QUANTUM OF COCKFOSTERS

Douglas Adams' "The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy", or H2G2 as it's known to its fans, is my Bible. Yes I'm one of those people who always plays 42 on the Lottery and have been known to ask barmen if they've got any Old Janx Spirit. I don't know what the H2G2 equivalent of a Trekkie is, but I am probably one. Adams studied English Literature, which becomes evident when he is critiquing Vogon poetry: "the third worse in the Universe. The second worst is that of the Azgoths of Kria. During a recitation by their Poet Master Grunthos the Flatulent of his poem 'Ode To A Small Lump Of Green Putty I Found In My Armpit One Midsummer Morning' four of his audience died of internal haemorrhaging, and the President of the Mid-Galactic Arts Nobbling Council survived by gnawing one of his own legs off."

Say what you like about Douglas Adams, he knows his poetry. 

In his seminal meisterwerk, Adams explained obscure mathematical constructs such as the Improbability Drive, the Total Perspective Vortex and the Pangalactic Gargleblaster. He defines an intergalactic measure of speed thus: "R is a velocity measure, defined as a reasonable speed of travel that is consistent with health, mental wellbeing and not being more than say five minutes late. It is therefore clearly an almost infinitely variable figure according to circumstances, since the first two factors vary not only with speed taken as an absolute, but also with awareness of the third factor. Unless handled with tranquillity, this equation can result in considerable stress, ulcers and even death. .... R17 is not a fixed velocity, but it is clearly far too fast."

Adams was not a scientist. All things being equal, it may start to dawn on you, very slowly, that not everything Adams wrote is true. 

o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o 

The other day I saw this brilliant little film from the California Institute of Technology, CalTech to its friends, for which they had managed to rope in the participation of Sir Stephen Hawking. No idea who the other guy is.

Now I don't mind admitting a lot of this went over my head, so I had to go and do some research. I learned that the word "quantum" comes from the Latin "quantus", meaning "how much". Or, as my late husband The Major was oft heard to exclaim in a tone of incredulity, "HOW MUCH????" Quantum of Solace meant something quite different to dear Harold, especially on the hard shoulder of the motorway on the outskirts of Wroclaw. 

My other bible, Wikipedia, had this to say on Quantum Dynamics:  "In physics, quantum dynamics is the quantum version of classical dynamics. Quantum dynamics deals with the motions, and energy and momentum exchanges of systems whose behavior is governed by the laws of quantum mechanics."

I am sure we're all the wiser for that piece of information. Now for the science bit. Wiki say about Quantum Mechanics:   "(QM; also known as quantum physics or quantum theory) including quantum field theory, is a fundamental branch of physics concerned with processes involving, for example, atoms and photons. In such processes, said to be quantized, the action has been observed to be only in integer multiples of the Planck constant, a physical quantity that is exceedingly, indeed perhaps ultimately, small. This is utterly inexplicable in classical physics."

It occurred to me that there was a degree of similarity to Douglas Adams in such explanations. 

I checked out quantum computing and quantum chemistry. I invite you to read any source you can and tell me if it makes any sense at all. Like H2G2, it all SOUNDS very erudite and scientific, but underneath, is there any real substance? 

Now I am a world-renowned conspiracy theorist, and my tinfoil hats have won prizes, but there was a pervasive pong of piscine putrefaction starting to assault my delicate nostrils. The more I tried to pin down the elusive quantum, the more nebulous and convoluted the definitions got. Something, to quote Mr Donald, was going on.

A selection of my award-winning tin foil hats

It follows that if you can have quantum mechanics, quantum physics, and quantum computing, you can have quantum medicine, quantum architecture, quantum maths and quantum history. Possibly even quantum cooking, quantum football or quantum swimming. Certainly quantum athletics, since there is such a thing as a Quantum Leap. Quantum table tennis certainly is A Thing, how else do you think they'd have come up with "Pong"? 

Anecdote: When I was a bright young thing of 21, in my final exams I disproved Descartes' famous philosophical proposition "Je pense, donc je suis" by dismissing it as a bit of linguistic jiggery-pokery. I can't remember the exact thought processes that possessed me in the exam, but my professor was dead impressed. "Miss Harridan, all this last year I thought you weren't listening!" he exclaimed.

