GET UP STAND UP

I am entering a new phase in my life. Middle aged rebellion. For the first time in my 46 years (shome mishtake, surely? Ed.) I am GOING ON STRIKE. Yes, brothers and sisters! I am taking up arms. This is what provoked me to militancy. As you know, the KNOB* was disbanded, and following the arrival of a new lady orchestra leader, Waltraud (Wally) Von Klampwangler, we became an all-girl band, and looked forward to a new, more feminine, incarnation of what had been hitherto, it must be admitted, a bunch of unreconstructed old Kraut blokes blowing hot air.

Wally modernized the orchestra in double quick time - chucking out the old Munich beer festival songs and bringing in a new up to date repertoire with variations on Lady Gaga numbers; she also changed our public image completely: out with the lederhosen, in with the dungarees. The look was not so much Ivy Benson as Lisbeth Salander. Which was all right for the younger gels but Goth fashion doesn't suit ladies of a certain age. Some of us looked more Emu than Emo.

She won't look like this after she hits menopause

She even changed our name, to "Hot Flash" - reflecting the Time of Life of a large number of our members. It was a bit much for us old gels to come to terms with, but after a while we felt liberated and started to enjoy the new regime, one or two of our number got body piercings and Gertrude van Donckerwolke even got her mobility bike customized by the local street art collective.



However, power has inevitably now gone to Wally's head. She has decreed that we must appear on stage wearing orange boiler suits and Doc Martens! I put my foot down. I told her I will be appearing in my usual fruit basket hat, cashmere twin set and pearls, and Hush Puppies. She has declared me and a few others persona non grata and has confiscated my triangle! So much for sisters under the skin. I'm all for gender mainstreaming, but there are limits.

Anyway, it's been done before

I have been reading "The Leaderless Revolution" by former British diplomat Carne Ross, which has fired me to "take back agency" as he puts it. Or, as St Billy of Connolly put it more Scottishly in The Crucifixion, 4:45: "Dae sumthin". Up with this I will not put. I'm good and mad and I'm not gonna take it any more. On Monday I shall be protesting outside the HQ of the European Brass Neck Federation, with my fruity hat and my gay umbrella. Meanwhile, I'm practising my chants.

WHAT DO WE WANT ?
A nice flowery dress and sensible shoes.

WHEN DO WE WANT IT ?
Um ... what day is it today ?
Oh and sturdy foundation garments too.

* Kurt Nachtnebel Oompah Band

ON TOUR WITH THE ELECTRIC CUSTARD

Sunset over the lake, Midsomer Dibley, Oxfordshire

I was back in Blighty for a week's detox after the torpor and excess of the Christmas/New Year holiday, during which I lay on the sofa for two weeks stuffing my face in front of the telly. Tarquin La Folle met me off the Eurostar, and after dropping off my luggage at Ye Olde Travelodge Inne, we stopped off at The Lamb in Lamb's Conduit Street, one of the contenders for the title of Oldest Pub in London, for a small libation, before heading towards Russell Square in search of sustenance. We ended up in The Old Amalfi in Southampton Row, which was empty when we arrived but by 9.00 pm was packed - mostly with Italian tourists! How unadventurous of them. I had veal - just because I could. Italian restaurants are the only places you can eat veal in England. It's as if they have an exemption from political correctness. Tarquin had bresaolo something or other. We ordered a £12 bottle of house red wine - when it came it was a Montepulciano d'Abruzzo, which was listed on the wine list at £18. A good start.

Sunday morning my first stop was the Café Pompidou on Pentonville Road, where I treated myself to a Full English with the Sunday papers and a pot of tea, which came to not much more than a fiver! You can take the girl out of the caravan but ... I then boarded a bus which was half full of Italian tourists (not the same ones) who all alighted, with me, at Camden Town, intending to re-visit Camden Market. I was last there 25 years ago, and my goodness, hasn't it grown? I counted at least five different markets, but was particularly impressed by The Stables, which reminded me a bit of the old Kensington Market where you could buy "hippie" paraphernalia back in the 70s. You know - cheesecloth smocks, joss sticks, mandala posters, T-shirts with pictures of marijuana plants, bongs and all that. Except it's vastly bigger and labyrinthine, like a real middle eastern souk. Beautiful, exotic, shiny things. Clothing, fabrics, shoes, jewellery ... and food. I regretted having had a late big breakfast, as I would have liked to try some of the many kinds of street food on offer whilst sitting on a Vespa, but was still picking the bacon out of my teeth. I bought a smashing pair of boots for 35 quid, the saving covered the cost of my train ticket so it was like getting a free trip.

