DAPHNE WAYNE-BOUGH IS UNWELL

.... and will be out of town next weekend. Drop by in three weeks and see if I have thrown in the towel yet. This blog, like a very tatty pair of jeans, is on its last legs.


Of all the weekends to be ill, this is NOT the one. It is Brussels no-car day today, and pretty soon nice middle-class family groups will be freewheeling past my window on their bikes, en route to the Big Brunch at the Atomium, then on to the mock French village, the open-air retro dancefloor, to finish up at the free concert in the park down the road. And I'm laid low with a very nasty bug that entailed wasting four hours in Emergency on Friday night. Oh, the unfairness of life!


Never mind. I am laying abed in my boudoir, pale and wan, sipping water and re-reading Lawrence Durrell's Avignon quintet, and listening to this sort of thing. If I don't see you again, it's been emotional.

TATTOO YOU

I knew it would happen. I have long held a belief that the ageing process results in a deterioration of one's musical taste. I have arrived at this conclusion by observing people who were 30 in 1955 and who nevertheless prefer listening to military bands to Elvis Presley.

Notwithstanding the longevity of the Rolling Stones, Alice Cooper et. al., there is a inexorable gravitation towards Max Bygraves as one approaches the end. And now it's happening to me. I suspected as much a number of years ago when I was driving down the M1 listening to the car radio and found myself thinking "Jim Reeves had a lovely voice didn't he .... "

I was watching highlights from the Edinburgh Tattoo on TV, and found with horror that my fingers were beating time to Colonel Bogey. I cooed at the Royal Jordanian Circassion Guards, I aaaahed at the Gurkhas, I WEPT when Our Boys marched out in their desert camo, fresh from the sandpit, beating their drums with a buddy marching shotgun behind them. King Abdallah of Jordan taking the salute undid me completely. I remember his dad - lovely little king. By the time the Lone Piper closed the proceedings I was a wreck, and barely got the mascara out of my eyes in time for EastEnders.

Talking of which, I'm still overcome with emotion after the last two episodes. Barbara Windsor's final performance was a masterclass in how to take a final bow. The pain! The anguish! The held-back tears! You could tell this was really The End by the piano version of the closing theme, which is code for This Storyline Has Run Its Course. And Peggy was wearing sensible heels. Just check out her brave face, her determination not to cry, and the mystery of how the upstairs of the Queen Vic hasn't got a trace of fire damage.

NIEUWPOORT STATE OF MIND

When I was a baby, a gypsy said I would be very musical. At school my music teacher told me I had the hands of a concert pianist. I took piano lessons for a while when I was about 12, but couldn't get along with it. In Poland, to relieve the boredom, Harold bought me an electric keyboard which I used for a few weeks and then packed away, never to see the light of day again until a few weeks ago.


The sheet music has been lost, so I am making vain attempts to produce something resembling a tune from a combination of internet crib sheets and trial-and-error. After hours of painstaking and pain-inducing plunking, plinking and shouting of "bugger", I can at last bash out a halting version of "Ode to joy" with two hands. Well I could last week. I'm afraid it's gone again.



But it's not all classics with me, oh no. I have learned the chords to "Empire State of Mind". All four of them. All I need now is a pair of leather trousers, and Puff Diddly Dogg to rap along with me. For some reason Alicia Keys has taken offence to this Belgian tribute to the town of Nieuwpoort and EMI keep trying to take it down, but I'm a rebel, see, I just don't care. I'll take you all down with me ....

DAPHNE'S FOURTH WAY - CELEBRITY POLITICS

Australia's outgoing (probably) Minister of Culcher

If you thought Belgian politics was a mess (11 weeks and counting since the election and we still don't have a government), I can't wait to see what's going to happen in Australia. Democracy seems to be getting its knickers in a twist, and if we do not want to fall into a more sinister alternative, we must think of ways to make it more interesting.

I have the solution. We keep democracy -- we just do away with politicians. I am inspired by hip-hop singer Wyclef Jean's bid for the Presidency of Haiti. He was obviously inspired by fellow songbird Carla Bruni, who is running France from the master bedroom of the Elysée Palace. Other musos turned politicos are Brazilian singer-songwriter Gilberto Gil, who served five years as Lula's Minister of Culture and still managed to hang on to his dreadlocks, and Peter Garrett, former lead singer of Aussie band Midnight Oil, who has been Australia's Minister of the Environment for the past three years (although not for much longer I suspect). Pete Wishart of Big Country and Runrig is now a MSNP at Holyrood. While they're blowing their own trumpets they might as well use the hot air where it can do some good. I often suggest as much to the KNOB.*

President of France

I would suggest that in future we do away with political parties and just have music or movie stars take over, particularly the ones who like to mouth off about politics. Let them put their money where their saxophone is. Wyclef Jean has already mastered the art of the politician's sleight-of-hand - having lived in the US since childhood, he claims that his job as roving Ambassador for Haiti since 2007 exempts him from the 5-year residency in Haiti that is required of presidential candidates. Why make residency a rule at all, in these days of the internet. If you can run a multinational company from the Netherlands Antilles, why can't you run one country while living in another? Rupert Murdoch seems to manage it perfectly well.

Wyclef considering his options

Party politics would become redundant. Elections would be done by a combination of judges awarding points and popular phone-in voting, like on Strictly Come Dancing. Replace Peter Snow with Bruce Forsyth, while we're at it, on election night. The candidates would have to be from a rock tradition though where possible - only they have the age and experience -- and the money.