Permit me at this juncture to digress a little and mention a popular game on a BBC radio programme, called "Mornington Crescent". The short description of the rules on Wikipedia says merely: "The game consists of each panellist in turn announcing a landmark or street, most often a tube station on the London Underground system. The apparent aim is to be the first to announce "Mornington Crescent", a station on the Northern Line." This is clearly written by someone from outside of the M25, who has understood nothing of the game. It's a bit like me trying to explain cricket, the reality of which is also open to discussion (see H2G2, "Krikkit"). The subtleties of Mornington Crescent are far too extensive to be pinned down to one paragraph. It is a game in which the possibilities for invention and creativeness are infinite, in the Adamsian sense of infinite, meaning too vast to fit inside the human imagination. It is also totally made up.

After watching the CalTech film, the loud "bong" of a penny dropping into an infinitely deep hole resounded throughout my being, and I started to laugh, and I couldn't stop, because I realized I had understood the principles of quantum theory. They are almost identical to the rules of Mornington Crescent. i.e. you make it up as you go along, using the most obscure references you can think of, comedic titles and an air of knowledgeable superiority. Whatever you do, keep a straight face. A nodding acquaintance with Hawking's A Brief History of Time will help, but ultimately, as the CalTech film says, Anyone Can Quantum. There are hints all around us. None of this is to be taken seriously.

Worth noting that in my edition of "A Brief History of Time", Stephen Hawking points out that the first edition was published on April Fool's Day.

By George, I think I've got it.

The greatest sit-down comedian of all time

TRUMP SOFTLY, LOVE

As followers of this blog will know, every four years, with my German friends in the KNOB*, I participate in EUROTRUMP, the European Oompah Band championships.  This is always a mad affair, with bands from all over Europe competing for the hallowed Golden Euphonium, which they are allowed to take home and display for four years.  It's a bit like a mini Edinburgh Tattoo without the bagpipes or kilts.

 
This time it was in Paris, which was a nostalgic experience for me, having lived there for a number of years in my younger days, when I was an exotic dancer at the Folies Bergère.  The theme was marching bands.  Brass bands, or 'fanfares', are an institution in France, particularly with universities which each have a 'fanfare' often performing in markets and festivals, playing modern hits in a disorganized and carefree way, sporting wigs and silly clothes.  The south-west of France with its Spanish influence has a great tradition of the 'banda', which has echoes of the Spanish bullfight bands.  The current All-European Oompah Champions are French, rather modernistic, trying to change the image of European oompah by integrating hip-hop, grunge and bhangra into their repertoire.  However, there were rumblings that the fans wanted a return to old school trumping and to stop all this fusion nonsense.

As readers will know, I play the humble triangle in the KNOB*, having stepped in at the last minute several years ago to replace Bert, my wurstwhile fancy man.  I also provide the 'totty' element, dressing up in a dirndl with a vertiginous décolleté.  Being of a modest demeanour, I try to hide behind the triangle, and sometimes wish they had given me the sousaphone.   Bert has now gone back to the Fatherland and launched his own oompah ensemble, and was also competing - against us!  

Paris was perhaps not the best choice of venue, as it is difficult to parade through the streets of the Latin Quarter in the rush hour.  We were performing in the Maison de la Mutualité, former crucible of revolutionary socialism.  The inaugural congress of the French socialist party took place here in 1946, Jacques Brel played in 1961, and more importantly, The Kinks in 1965.   As befits French champagne socialism, there was a 3-Michelin starred restaurant in the building. 

In homage to the history of the building, the KNOB* decided to choreograph an entry reflecting the history of the people's struggle.  My visit in July to the People's  History Museum in Manchester was the source of much useful material, and with the help of some lady friends who are nifty with a needle and thread, we made a magnificent banner which Gerhard and Uli carried between them.  This made it difficult for them to play their instruments however, needing both hands, so we put one leg of the frame down each of their trouser legs.  However this meant that they had to remain exactly two metres apart at all times. 