Chalk Farm Road has a similar vibe to Carnaby Street or the Kings Road in the 1960s

The restaurant seating at Camden Lock Village market

The Stables market is full of equine sculpture such as these horses galloping out of the wall

With an hour or so to kill later that afternoon I took a bus down to the City of London, and wandered about amongst the strange juxtaposition of ancient monuments and futuristic edifices bereft of merchant bankers.

My camera is so good, it can even take pictures of the future. This is the
City of London at night as it will look when the Pinnacle is finished.

On the Monday morning I had 2 scrambled eggs on toast and a mug of tea for £2 in another greasy spoon. You'd pay more than that for a croissant in Starbucks. I then collected the rented jalopy and headed north out of the "Smoke" and onto the M1. Driving in UK is so much easier than on the Continent. Signage is much better, roads are more logically laid out, other drivers are more courteous and restrained - even in London, where I managed to avoid straying into the congestion zone. I didn't have one single prang and had a lovely drive up the motorway listening to Steve Wright in the afternoon and singing along to The Fifth Dimension's "Let the sun shine in".

Up in Northants I visited my friend Fernande-Arlette de la Foufounette, or Foufounette-Stickers as she now styles herself, since her Hello! type wedding back in 2007 to Bill Stickers, ex front man of the Prosecutors. Some of you may remember my report - the speedboat, the helicopter, the fireworks, the Maharajah .... Anyway, Sweet F.A. (as Bill dubbed her in a song that just failed to make the top 200) is as delightful and fragrant as ever. We went for lunch to the Fox & Hounds in Lower Harlestone, just on the edge of Norffampton, which is a gorgeous pub with a fab restaurant. The beams and flagstones are original 17th century, and are offset by the modern Scandinavian-style furniture. The food is très gastro. F.A. had pork fillet wrapped in pancetta, with gorgonzola cream sauce, and roasted potato & apple croquette, and I had pesto-crusted cod with herb & spring onion mash, baked cherry tomatoes and sauce Choron (pictured below). Afterwards we drove to Great Brington, in the heart of what the Tourist Board likes to call "Diana Country" and poked our noses into rich people's gardens. F.A. is the most English of Frenchwomen, so much so that she does not even cook.





The next day I took a leisurely drive down the picturesque A508 to Milton-on-the-Keynes, where I had a most agreeable lunch at The Barge with The Lady Banjobile, a dear friend from my days out in the tropics, and a young man of her acquaintance known only as "The Doctor". I didn't ask - she's always been a free spirit. We camped by the roaring log fire and reminisced about our adventures in Africa, where we once danced the cancan in a dugout canoe going over Victoria Falls. Lady B wouldn't let me take any photographs of her, something about being wanted for credit card fraud in 14 countries, so for the benefit of Interpol here is picture of the pub where she may be found most days. I dished out bottles of Belgian beer and jars of real Flemish advocaat, aka electric custard, and the jalopy felt much lighter as I proceeded in a southerly direction.




On to Reading, Berks, where Vera Slapp and I took Aunt Flossie out to lunch at her favourite restaurant, the London Street Brasserie. No Good Boyo knows the place. Aunt Flossie is a very loyal customer to restaurants she likes, and I am delighted she has found an alternative to the cafeteria at Debenham's which was her lunch venue of choice for the past 30 years. Apparently she takes her granddaughters to the Brasserie now, to show them how cool she is! She always has the Leffe beer battered gurnard and handmade fries - or fancy fish and chips (you can take the girl out of the caravan) but we managed to talk her into the warm goat’s cheese, caramelised onion & tomato tart to start, whilst I had terrine of local game, fig & port chutney, glazed beetroot, and sour dough toast, followed by a whole grilled Cornish plaice with caper, shallot & parsley butter and potato & watercress salad. Afterwards Aunty just wanted a "nice cup of tea" and that is exactly what they brought her. Vera, more adventurous, ordered a "tea pig" of liquorice and peppermint. It was extremely weird. At first, when it goes over the front part of your tongue, you only taste the liquorice. Then the peppermint hits the back of your tongue and you get the sweetness. It really messes with your head. She didn't like it much, so I finished it for her.

