



As I write, sheets of rain are hurtling past the window towards the Gare du Nord like Flemish commuters at knocking-off time. If what they say about global warming is true, weather will be the undoing of this country, and those silly people in the North will be hoist with their own petard, because when the Netherlands turns into Atlantis, the French-speakers will be able to head for the hills of the Ardennes or the mountains of France, whereas the Dutch-speakers will have nowhere to go but very flat Flanders, which will rapidly join the shallow end of the North Sea. Reminding us of the tale of the foolish virgins, who didn't make it onto Noah's Ark. That will teach them to think ahead.

THE MATRIX RELOADED

Last week in Paris I met up with my old chorus line from the Folies Bergère, Dolores Ibrahim, née Entwhistle, 'Orinoco' Flo McCluskey and Hattie Mildew-Spliff. If you are a long-time reader of this blog you will remember that the last time we met up for a reunion, in 2005, it caused some devastation in the Francophone African community. Flo has gone on to start an online correspondence course for "marabouts" or witch doctors, and the "Hellcat Matrix" formation has been patented and sold to the Pentagon, and is apparently being used to some effect in the nightclubs of Basra.

Dolores is still lithe and supple and can still point one leg directly at the ceiling. It comes in very handy in the rush hour. She used to perform under the stage name of Fanny by Gaslight, for obvious reasons, but she has hung up her G-string due to her recent marriage to a very devout Moslem. There is no way to attach caribou feathers to a hijab and carry it off with aplomb, so with regrets we had to put her on the bench.

The next to bail out was Hattie, who has phlebitis and couldn't get her sparkly tights on. Orinoco Flo was game, but the 40 Gauloises a day were catching up with her and her wheezing drowned out the playback music. As for moi, it's no secret that I haven't been able to get my leg up and over for several years. So sadly, we had to reluctantly call off our planned triumphant reunion gala and repair to the nearest café for kirs (orange juice for Dolores), reminiscences and goosing young waiters. In Sarkoland, there is no place for an elderly showgirl.

Dovima with Elephants, Evening Dress by Dior, Cirque d’ Hiver,

Paris, 1955 -Richard Avedon MOMA New York)

There was an exhibition in the Jeu de Paume museum about the life and work of Richard Avedon, famed photographer of Harper's Bazaar in the 1960's, and later for Vogue. I thought of our very own favourite cover girl PI Pat, who would have become his muse had they met either side of a lens, I'm sure. I love photographs, and am saving up for a decent digital SLR so that I can take some decent shots to fill up the space on this blog when I run out of things to say. If anyone can recommend a model that is easy to operate, but versatile, lightweight but stable, and won't involve a second mortgage, I am open to suggestions. I used to be quite good with an SLR in my younger days, and now you don't have to mess about with darkrooms and developing and all that palaver, and Photoshop has made picture editors of us all, I rather fancy I could find a niche for myself as the Annie Leibowitz of the Eastbourne retirement home circuit.

"That's it my darling (click), can you take your teeth out for me my love? Lovely, (click, click) now just undo the top two buttons of your bedjacket for me, ooh that's really sexy, (click, click) let's just have a tiny glimpse of your pop sox my love, fantastic (click, click), now straddle the zimmer frame, (click), open your mouth a little bit, wet your lips, (click, click), you're going to knock 'em dead, literally (click), look at me like you want it (click), yeah baby!"

I'm off to watch the Beijing Olympics opening ceremony now, but I'll leave you with a clip of one of Dolores' more famous routines where she showed off her agility and a bit more. Cabaret's loss is Islam's gain.

OOH LA LA

I om basting from Puris on a Frinch koybeard so I shall say zees only once. I'll tell you all about it next week. Meanwhile, talk among yourselves and enjoy this short film which tells you how I met Harold in the City of Lights all those years ago. Even McChe has a small (ha ha!) role in it, you see his hand sketching something which bears no relation to the subject, as usual.

A la semaine prochaine!