I modelled my costume on a suffragette, as depicted by Glynis Johns in Mary Poppins.  Our playlist comprised a medley of commie favourites such as The Red Flag, The Internationale, Ciao Bella Ciao, etc.   Gerhard and Uli managed well with the banner, until it came to turning.  Predictably, half way through 'Avanti Popolo!' there was the sound of ripping material, the banner collapsed in on itself, and an unscripted trombone wail ensued.  Quick-thinking Eckhard and Dieter closed ranks in front of them, and I shouted "Matrix!"  


Avid readers of my oeuvre will remember this was a dance routine I used to perform at the Folies with my old hoofer pals Dolores Entwhistle and Orinoco Flo McCluskey and which, ironically, I last performed in 2005 in this very city.   The KNOB went into the well-rehearsed hatband formation, which admittedly makes marching quite difficult, but managed to finish the number and get off stage with their dignity intact.  Needless to say, we did not finish in the top five.

The British DID mention the war, of course.  After all the WW1 and Battle of Britain commemorations, they sent a marching band dressed as Dad's Army to perform a medley of wartime favourites, which elicited a walk out by half the Italians and Germans in the audience.  Bert wagged a finger at me from the wings.  He was on next.

 

'Marching band' was always going to be a problem for the Germans, and I gave Bert full marks for stepping up to the plate.  Those of you who have followed this blog for many years might remember that Bert has an ego somewhat bigger than Jean-Claude Juncker's and it was no surprise when he produced a totally over-the-top extravaganza of operatic proportions.   Also, everybody in his band appeared to be Chinese.  I suspect him of a degree skulduggery since he's become national Direktor of German oompah.

 
The "youth" section of the competition is always fun, as the youngsters don't stick to the traditional oompah image, unless it involves black leather.  These British youngsters had been practising under the Pont Alexandre III, and nearly brought the house down, I wouldn't be surprised if there's some structural damage to the bridge too.  They walked off with the Best Newcomers award and their lederhosen halfway down their Calvin Kleins.

The best entries by far in my book were from the Alps:  the fabulous Austrians Mnozill Brass, who did a whole comedy/dance routine with brass instruments.  Their footwork was as good as their fingerwork.  And the Swiss blew everybody away with the unconventional Kadebostany:  Heidi's certainly grown up! 

In the end it was the Italians wot won it.  An ensemble called Il Padrone from Trieste recreated an old-school Italian funeral march, and gave us a selection of Morricone and Nino Rota favourites.  They played the mafia theme to the hilt, all dressed in pinstripe suits and even placed a non-playing member of the band behind each judge with a violin case.  Hilarious!

After the victory celebrations, we were treated to a cocktail and a video of Il Padrone's greatest gigs.

The room dispersed quite quickly after this, after a number of fans came to kiss the hand of Il Dottore, the leader of the winning band.   You're going to hear a lot more European oompah in the coming years, I feel.  We have ways of making you listen.  Trump softly, love, and check under your duvet before you turn in for the night.

 
I, for one, welcome our new Italian champions. No more Mr Nice Guys.









*Kurt Nachtnebel Oompah Band

PIGMALION: PART ONE

The little chimney sweep stared up in awe at the great house, and wondered how he would reach the great brass door knocker.  As he wondered, the highly polished door opened of its own accord, and a well dressed Grande Dame swept out of the house, nearly knocking him down the steps.  

"Out of my way, boy!"  she cried, in a haughty manner.  She glanced down at him.  "Good God, child, you're filthy!" 

"I'm a chimneysweep,"  explained Gorbals (for it was he).  "I'm supposed to be filthy."

She paused, and inspected her bustle, brushing away imaginary soot.

"Hmm ..."  she pondered.  "We need the chimney sweeping.  Haven't you got one of those modern contraptions that sucks all the soot out without dirtying anything?"

"No, Ma'am,"  he murmured.  "I've just got ma brushes here.  But I'm cheap!" 

"How cheap?"  

"Sixpence, Ma'am."

"Sixpence!  You're hired.  Take your boots off first though."  

The lady turned on her heel and pulled a handkerchief from her pocket, which she used to push him into the house.  Gorbals had never seen such a magnificent house.  The carpets were all white, and crystal chandeliers hung from the ceilings.  But when he entered the parlour, he gasped aloud.  The walls were lined with books.  Books ... he loved books. 