So much for a light lunch. Vera and Cyril took me out on a very long drive in the evening to The Frog at Skirmett, near Henley, gastropub par excellence. I had roast rump of Oxfordshire lamb (not Berkshire, please note) which I pronounced to be officially The Best Lamb I Have Ever Tasted. You could have cut it with a runcible spoon. Vera had a baked stuffed squash stuffed with spicy lentils and crumbled goat's cheese. Cyril, who's a bit like his mother-in-law, in more ways than he would like to admit, had pie and mash. Apart from the superb quality of the food, the portions were very generous and the prices perfectly reasonable. So you can take your fricadelle, Monsieur Larousse, and put it where ze sun don't shine. The sun shone till the very last in Vera's village Midsomer Dibley, as the photograph at the top will attest.


Back in London, I paid a visit to Oxford Street but it's all gone to cock. I don't like what they've done to Selfridges one bit. It's gone all faux-trendy. My favourite little Italian lunch place, The Lucky Spot in North Audley Street, is no more. I spent my last evening in London at China City just off Russsell Square, tucking into a quarter crispy duck with pancakes, before making a last sweep of Waitrose and heading for St Pancras laden with Melton Mowbray pork pies, Paul Rankin sausages, Davidstowe cheddar, M&S cheese scones, tea bags, bacon and Lemsip. As if to torment me right up until the last minute, there were MORRIS DANCERS at St Pancras! A bunch of elderly geezers dressed up in straw hats, odd socks and bells were capering about to the sound of an accordion, while baffled Belgians and French looked on open-mouthed.

The Harrow Morris (for it is they) performing ancient

fertility rites, which were quite wasted on me

For the rest of the month I shall be nibbling on a lettuce leaf.

HAIR TODAY

My regular hairdresser of some five years' standing, Nicolala, is a treasure. He greets me effusively on arrival, discusses what I would like done and then does exactly what he wants. He alone knows the reference number of my hair colour which, after several initial mistakes, is exactly the right shade of auburn. He is 50-something, Italian-Belgian, as camp as a row of tents, and can cut my hair exactly how I like it in 15 minutes. He only takes one client at a time, so each client gets his undivided attention. The salon ambience is provided by Radio Nostalgie which plays 70's hits non stop. If Nicolala is in a particularly good mood he might do a bit of disco dancing. He brings me the latest issue of Allo! and a cup of coffee while the colour is taking. He wears a butcher's apron over tracky bottoms and an old style polo shirt to work in. His frizzy grey hair is sometimes left loose, which makes him look a bit like an elderly drag queen, and sometimes scraped back in a pony tail. He tells me all about his boyfriend, his cats, and his diets. If I meet him in the street he stops and kisses me on both cheeks flamboyantly. I love him to bits, and take him presents sometimes.

I wonder what is the attraction of disco?

Unfortunately Nicolala is on his holidays this week, so I had to find another place to get my titian tresses trimmed before my trip to Blighty. I headed for a well known chain about which I have heard good things. Unfortunately, I must have found the training branch. There were no clients in the salon - it was midday on the first Friday of the new year, so par for the course. Two black-clad children were running the place. It took two of them to hang my coat up, then one sat me down in front of a mirror and played at being a grown-up person. I told her what I wanted and what instruments she was allowed to use. Thinning scissors are forbidden. She nodded adultly and passed me to her mate who was to wash my hair.

"Is the temperature all right?" she asked.

"I don't know, the water hasn't reached my scalp yet" I replied.


As she washed my hair, the other child stared fixedly. I felt one of my coughing fits coming on, and asked her for a glass of water.

