SECTS & CHOPIN (AGAIN)

Chopin by Delacroix

I'm off tonight to Warszawa, Poland. Yes, some people might prefer Antigua or Mallorca, but Poland's got its own charm. It's not always about sea, sex and sun. Tarquin de Folle is joining me on Sunday, and we're going to paint the town pink. Poland, land of Chopin and Copernicus, with the grey balconies of cabbage-smelling Communist-era apartment blocks transformed by brightly-coloured cascades of flowers from May to October; grey pasta, smokey sausages, gingerbread, pickles and cholesterol in a jar; suicidal taxi drivers re-enacting the doomed, desperately heroic cavalry charge of legend; black-clad clergy and mafiosi; ghosts, graveyards, and family packs of votive candles; horsedrawn sleighs and skiing nuns; an impossible language where Mario means Maria and no means yes; battered, scarred, trampled, betrayed land which got its revenge, cold; Catholic churches filled to overflowing and condom machines in the street; ice hockey on frozen lakes in winter and fruit trees dripping apricots in summer; officer cadets in impossibly tight trousers and supermarket checkout girls dressed for clubbing. I think I've rather been missing the old place.

Anyway, this is where I'll be on Sunday afternoon. Yep, that's me with the gay umbrella sitting on the bench. Tape EastEnders for me, will you?

THE MARCHING SEASON

I was out shopping today, minding my own business, when the telltale pitter patter of raindrops told me I was about to get a famous Brussels "drache" or drenching. At this time of year I am never without my trusty gay umbrella, and was carrying a couple of red plastic carrier bags. I quickly popped one over my cashmere twinset, fashioning the other deftly into an Ubongan toffee-wrapper headdress. One does so hate getting one's pearls wet, n'est-ce pas?

Unfortunately I was not quick enough to avoid what sounded like a samba school coming down the street shouting, blowing whistles and banging things, all of them dressed in red bin bags. I scuttled on down the street to try and get out of their way but pulled up short at the realization that I was going away from my office. As I dithered in the middle of the road the shuffling throng closed in on me, and the next thing I knew someone had stuck a flag in my hand and linked arms, and suddenly I'm leading a protest! I tried to explain that I was mildly Liberal Democrat with a hint of light Green by political inclination, but they weren't having any of it. "You can lead the rainbow faction - come on girls, all behind the gay umbrella!". I found myself heading up the "LGTB" division of SETCA. consisting mostly of hairdressers, airline stewards and female impersonators. Behind us were the sex workers, demanding "decent work". Sometimes, you know, it's just best to keep quiet.

Some friendly female impersonators

Well, when in a tight spot, my solution has always been to go with the flow. So I joined in with the chanting, which went along the lines of "Death to bankers, they're all wankers, we're only here for the beer!" and "Down with IT ALL". After a while I found I was enjoying myself. It was quite liberating to shout in the street, as any bag lady could tell you. I was transported back to the heady days in Paris a few years ago when Vi Hornblower and I re-enacted May 1968 with shopping bags in place of Molotov cocktails, and ended up going from the vanguard to the van (the blue one), but not without a fight.

Even the KNOB* turned out to entertain the troops

We passed Fortis Bank which had been less than helpful to me last year when I was looking for a mortgage, and I lost it completely. I threw a crumpled up tissue at their window in rage. That'll teach them. My "girls" cheered and followed suit, with a hail of powder puffs. The police stood by, smoking, as the female impersonators fell off their platform shoes in an attempt to get themselves arrested.

My feet are killing me now. And I've been booked to head up Gay Pride tomorrow.




* Kurt Nachtnebel Oompah Band

FROM ONE DAPHNE TO ANOTHER

Radio 4's Book of the Week next week is comedian Arthur Smith's autobiography, which has just been published. He is reading extracts every day at 9.45 a.m. and again at half past midnight, UK time. It is a well-written and courageous work of brutal honesty, to judge by the extracts already published in The Times Online. And I believe I feature in it briefly, although I am not the Daphne of the title.

I knew him from schooldays, in fact he was a major influence on me. If it hadn't been for Arthur, or Brian as he was known to the Lower Sixth, I could have ended up in Sidcup (or worse - Chislehurst!) for the rest of my life. I may even have ended up working in Streatham Tax Office and still be looking in vain for the non-existent Daphne Fairfax.

from my photo album: Paris, circa 1975
Brian (centre) with brother Richard and a friend

As I am unable to listen to the broadcast, being either at work or fast asleep at the hours it is going out, and cannot listen to BBC iPlayer outside of the UK, would someone listen to it for me and give me some feedback? I don't know if he'll read out the chapter about his schooldays. In the interests of protecting my identity, I think he has called me "Babs" or something equally unlikely.