ROYAL FLUSH

I am on my hols bols now for three weeks, and next Monday am orf on the train to Gay Paree, where I have been invited to join in a line-up of veteran hoofers at the Folies Bergère. That will be a post worth waiting for. I am always happy to be back in Paris, where you can get decent baguettes and a proper Croque Monsieur, although the beer and chips are rubbish.

I am hoping for better weather down there. We have not had a summer to speak of here in Brussels, and according to my doctor Gorilla Bananas the damp weather is not good for my joints, which seem to be wearing out rather earlier than they should, so I may have to fluff the high kicks in the finale next week. I can't complain, I was probably a bit heavy on the accelerator in my younger days and flooded the carburettor more than once. The latest diagnosis gives me the perfect excuse to plan winter holidays in hot, dry places. And summer ones. The weather has only just made a turn for the better here, in the last week of July. it was so cold last weekend that I had to dig out a quilt and put it on top of my duvet for added warmth.

This was how close I got to the King of Belgium. Is that his royal portaloo on the right?

Last Monday was Belgian National Day, and I braved the cold and damp to go and lend my support to His Majesty during these troubled times. HM Albert II was in attendance, well I think he was, I arrived a bit late and couldn't get near enough to the podium to see. However, I think the chap in the sash might have been His Maj. Or the mayor. Who can say?

I must get a better camera

Unfortunately I missed the fancy bits of the parade - the King's horse guards, cadets, etc. - and only arrived in time to see the grunts. I was seriously underwhelmed. Don't they teach marching in the Belgian army? They looked like they were having a Sunday stroll in the park! Perhaps their crack troops are all tied up in Afghanistan and they wheeled out the territorials, I can't believe they rely on a slovenly bunch of bearded, beer-bellied, gum-chewing superannuated slobs backed up by a waddle of short tubby women to defend the nation. On the other hand, under the present circumstances, who would want to invade Belgium anyway? The display of hardware was a long way from Red Square, I think they wanted to emphasize the - ahem - "unity" of the country, so there was a touching display of teamwork at the end of the parade, when the fire engines rolled down the Rue Royale in tandem, one marked "Brandweer", the other "Pompiers", the effect spoiled only by the drivers of the Flemish vehicles, with their road maps spread out on the dashboard, stopping to ask directions of the spectators.

The flypast took me rather by surprise and the first squadron with the smoke trails in the colours of the Belgian flag had gone over and left me all of a tremble so it was a minute or two before I could fish out my camera from the bottom of my bottomless handbag to catch a couple of the stragglers:

I do like a lot of thrust

Chocks away, Squadron Leader!

To think I had one of these in my stomach!

Anyway the military music was quite stirring and got the children waving their little Belgian flags and asking when Mickey Mouse was coming. I tapped my leopardskin umbrella in time to the rumty-tumty-tum and applauded as the army demonstrated how they would deal with a violent mob. In Kosovo. But just so's we know.

In a burst of optimism, Brussels authorities have for the 6th year running tipped a few hundred tons of sand on the canalside, wheeled out some of the chalets from the Christmas markets and re-launched "Bruxelles les Bains" - translated as "Brussels Bath" by the announcer! - a poor man's Paris-Plage, the fake beach on the banks of the Seine where I may be found sunning my aching bones, weather permitting, next week. Last Saturday evening, during a short break in the wintry weather, I dropped by to see Agua de Beber, a Brazilian band with whom I spent a pleasant rainy afternoon in a pub last summer, and to sup a Caiparinha or three. It was quite pleasant, but a closing time of 11.00 p.m. and nothing more exotic to eat than a bag of chips is not really going to turn Brussels into the Copacabana of the North.

I am not wasting my holidays. I also went to the cinema, to see "In Bruges", a recent British film, which was finally released in Belgium after being shown everywhere else. Bruges is the star of the film, which is set at Christmastime, festive lights reflecting off the cobblestones of this beautiful medieval city. It's a well-paced, well-crafted and well-cast thriller starring Colin Farrell and Brendan Gleeson as a pair of lumbering Irish hitmen hiding out in Bruges after a job turned nasty, and a remarkable Ralph Fiennes as their very scary boss. It is both funny and poignant, with subtleties in the dialogue that the subtitles don't catch.