"Are you ill?" she asked in the same tone of voice you would use to ask if someone had been on their holidays yet. I decided against revealing the saga of the 3-year mystery cough and replied:

"I'm getting over a cold, yes."

"You need to wrap up warm," she advised in the patronizing tone of one teaching her grandmother to suck eggs, "You should wear a scarf." I did not deign to point out that she had just hung up my scarf in her closet.

Washing-child waved a tube of conditioning cream somewhere in the vicinity of my head. Then I got the head massage. Oh how I hate the head massage. And she wasn't very good at it, pressing against my temples as if attempting a Filipino lobotomy. I thought the two girls were in all likelihood trainees and didn't want to interrupt their learning curve. A slightly older girl had disappeared upstairs earlier with a chap. Obviously a men's salon.

After the washing, I was passed back to the first child. She was very sweet and obliging, and about 15. We agreed that she would do a minimal cut to start, and then cut more if required. Her cutting was, to say the least, instinctive. She didn't section the hair off but seemed to be grabbing chunks at random. We had a fairly long discussion about how short she should cut it over the ears.

"Leave it up to the bit where it flicks up, then cut the rest off."

"Some people like to leave it longer over the ears."

"Well I don't."

"You can always blow dry it straight,"

"You can always just cut it off."


While she snipped she asked me if I'd had a good Christmas and New Year. I told her fair to middling. I left out the bit about not going out in order to avoid the hordes of brainless teenagers in the town centre, to spare her feelings. She seemed disappointed I didn't show any interest in how she had spent the holiday.

Her cutting was slow. Extremely slow. By the time she had finished, the bulk of my hair had dried to a frizz (as I had told her it would). She said "But it's nice to have curly hair, isn't it?" looking with insincere admiration at the candyfloss-like Mohican sitting on top of my head. "Why don't you try wetting it again before you blowdry?" I suggested.

The older teenager, who turned out to be the "senior stylist", came down from upstairs and made a few adjustments to the bits round the ears.

"Is it a perm?" she asked. I ground my teeth.

She asked where I was from originally.

"English," I replied. "Why, do I have an accent?"

"No, no, you haven't got any trace of an accent. Has she?"

The other girl opened her eyes wide in mock amazement and said "No! Not a trace of an accent."

"I love accents" she continued, pointlessly.

"So why did you ask me where I was from?" I asked.

"Pardon?"

"If I don't have any accent, how - did you know - I wasn't Belgian?" (enunciating in an exaggerated fashion)

"Oh, the way you look."

I didn't press the point further. The answer would probably not have been flattering

After a suitably telling silence, I ventured: "You know, in London, people don't tend to ask other people about their origins,"

"Oh? Why not?"

"Because the population in London is so diverse, you'd be asking every other person. And some people find it a bit intrusive."

The senior stylist, who was obviously of Moroccan extraction, looked gormlessly at the child doing my hair, who was visibly of Indian origin, and then said:

"Did you have a good Christmas and New Year, then?" before disappearing back upstairs. The bloke had not reappeared.

Amy Winehouse's former hairdresser was apparently
on drugs too - not that you'd have guessed

A period of blissful non-conversation followed, while the child-stylist painstakingly blowdried thick hanks of my crowning glory which were already dry, holding the hairdrier awkwardly with the nozzle actually touching the hair, between brief whiffs of the smell of burning follicles. I suggested she wet it again. I wanted to suggest she give me the hairdrier and let me do it myself. I cursed Nicolala for being on holiday just when I needed him.

I glanced at the magazine rack. The choice was between "Gala" (the Belgian OK!) and "Oops!" I was not offered a cup of coffee. The music was loud, I think it might have been Lady Gaga, and then some bloke singing to his girlfriend about what he would do when he was on top of her. Love songs are not very subtle these days are they?

The cut in the end was not too bad, but my fringe was in my eyes. I asked her to cut it a bit shorter. She snipped vaguely in front of my face and some dust fell to the floor.

"It's still in my eyes."

She snipped the air again and a few more specks of dust fell.

"It's STILL in my eyes."

