In the run-up to Easter, the most holy time of the Catholic calendar, we are meant to reflect upon our sins of the previous 12 months and repent. In the olden days, monks would go through villages flagellating themselves on behalf of the general populace. In modern times, with a shortage of monks, the anti-globalisation movement have taken it upon themselves to make the ultimate sacrifice and remind the rich bankers of their sins. I had a p.c. (no stamp, natch) from my nephew Scrumpy, who is back from India and girding his dreadlocks for some big gathering in London next week. His handwriting is dreadful, but it looked like "in case of arrest please post bail" ... ? These young people speak a language all their own.
Strange things are happening in my kitchen.It started a few weeks ago - just after the beginning of Lent, as it goes.I noticed a small puddle of washing-up liquid on the front left-hand corner of the kitchen sink, you know, that little flat bit where you dump your teabag. It was early in the morning and I wasn't totally compos mentis. I wiped it off and thought no more about it.
About a week later it happened again. This time I was a little puzzled, and could find no indication where it had come from. The washing-up liquid bottle was in its usual place at the back, between the tap and the wall. There was no leak, no little telltale river of stickiness. Just this little patch of viscous yellow liquid on the front left-hand corner. I wiped it away and quickly forgot about it.
The third time, last Sunday morning, I really started to be concerned. The washing-up liquid bottle was sitting at the back, the kitchen sink was quite clean except for this patch of viscous yellow fluid. It was inexplicable, unless .... no, it couldn't be ... This was starting to look like ... stigmata.
I raised my eyes to the ceiling, just to check if there was anything dripping from immediately above my head, and held both hands out palm up to check to my right and left. At that moment a shaft of sunshine hit the kitchen window and a passing boom box filled the air with heavenly voices. Well, hip hop, but it is 2009 after all. I felt like the divine St Dorothy just before the Holy Mother in the form of Glinda, the good witch of the East, bestowed upon her the ruby slippers.
I am thinking about contacting the Vatican. This could be a real moneyspinner. Busloads of Austrian tourists would be queuing up the stairs to file reverently into my kitchen and witness the miraculous golden liquid appear on my sink. Perhaps I should keep it curtained off and only open it once a week at a particular time. A video link to the street outside might be required. I could even be .... (more heavenly voices) ... beatified ! .... my kitchen would become a place of pilgrimage, like Fatima or Knock. I could have thousands of tiny tin medallions made up embossed with the sacred bottle. Doing the washing-up could become a sacred ritual. I know it's a bit unorthodox for the church to endorse a cleaning product, but the bakeries and winemakers have been doing well out of it for years.
Who says there's no such thing as miracles? I am now scrutinizing my bagels more carefully.
Here's a scoop for you, two whole months before Eurovision 2009 in Moscow. Spain's entry has been scuppered by the withdrawal of the backing dancers. So, you might say, get some more backing dancers. But in this case, the backing dancers were the stars of the act. They were seven flamenco-dancing brothers called Los Hermanos Vivancos, whose act is a bit like Joaquin Cortes x 7 meets Riverdance.
The lads, Elias, Aaron, Judah, Israel, Cristo, Josue and Josua (not a foreskin between them), have been described as everything from the 'Sex Gods of Flamenco' to 'seven tap-dancing Spaniards' and 'flamenco porn'. Sadly, unless they team up with another singer (Melody is infinitely more expendable than them) we will not get a chance to see Graham Norton pass out at the sight of his ultimate date. Perhaps he will bring them to the West End in a revival of Seven Brides for Seven Brothers meets Fiddler on the Roof.
This is definitely the time to say Ooooh Young Men! Fill yer boots ladies (and Gadjo).
Before you settle down to an evening's entertainment and fundraising for Africa with Comic Relief, may I ask you to spare a thought this Red Nose Day for destitute Scotsmen.
These proud veterans of the Battle of Bannockburn (Ed - is this right?), too proud to work, too drunk to beg, can be found talking to their imaginary friends inside cans of Special Brew in the vicinity of the railway station in London's Kings Cross. Or raving incoherently on blogs under false names, wearing C.U.Jimmy hats and inventing degrees from Oxford or Cambridge (or the LSE). Some with artistic talent try their luck in Paris, but the fumes from the paint spray cans soon addle their brains and before they know it they have got on the wrong train and ended up in Belgium instead of Provence. For them there is no turning back.
The financial crisis has been particularly hard on Scottish bank employees. One poor Scotsman, let's call him "Fred", was made redundant at 50, with the government contesting his right to a pension. It is only a matter of time before "Fred" is found slumped in an alleyway soaked in his own urine. Or somebody else's.
I appeal to Sir Billy Connolly, Sir Sean Connery, Craig Ferguson, Ewan McGregor, Lulu and all the other tax-dodging sweaty socks to push your short arms into your deep pockets and gie us the fuckin' money, pal.
Otherwise I'll get my friend Jimmy Bastard to send the boys roond.
This appeal is brought to you by the unofficial Belgian branch of ScotsCare.
President Obama recently presented the Gershwin award to Stevie Wonder. Nice to see all that campaigning didn't go unrewarded. Still, it was worth a bit of backscratching to see feet tapping in the White House. Maybe that is the solution - more rock 'n roll in the corridors of power.
Just when I was starting to feel like Eurydice trapped forever in the cold underworld, here comes Orpheus. A brave little smattering of snowdrops in the wasteland out back, the reappearance of daylight in the mornings and a pushing back of the darkness until after I get home from work, and a pleasant mildness in the air are all it takes to put a spring back in my step.
The joy of realizing that the earth is still turning despite the financial crisis is almost but not quite worth the misery of the longest coldest winter in 30 years. Winters in northern Europe are unpleasant even if you have been going to the gym since you were 20. At my time of life they don't get any easier. The crisis has also brought the subject of retirement into sharp relief. Mine should be a mere 12 years away, Zeno's dichotomy permitting, and Belgium with its damp climate is No Place for Old Men, or women for that matter.
I have therefore been idly perusing locations for my eventual retirement. I have long favoured a return to France, preferably in the warmer bit south of the Loire but a safe distance from the seriously hot bits. The crisis has come a tad too soon for my liking. It appears a number of Brits are selling up and going home, their pensions having lost up to a third of their value due to the drop in the exchange rate. If I were to retire in a year or two I could clean up. By the time I am ready to buy some serious hardwood patio furniture, I suspect the wheel of purchasing power will have turned and I find myself living next door to a Moldovan version of Boycie and Marlene.
Strange things are happening in my kitchen. It started a few weeks ago - just after the beginning of Lent, as it goes. I noticed a small puddle of washing-up liquid on the front left-hand corner of the kitchen sink, you know, that little flat bit where you dump your teabag. It was early in the morning and I wasn't totally compos mentis. I wiped it off and thought no more about it.
I raised my eyes to the ceiling, just to check if there was anything dripping from immediately above my head, and held both hands out palm up to check to my right and left. At that moment a shaft of sunshine hit the kitchen window and a passing boom box filled the air with heavenly voices. Well, hip hop, but it is 2009 after all. I felt like the divine St Dorothy just before the Holy Mother in the form of Glinda, the good witch of the East, bestowed upon her the ruby slippers.