"Jings!  Crivens!  Help ma boab!"  he ejaculated.

Lady Daphne (for it was she) looked askance at him.  

"Where are you from child?   Romania?  Bulgaria?"  

Gorbals looked at her incredulously.

"Scotland" he replied flatly. 

She made a face as if smelling something unpleasant and made a sound which to Gorbals' untrained ear sounded like "Air".  

"Excuse me, Ma'am," he asked, "But how come ye've got all these books?  Is this a bookshop or what?"  

Lady Daphne's laughter was like the tinkling of a silver spoon against a crystal champagne glass.  

"A bookshop? Good Lord no.  These are all my books.  I am Professor Daphne Higgins, renowned expert in regional dialect and teacher of elocution." 

"Charmed I'm sure," replied Gorbals. "Mr Gorbals McChe at your service.  Scholar, chimneysweep, Scotsman on the make.  Just come doon from the Isle of Skye.  I'm no very tall but .....  "

"Get on with the job, will you?"  Lady Daphne cut him off abruptly.  "Mrs Pearce my housekeeper will keep an eye on you, and pay you your sixpence.   I must be off to the hairdresser."

--------------------------------------------------------------

Gorbals set out his dustsheets carefully and set about preparing the first fireplace.  As he poked his brush further and further up Lady Daphne's chimney, he glanced around at the books.  There were hundreds of them.  What he wouldn't give for a library like this!  He dare not touch them for fear of dirtying them but when the housekeeper came in she found him standing gazing at a wall of books, his mouth hanging open.  

"Can you read, child?"  she inquired kindly.

"Aye, I can read." replied Gorbals proudly.  "And I can write my name."  he glanced out of the window at the building across the street with the word "GORBALS" tagged across it in graffiti style.  Mrs Pearce was a kindly woman and did not like to see child poverty (or graffiti). 

"When you've finished the chimney you can have a bath and I'll give you a meal," she offered.   Gorbals didn't fancy the sound of the bath much, but he hadn't eaten in days.  He decided the ordeal by soap and water was worth it. 

"Hae ye got that Wright's coal tar soap?"  he asked hopefully.  

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

When Lady Daphne returned from the hairdresser, she called down to Mrs Pearce for some supper.  The housekeeper appeared a few minutes later with the newly washed and fed Gorbals following behind carrying a second tray.  Lady Daphne looked up briefly from her copy of Phonetics World. 

"Mrs Pearce, is this your new kitchenmaid?"  

Gorbals came out from behind the voluminous aprons of Mrs Pearce, and said shyly:  

"I wash me face an' 'ands before I come, I did."

Lady Daphne looked up again slowly, and stared this time. 

"The noble savage ..."  she mused.  "I do believe this creature from the wilds might be tamed.   Would you like to be a proper English gentleman, child?"

Everything in Gorbals' heart screamed "Would I fuck!" but his stomach and his head argued back eloquently.   Three meals a day, and all the books you can read.   He smiled in the most English way he could manage.

"Oh yes please Ma'am."  he replied. "Ah dinnae hae mich education but I aim tae improve masel.  Beggin yer pardon Ma'am."

"What did he say?"  asked the renowned expert in regional dialect.

FEAR AND LOATHING IN GLASVEGAS

We were somewhere around Falkirk on the edge of a trading estate when the referendum began to take hold...  we started seeing cars racing past with saltire flags fluttering oot the windy, and by the time the airport bus arrived at Buchanan Street you could feel the electricity in the air and my attorney, Dr Gorbals, a 49-kilo Scotsman, was screaming about bats.  


He had previously been boasting of how peaceful the whole run-up to the referendum had been, no violence, all very civilized.  And he was right. As we approached George Square we stepped aside to allow a guy in a T-shirt to pass, bent double between two Glasgow polis.  I checked into the hotel and as I closed the door behind me the fire alarm went off.  In our drug-fuelled paranoia we thought it was us, and the whole hotel started to evacuate.  One woman was walking calmly towards the exit in her dressing gown and bare feet.  We slipped out the front door just as two fire engines screamed to a halt in front of the hotel, and melted into the crowd before they could arrest us for wasting the fire service's time.   So far, so surreal.