I'll share with you something not a lot of people know about Brian. At the school disco he used to do a mean Mick Jagger impersonation, which kicked off with a long run up and a spectacular cartwheel into the centre of the dance floor, landing on his feet already Jaggering to the opening bars of "Brown Sugar", while I held his pint dutifully. When I heard that he'd done a show called "Arthur Smith sings Leonard Cohen" a few years ago, I sniffled slightly, as I remembered listening to "Songs of Love and Hate" over and over again on the mono pickup in his room when we were supposed to be revising for A-levels, and how he used to sing "Suzanne" to me lugubriously as we walked home from the Plume of Feathers in Greenwich. Sunday lunchtimes were spent in the smoky darkness of the Greenwich Theatre jazz club (nice) while outside the sun shone bright on Mrs Porter and on her daughter, they washed their feet in soda water. If I can still remember huge chunks of T.S. Eliot it is probably thanks to Brian (as well as Miss Bennett, my English teacher). All the songs on the sidebar this week were chosen with him in mind.

I can't help thinking, though, that he picked the name "Daphne Fairfax" in his stand-up routine as a tribute to Yours Truly.

Arthur Smith
Grumpy Old Man, Entertainer, Writer
and Survivor Extraordinaire

SCENTS AND SENSIBILITY

In France and Belgium, lily of the valley is given to celebrate May Day. I have lots of them in my garden, which have conspired to flower just in time for 1st May. Isn't that clever? Lily of the valley, or "Muguet" as the French call it, packs a powerful punch for such a delicate little plant. Sometimes the smallest packages make the most noise.

I have always delighted in fragrances. Certain aromas have a Proustian madeleine effect, taking me back through the phases of my life. My feminist side showed itself during schooldays when I splashed men's after-shave "Brut", "Canoe" or "Tabac" all over. In the seventies patchouli was the order of the day, its main quality being its pungency and ability to mask other less legal smells. As a young professional, wanting to appear older and more sophisticated, I used to favour Miss Dior. In my 30's, brazen and shameless, and - dare I say it - in my prime, I flaunted myself in Jacomo's Or Noir and didn't care who knew it. In my 40's, it was "O" de Lancome by day - sharp fresh lime with honey overtones that gradually become more powerful with the warmth of the body - and "First" by Van Cleef & Arpels at night - very sophisticated and horrendously expensive.

I have tried hundreds of the world's great fragrances. Some absolutely do not work on me - anything by Chanel, for example, or the heavy, musky ones such as Opium or Shalimar. I had quite a long fling with Nina Ricci's "L'Air du Temps" (flowery, understated - so not me - but gorgeous Lalique bottle), Paco Rabanne's "Metal" (1980s - minimalist, metallic), to Fidji (smells a bit like Pina Colada - often on special offer after the summer holidays) and Carolina Herrera who names her perfumes after Peugeot cars.


But ever since my earliest days in Paris, there's always been a bottle of Yves St Laurent's Rive Gauche on my shelf. They say you should find a perfume that reflects your personality. RG is so absolutely moi. Neither flowery nor musky, quite sharp, no-nonsense, unsentimental, straight up, businesslike, doesn't beat about the bush, direct, gets straight to the point.


My birthday's at the end of this month, by the way.

What's your favourite fragrance? Do you have different perfumes for different times of day or occasions? Does one particular scent bring back memories? (McChe can sit this one out).

EVERYTHING'S CONNECTED

OAPs favourite

Barack Obama didn't come to Brussels. Three months slogging at the gym and all for nothing. Mind you, just as well I suppose, as I actually gained weight at the gym. I was told it was because muscle is heavier than fat. And as far as I can see, it takes up as much room, so what was the point of that? I have not renewed my three-month subscription, and I am devising my own summer exercise plan. This involves getting off the metro one station before the end of my journey to work and back and walking through a park at each end. When not dodging joggers it is tempting to amble along, stopping to smell the flowers occasionally, but it's exercise, and it is FREE.

The End is in sight

The rest of the time I'll spend running after the new computer, which should work off a few hundred calories a day.

Eurovision is but 3 weeks away. The Spanish entry has been changed - it's not going to be Melody after all, so no chance of seeing the former child star with the seven sex gods of flamenco although they're still on YouTube. UK's Jade Goody sings Andrew Lloyd-Webber (subs: is this right?) but personally I fancy Armenia, who are putting up a jazzy kind of workout dance by the home grown version of the Cheeky Girls, one of whom has a voice spookily reminiscent of Cher, a daughter of Yerevan herself, who was once married to Greg Allmann, the composer of the theme to Top Gear which I featured a few weeks back. You see how everything's connected ?

Anyway, I will expect to be doing a spot of this dance in the park on my way to work in a few weeks, when it wins Eurovision.