My candidate for Prime Minister of the UK would be Keith Richards who is the de facto elder statesman of rock. Mick Jagger would obviously want the job, being a Sir and all, but I feel that Keith is the wiser man of the two, he has dedicated his life to reining in the more excessive whims of his front man, who would be likely to replace the Grenadier Guards with the Hell's Angels. We would have to wipe his criminal record clean, but better a criminal BEFORE taking office than during, you know what I mean? A rock star with loads of money would be essential, ensuring that he or she would not plan to impose Communism on us and at the same time be incorruptible.


Two-time** Eurovision winner Dana already had a crack at the Irish presidency but couldn't get further than MEP, so Ireland would need someone with heavier credentials such as Bono, with Bob Geldof as Chancellor. No arguing with him. You'd give him yer money. As for Europe, I suggest they should maintain the rotating presidency, resulting in complete unknowns, so no change there then.





Americans prefer to be bossed around by movie stars, therefore it is no surprise that the majority of their celeb politicos are in California. Their first elected movie star, Ronald Reagan, was Governor of California and went on to become President, and in hindsight was not the worst Chief they've ever had. Mind you, in the light of George W. Bush, anyone is going to look good. Arnie Schwartzenegger is the proof that this system can work. He has proved to be one of the best Governators, sorry Governors, that California has ever had. Only the fact of not being born in the US prevents him running for President. Clint Eastwood was a very popular Sheriff of Carmel in California, and the late Sonny Bono (him off Sonny and Cher) was Mayor of Palm Springs. I would have suggested Morgan Freeman, who has played the President, Nelson Mandela and even God, to good effect on the silver screen, but I just read that he's marrying his step-granddaughter, which would make Jacob Zuma look like a model husband.


The Americans should turn to their small caucus of political rock stars. Perhaps Alice Cooper would accept to put his name forward - he always said he wanted to be elected.

Alice would whip them into shape

In Italy porn star La Cicciolina was elected an MP and offered to sleep with both Saddam Hussein and Osama Bin Laden in the interests of peace. Now that's a novel approach to foreign policy, although I can't see it working for William Hague. In Britain, Glenda Jackson was a Junior Minister for a while in Blair's first cabinet and is still MP for Hampstead and Highgate. While Ronnie Rayguns was in the White House, actress Melina Mercouri was Greek Minister of Culture.

Giuseppe Verdi

Entertainers in politics go back a long way. Verdi was given a seat in the parliament of newly-unified Italy. Paderewski the world-famous concert pianist was Prime Minister of Poland just after the first world war. I wonder if he treated his ministers to a sing-song round the joanna after cabinet meetings? What a pity he wasn't still around when Morecambe and Wise were at their height. Talking of Polish premiers, I always imagined Lech Walesa, on being shown around the palace after being elected President in 1990, spotting a bit of faulty wiring and whipping out his screwdriver. He wasn't the best or most popular President Poland's ever had as it goes, so I would suggest sticking to entertainers, who know about crowd-pleasing, unlike trade unionists or footballers.

Mind you, on second thoughts, we have already had the lead singer and guitarist of the Ugly Rumours in charge and look where that got us.

* Kurt Nachtnebel Oompah Band
** 1970 and 1998

NAMUR TOUJOURS NAMUR

Jeremy Clarkson wouldn't approve, but hey

In Belgium there is a car-sharing system called Cambio, which is run by a German company and is heavily subsidized by the Belgian state through the public transport system. You pay 4 euros a month to be a member, and can use any of the 1000 or so small hatchbacks which are stationed at 249 points in 19 towns throughout Belgium (134 of them in Brussels) for a usage charge of 2 euros an hour plus about 30 cents a kilometer, fuel included. You bring it back to its designated parking place, and don't have to worry about insurance, parking, petrol or road tax. The system started in Germany, is widespread in Belgium, and has now spread to Ireland. For someone like me who only needs a car now and again, it is a great system.


After a visit to the Wallonia Centre in Brussels, I decided to go and explore the deep South. Of Belgium. Wallonia and Flanders are very different countries, both linguistically, culturally and geographically. Whereas Flanders is very flat, as soon as you hit the Ardennes you get into rolling hills, gorges and forests. The landscape feels more lush. The motorway signs are all in French, too. When you drive to Liège the motorway crosses the border several times, so the signs keep switching from Dutch to French and back again. Most confusing.

Namur's blues tone town hall

Namur is an extremely pleasant city. The architecture is very French and the city is practically built of Belgian blue stone (which is not really blue, but pale grey). The town centre is currently being renovated, but despite the road works it has the feel of a fairly prosperous city in these times of crisis, to judge by the number of people shopping on a Thursday lunchtime, not to mention the new and modern street furniture and modern sculpture on display. It has a proper river, which is what Brussels lacks. A canal somehow doesn't compensate.

Namur high street

Old Belgian pillar box

After a spot of lunch and a mooch around the town, I rolled up my crimplene slacks and assaulted the Citadel, which sits atop a hill conveniently situated between the Sambre and the Meuse rivers, from which the original occupants could see any strangers coming up or down river in good time to get the boiling oil on. It is quite a challenging climb - once you get to the top, it's not the moment to realize you've forgotten the milk. There is a kind of village at the summit, and a number of outbuildings which have now been converted into shops, cafe and a perfumery -- just what you need after a sweaty climb.

The Citadel of Namur from the Sambre - it's higher than it looks

View from the top over the Meuse

The weather, however, as you can see from the photographs, is no better in the south than in the north.

I found one of these in the pavement: can anyone guess what it means?