We had been sent to cover the Scottish Independence Referendum.  The town was awash with over-excited  kids waving blue and white saltire flags, and soft-spoken Glasgow polis with big tasers telling them to do their shoelaces up.  The kids were convinced they were going to win.  The polis looked like they already knew the result.

We had to go and interview a bent lawyer who had voted "no" and was holed up in a safe house somewhere in the Merchant City under the pseudonym Saul Goodman.  It was pretty sordid.  There was not enough alcohol and no food in his fridge.  The interview took forever.   Dr Gorbals was on best behaviour, most uncharacteristically, considering he hadn't eaten for 24 hours and he knew the pubs were open all night on this historic occasion.  


We finally got back to the hotel around two and my attorney was immediately on the phone to room service, ordering four large bags of chips, four deep-fried Mars Bars, a bottle of Grouse and nine cans of Irn-Bru.  "Girrrders", he explained. "It's made with girrrders."  I tried to stay awake until the first results came in but only made it as far as the first three, which were "No", "No", and "No" in that order.   By 5 a.m. I was fast asleep and George Square was full of weeping teenagers wrapped in saltire flags having their shoelaces tied gently by motherly polis officers.

The next day all was quiet.  You wouldn't know it was anything other than a normal Saturday in Glasgow.  The shops were open, people were going about their business.  I was impressed by the high-end restaurants and bars.  Glasgow had certainly gone upmarket.  The only indication of anything remotely bizarre was that I kept seeing the Tardis here and there.  Still strung out from the night before, I could not decide if they were an art installation or if Peter Capaldi was going to emerge from one and beam me up.  I kept an eye out for a cheap towel shop.

That evening George Square was invaded by about 50 bull-necked shaven-headed beer-bellied tattooed Rangers supporters brandishing union jacks, one with the slogan “NO SURRENDER” emblazoned on it.  They were chanting “Rule Britannia” and “God Save the Queen”.  The polis formed a circle between them and a bunch of timid YES supporters wearing very little in the way of colours.  A few silly kids waving a saltire ventured up to they bad boys to provoke them.   The polis were on top of it immediately.  We could sense the tension building and drifted away to meet a contact in an Irish bar full of yessers.

Around 10 p.m. word drifted back from the Square that it had "all kicked aff" with the "Scotland Says Naw" brigade.  A bunch of tattooed shaven-headed neds stood around on the street shaking their heads and muttering how they were ashamed to be Scots.  It couldn't have been for my benefit, I hadn't opened my mouth up to that point.  I tried to soothe them with my dulcet Walford tones, and pretty soon was deep in conversation with a man from Govan who was more interested in what was going on in Albert Square.  I told him that nobody would judge Scotland on the incidents tonight, that the goons with the union flag didn't represent anyone, least of all the "no" voters, and that I, personally, thanked the people of Scotland for giving the Westminster establishment the shake-up it so richly deserved.  "Aye," he grumbled, as he stomped back into the pub, "I'll tell 'em.  I'll tell the Scottish people that.  Every one o' them.  Individually."   


It was too late for a restaurant by the time we rolled out of the Irish bar, so we repaired to the Buchanan Street chippie for a time-honoured jewel of the Glaswegian culinary arts, the battered sausage supper.  The batter was like deep-fried emulsion paint, the anaemic sausage contained no meat, but the chips were delicious and full of nutritious carbs.  We sat on the street like locals and ate our supper, offering words of consolation and the odd chip to the occasional tired and emotional yesser who staggered past.  I felt a bit of a fraud, being quietly relieved as I was that the union had been saved.  Not that I am against the idea of independence, you understand.  I just felt that it was not the moment for it yet.  Too many unanswered questions.  Not least of which was, what the hell was the name of my hotel? 

The next morning in my hotel room I heard a distant muffled thud at 3-second intervals.  I assumed it was road works and switched on the shower.  By the time I was dry and dressed, the thumping was still going on, and now I could hear the faintest hint of a penny whistle.    Intrigued, I leaned out of the window overlooking North Hanover Street from which I had a view of one half of George Square.  A smartly-dressed brass band in military style attire was playing in the square.  Now you all know how I like a brass band.  But there was something a bit odd about this one.  No-one was standing around to  listen, for one thing.  The Glasgow Orange Defenders Flute Band was pissing into the wind.  Having failed to annoy anyone, they marched off down George Street and Glasgow rolled over for another Sunday morning snooze.