"I think it kind of suits you long, though."

"That's not the point. I can't see and it's actually touching my eyeballs."

Snip, snip. Oh I can always finish it off at home, I thought.

"You have to consider comfort as well as beauty," I told her.

"Pardon?"

"COMFORT - ALSO - IMPORTANT" I shouted as if to a deaf person.

"Oui."

Not even "Oui, Madame." Honestly, young people.

This is more or less what my haircut looked like when she'd finished.

a snip at 50 euros

STICK THAT IN YOUR GAULOISE AND SMOKE IT

Belgian Christmas dinner: fricadelle et frites

I am on my high horse. After the shock of that appalling assault on British cooking published by Larousse, I have now had to defend my national cuisine (pardon my French) not just against attacks from the Frogs, which I am used to, since they are a bunch of drink-sodden gastrofascist popinjays, but to the nation that invented the fricadelle, God help us, and whose national dish is CHIPS - the sodding Belgians!

I usually counter-attack with "And when did you last visit a restaurant in the UK?" to which the reply is usually "Oh about 25 years ago," or "I never have but I stayed with a family in Bury on my exchange trip 30 years ago". Get with the programme, you guys. Of course none of them watch the delightful culinary shows on BBC. They know of Jammy Oliveurre but that's about it - whatever he might tell you to the contrary, Gordon Ramsay is totally unknown on this side of the channel, ditto Michel Roux Junior - even his dad Albert is better known in the UK than in his native France. Alain Ducasse, they know. The Troisgros brothers, they know. But Mention Raymond Blanc, or Ray White, as he is known to Oxfordshire locals, and you will be met with a blank stare and a Gallic shrug. And n'en parlons pas des Motards Poilus.

Les Motards Poilus: I can't decide which one I fancy most

I have grown quite addicted to The Hairy Bikers' latest series Best of British, and have got quite emotional at their Galahad-like quest for True British Food. I feel moved to launch a crusade of my own on this side of the Channel, to defend our admittedly once appalling cooking against the slings and arrows of outrageous Frenchmen. I daren't mention Joan of Arc, as they might accuse us of doing to her what we used to do to our meat. I don't think they'd have minded so much if we'd just seared her quickly on both sides rather than burning her to a crisp.

At least the faggots under J of A's stake were British

I always rise to the defence of my homeland at this time of year when the Best of British Food is about to hit our tables. A British Christmas Dinner is second to none - and any Poles out there can just zip it. Carp! Oh puhlease. My own Christmas table usually displays a combination of British and French produce. Home made sausage rolls on Christmas Eve fill the house with that divine smell of Christmas baking, as well as home made mince pies - OK I cheat a bit with the pastry, but the mincemeat was prepared a year ago when heavy snow prevented me from getting out to Stonemanor, and has been boozily macerating since then. I will probably keel over just taking the lid off.

I haven't quite decided on the starter: Assiette baltique is one possibility: Scottish smoked salmon, red or black lump eggs, blinis and sour cream, with lemon quarters and Polish horseradish or chrzan. Then again, I do have a weakness for foie gras - I know, I know, but it's only once a year. Less said about that the better.

No really, I couldn't eat another thing

The main course will be slices of pan-fried honey glazed Perigord duck from the same French supplier at the Christmas market where I always buy my Christmas magrets; indeed, it was his duck that I served for that fateful Christmas lunch five years ago when I invited a poor unfortunate to join me; as he is still here, I can only blame the duck. Did you know that a "magret" is a breast of a duck that is raised for the purpose of producing foie gras?

The sprouts are from, er, Brussels, but this year will be prepared à la Gordon Ramsay with pancetta and chestnuts; roasted parsnips and candied sweet potatoes represent a sort of Anglo-American touch; good old roast Belgian pots cooked the British way in duck fat; and an array of accompaniments - home made bread sauce, stuffing, cranberry and orange gravy. All washed down, needless to say, with some of Burgundy's finest ruby nectar.