Your holiday puzzler: find the anagram in the last sentence.

Right, must start packing for Paris. Now, where did I put those caribou feathers?

SAVE BELGIUM. SAVE THE WORLD

I have been under the doctor a bit recently. It's probably old age, but I seem to have more and more ailments. Luckily the Belgian health system is top notch, and I have found a nice GP right next door, who sends me off for a different hi-tech examination almost every week. A couple of weeks ago I had to have a camera shoved down my gullet, and immediately afterwards was presented with a full-colour photograph of my duodenum, thankfully with no residual breakfast lurking. Apparently there was nothing seriously wrong, but the doctor informed me that I had a helicopter* in my stomach! Fancy! Perhaps it was a free gift with my cornflakes that I swallowed by mistake. I'm not sure if it is a Chinook or a Sikorsky but it would account for the recent fluttering sensation in my stomach, which was certainly not induced by Bert, who has roared off back to Germany in his "little tank", having cancelled his holiday in Torremolinos in protest at Germany being thrashed by the Spanish in Euro2008 and at Wimbledon.




Last week I had to go for more, different, tests to see why I'm so creaky in the mornings. The doctor explained, as he stuck a needle in my arm, that he would be injecting me with a mildly radioactive solution .... WHAAAAAT?????? I yelled, too late, the stuff was already pumping through my veins. Er, does this mean I'll be radioactive? I asked nervously, peering closely at my hand to see if the greenish glow was visible yet. The doctor smiled. Just a bit, he said. I had to come back a couple of hours later and be put into a big scary machine which photographed me from head to foot.

Well it's not all bad news. I can now microwave my croissants without even getting out of bed and don't have to switch on the light to find my way to the loo. McChe says he can hear me beeping from the next room, but I think that's more likely to be his friend from Alpha Centauri trying to text him more Flatpack End of the World instructions. With radioactivity in my veins and a helicopter in my stomach, I'm starting to feel like a character from "Heroes". I'm not sure yet what superpowers I have, but I'm quickly learning walking up walls isn't one of them, not in the Metro at least.




Meanwhile Belgium's political crisis continues. The Prime Minister tried to resign after a full four months trying to run the country, the King smacked his bottom and sent him back to think again how to resolve this ridiculous ongoing dispute between the Flemish and the Walloons. As far as I can understand, and I beg forgiveness of my Belgian friends if I've got this totally arse-about-face, the Flemish want to claw back part of Brussels purely on the basis that the population of those districts are in the majority Dutch-speakers. The French-speaking Belgians agreed to this but only on condition that other concessions are made, the intricacies of which escape me, and which are apparently inacceptable to the Flemish. And so it goes .... Monday is Belgian National Day of Unity, which is going to be interesting. Personally I am only turning out to see the legendary Eddy Wally of "Eurotrash" fame. He makes the case for Flemish independence better than anyone.




The darkly fascinating Spanish Goth has nominated me for some foreign award for ... er, tapas, I think, which is probably an invitation to have my spam filter reinforced. Can you make tapas with spam? Anyway, according to the rules of said award I must now nominate five other blogs which I admire for their creativity, design, interesting material and for contributing to the blogging community, thus condemning the nominated bloggers to the same tedious chore.

Oh bugger it, I'm not going to. (collective gasp! of shock and awe) You try and make me. I'll take you all down with me. (What? Has she gone mad? Call the blog police ...) I'm Radioactive-Helicopter-Woman, I'm invincible, I'm the military's secret weapon, I'm going to save Belgium ... (noise of sirens approaching) ... beep ... beep ... beep ...


Editor's note:
* helicobacter pylori actually.

Daphne Wayne-Bough will not be blogging for a few days while she has a little lie-down. We hope that the geiger counter will be registering zero by next week. Ow! Stop hitting me you mad cow! No I won't f*** off back to Scotland! You need help, woman! I'm calling the polis!