The rumour mill was in overdrive by the time I hit Lauder's in Sauchiehall Street later that day.  A wee lassie had been "done over and taken to hospital" the night before.  There had been "200 arrests".  When the news filtered through on BBC, there had been 11 arrests (fewer than at a standard Celtic-Rangers match) and no records of serious injuries.  But never one to let the truth get in the way of a good story, I filed my copy liberally splattered with tomato ketchup from the chippie and signed off "Your correspondent on the front line of the Glasgow riots".

ALL'S WELL THAT SPLIT ENDS WELL

Gottfried (2nd trumpet) getting a lift to the station

(Picture:  Reuters/Finbarr O'Reilly)

I am not one for blowing my own vuvuzela, as you know, but as a reserve member of the KNOB* I was called up to help provide some musical accompaniment for the big trade union demo yesterday.    

I arrived at the Gare du Nord bright and early. where I was supposed to meet up with Wolfgang, Gottfried and the boys.   While I waited I practised my Lotte Lenya repertoire.  Hundreds of militant Flemings in their trade union colours (green = Catholics, red = socialists, blue = independents) and brandishing flags, banners and cans of Jupiler were pouring off the trains from Antwerp, Gent and all points south.  It was pandemonium!  How was I supposed to find my brass section in all this hubbub?  I pushed my way through the crowd, and found myself being carried along on a wave of discontent.  Before long I had acquired "colours" - a red rain jacket and a hi-viz waistcoat, which I donned in hopes that the KNOB* lads would spot me more easily.  From then on I was pestered constantly by commuters trying to find their way out of the station, who took me for an employee of the railways. Oh, the ignominy!

It all started to go a bit Charlie Chaplin from this point on.  I had my outsize gay umbrella with me, in the event of rain.  At one point I opened it and held it aloft to avoid it getting broken in the crush.  I had bought this umbrella many years ago in Sitges, on a holiday with Harold, and it has survived many adventures, so I was damned if I was going to lose it to a bunch of gobby metalworkers.  I let the crowd carry me forward, waving my umbrella desperately in hopes that one of the KNOB* might see it and rescue me.

I was quickly surrounded by the hairdressers' branch of the CSC-ACV, who complained they were being goosed by the rank and file, and wanted to start a splinter group rallying under my umbrella.  I protested that I was only hired to provide the music, but they had taken a fancy to my fruity hat, and were now clamouring for a Carmen Miranda number. 

What can a world-famous cabaret artiste do?  I pulled out my maracas from my Delhaize bag-for-life and burst into a chorus of "Brazil" - perhaps not the wisest choice, given that the Belgian national footie team has qualified for Rio 2014.  Pretty soon the whole crowd were doing the conga and singing "Brazil", and "Here's to you, Vincent Kompany", and some of the trade unionists were getting a bit cross, as we were supposed to be heading for the European Parliament with angry looks and waving fists.  Instead, I was in the middle of a swirling vortex of singing hairdressers,  one or two of whom were glancing at my grey streaks with concern.  "Stand still a minute, love," said one, whipping out his instant-retouch pen.  


Of course, it would have to be at that very moment that my own hairdresser, Nico Lala, spotted me being retouched-up by another.  He let out a piercing banshee wail, and pushed his way through the crowd like Alexis Carrington at her screechiest.  "How very dare you!"  he spluttered, "That is Madame Daphne, she is MY client!"   The other hairdresser pffffed with contempt.  "Get over it, girlfriend!"  he pffffed.  "All's fair in love and extensions.  Anyway, are you a union member?"    Nico blanched visibly under his Max Factor American Tan panstick foundation.  "That," he retorted archly, raising himself up on his high heels, "Is neither here nor there.  I just stopped off to visit the lavatories."  The next thing I knew, there was a catfight - hairspray canisters going off like Exocet missiles.  I had to grab Nico and haul him away from the enraged horde of crimpers and other revolting workers, who would have killed him for not having a union card. 