A gradually shrinking Christmas pud will sit forlornly in the cupboard for another year, unless I can think of something more interesting to do with it, and this year's dessert will be a good old British sherry trifle, with jelly and perhaps a smidgeon of De Klok electric custard on the side. The cheeseboard comes out at the same time as dessert, so they can be eaten in any order you like, but in the festive season Stilton is a must, alongside some of my favourite French cheeses - some runny Brie, a lump of salty Roquefort and some pungent goat. A box of cheese crackers, some grapes and walnuts and a small bowl of Branston pickle will accompany the cheese. And possibly a glass of port, although more likely another bottle of Chateau Glug.

If I can still waddle to the kitchen we may finish off with a liqueur coffee before exploding.

And THAT, Monsieur, is how you do le Christmas dinner.



*Flounces off in high dudgeon*

WE'RE LEUVEN IT

The laciest building in Belgium - Leuven City Hall

I always enjoy Vi Hornblower's visits. Since she has been living the life of a sybarite in gay Paree she's been too busy guzzling champagne in the Hotel Crillon and Ladurée macaroons to visit her old stomping grounds in Brussels. So it was with extra elasticity in our foundation garments that we set off on the train to Louvain, or Leuven as we should call it, being perfectly bilingual like our charming new Prime Minister. What a lovely man! Such lovely hair. And I do so love a bow tie.

Our Elio

A spot of lunch was required before atttacking the Christmas market, so we plonked ourselves down at Clochard de Luxe, meaning "luxury tramp", which rather reminded me of the lodger McChe, last seen sipping a glass of cava at the Gare Centrale with a nonchalant air and a woolly hat that had seen better days. The restaurant is on the Place Mgr Ladeuze, which is (not entirely coincidentally) where the main Christmas market is situated.

Vi had game stew with potato croquettes and I had the spare ribs which are the speciality of the house, with chips. Both were delicious, washed down with half a carafe of house white, and two coffees. Most reasonable at 50 euros for two, and we rolled out into the Christmas market glowing with bonhomie and ready to track down the electric custard, which was the sole reason for trekking out to Leuven.

If custard were made by Ferrari, it would be Flemish advocaat. Thick, pale yellow, unctuous and 22% alc.vol., it is eaten by the Flems with a teaspoon at teatime, and by Vi Hornblower (and Lady Banjo, Vera Slapp and Yours Truly) with a ladle, at breakfast. There are various brands, but Vi and I swear by De Klok, which can only be purchased in Flanders. It is their weapon of mass destruction. Wallonia has FN Herstal, Flanders has De Klok. If it came to a war, my money's on the Flems. The young lad who delightedly sold us 8 small jars (me) and 1 humungous bucketful (Vi) told us it was now on sale in Harrods. I have excised Vi Hornblower from this photograph as she looked as if she was about to eat the young maaaan.

The Young Maaaan is obviously a member of the family firm as he features in the company website here

After loading up with the yellow nectar, we poked around the Christmas decorations, ridiculous Santa hats, scarves, beads, lanterns, Polish china and indoor water features, before repairing for a "vin chaud", or Banjo, for the hard of hearing. Hot mulled wine, jazzed up with oranges, ginger and cinnamon, and extra alcohol, it smells like cough medecine and has much the same effect.


Leuven was Christmassed up to the nines and was packed with shoppers and families getting in the festive spirit. It is a town with a great vibe, very young and studenty: a Brussels radio station in conjunction with the Red Cross was running a campaign to stop dystentery in Nepal called "We DO give a shit!" (in English). Not the most elegant charity campaign ever launched, it may shock some of the blue rinse brigade, but you get the point fairly fast. If you wish to know more, check it out here.


We had a quick spin around the old town square where the city hall, the laciest building in Belgium, was tastefully decorated with Christmas lights, and visited the creche, where the figurines were awaiting the arrival of the Baby Jesus, who will be placed in the crib on Christmas Eve. A couple of live sheep sat around looking bored in an adjoining pen.

Empty crib until the 24th

I waved Vi off on the Thalys to Paris, pretending not to notice the globs of custard already adorning her ample bosom, and headed homeward with my 8 jars, destined for De Klok fans and virgins alike, resolving to order a full dozen next year. Delivered to my house by the young maaaan.