The throng started to thin out as the procession started moving, and we managed to make some headway.  We even had time to sit down at a roadside cafe for a quick chai latte while Nico tidied up my split ends.  In the distance I heard the muffled sound of a brass band and recognized the rather rude noises that Ulrich likes to make with his trombone.  We forged ahead by using an old student trick I knew (taking the metro), and wove our way through the crowd to get to the front.  Eventually I spotted the distinctive white and bald heads of the KNOB*, and managed to catch up with them.  Once they had finished playing "Ciao, Bella, Ciao" for the umpteenth time,  I joined in on kazoo, and Nico played my maracas with surprising panache.  He does a better Carmen Miranda than me!

  

I bumped into a number of people I knew on the march, including Millicent Tendency, Frau Dr. Von Klampwangler and the girls from Hot Flash!, and started for the first time to enjoy the walk.  I never used to approve of demonstrations, but now I was starting to see the point.  It's the social side, you see.  It's a bit like a massive ramblers' club, with the occasional loud bang.  A bit like rambling through a firing range.  I was delighted to find my former schatz Bert leading the KNOB* for the last time, as next month he is due to be crowned Kaiser of all the German oompah bands across the Vaterland.  Der Fuhrer, Gott mit uns.  

 

 Bert got a free short back and sides from my crimper contingent.

The procession was mostly good-natured although I saw the odd heated exchange, which was usually between a Walloon and a Fleming who had possibly got heatstroke from the unseasonably warm Brussels weather.  So much for El Pueblo, Unido.  "L'union fait la force" is the motto of Belgium, but I think it must be a surrealist joke.  Flares were being thrown with a total abandon - one landed on a balcony of St Jean hospital.  I do hope there was nobody with a heart condition inside the room.  Someone with more courage than sense (probably Solidarnosc)  lobbed a flare inside the grounds of the Russian Embassy.  However, it appeared the Embassy officials had knocked off early for the weekend, so there was no riposte and Mr Putin did not try to annexe Ixelles. 

There were a large number of burly chaps in orange workclothes, with "Haven van Antwerpen" on the back, who seemed particularly vociferous.  I'll walk with them, I thought, for safety.  I noticed many of them were wearing those Palestinian chequered scarves across their faces, and complimented them on their foresight in dressing to beat the Brussels pollution levels.  

 Safe haven?  Perhaps not.

We arrived at the rallying point to find a battle raging - flares and paving stones were being met with CS gas from the riot police.  And who was in the middle of the fray?  The hairdressers, assisted by Scrumpy and his dreadlocked friends, who were inexplicably lobbing oranges at the police.  The police were catching them and peeling them, eating the segments in a languid fashion, before turning the water cannon up to level 7, and giving the protesters a good old Brussels downpour.   Just to make them feel welcome.  This only served to enrage the hairdressers - all their blowdrying instantly undone - and they piled in with thinning scissors and curling tongs.  The dockers, who had planned to storm the barricades themselves, were understandably miffed, and set about the hairdressers.  They were perhaps not ready for the resulting squeals and giggles and shouts of "Ooh you're a big boy!".  Meanwhile, the riot police were drinking Buck's Fizz on top of the water cannon and enjoying the show.

(Photo:  Berlaymonster)

There were some refreshment stalls set up at the end of the route, offering burgers, frites, and welcome drinks.  Thorsten, 3rd trumpet, who's a bit short-sighted, came back with a case of Jupiler.  "Belgian coca cola is very good!"  he announced happily.  I hadn't got the heart to contradict him. 

Belgian Coca Cola

A large amount of "Belgian coca cola" was being consumed, especially at the end, when the majority of the rank and file abandoned the speeches to go and watch the infinitely more entertaining running battles between the hairdressers, the dockers and the police, although some of the dockers had abandoned the fight and were enjoying head massages from the hairdressers.  So if nothing else was achieved, the workers of InBev are secure.  And I gathered up enough squashed oranges to make a whole batch of marmalade.  Our musical performance was much appreciated by the crowd and we played loud enough to drown out the screams of pain from fallen policemen.

That second hand copy of "The Communist songbook" was worth every penny. Take it away, Uli!

* Kurt Nachtnebel Oompah Band