Re: Just What I've Always Wanted

As requested, a photo of the offending article. If I ever wear it again, I will get a close-up.

Looney Tunes

The other week, for the first time ever: I saw Philippe Katerine.

After a seemingly disappointing bill for the Ardentes music festival  this year, I still took some advantage of the perk of having a free four-day pass and managed to catch some suprisingly entertaining shows. Although Wu Tang Clan didn't live up to expectations, Limp Bizkit kicked some proverbial ass on the Friday night, but I was still left feeling a little cheated, as a younger generation than mine reaped the rewards of a 90s retro line-up (I was several years the wrong side of 30).


Sunday afternoon was definitely more my cup of tea. Agnes Obel's dulcet tones rang hauntingly through the venue accompanied by her ethereal piano chords, but not quite evoking the jovial festival atmosphere I had in mind. The unexpected highlight of the afternoon was Congolese street band Staff Benda Bilili whose funky breakbeats were received better than anything I have ever seen at the Ardentes (who would've thought that Belgians can do the conga?)


A few beers later, accompanied by some old friends, I managed to squeeze my way to just a few yards from the foot of the stage to await what promised to be the show to end all shows: Philippe Katerine - French singer/songwriter famous for his eccentricities. Following his 3 musicians, the man himself made a grand entrance wearing a flamboyant dressing gown and with four young female dancers in tow. The gown was soon discarded to reveal a rather splendidly feminine flowered strappy jump suit, a stark contrast to the grizzly man underneath.


Katerine was every bit the eccentric that I had been led to believe. Every track bore witness to his dadaist sense of humour; from the nonsensical "Bla Bla Bla", to the intentionally naff "La Banane". The fact that he is no Sinatra is of little relevance when he can ingenously create a melody and build a track around something as banal as the sound that accompanies the ever-too-familiar warning, "Windows Explorer has done an illegal operation and has to shut down".

The dancing girls were a joy to watch; choreographed to the hilt and cute in their brightly coloured football kits and  knee-high socks.The audience whooped with delight when Katerine threw in the odd Liege colloquialism, mockingly chanting the word "oufti" which is the expletive of choice for my Liege compatriots. Bananas were thrown on stage, as is apparently the tradition at a Katerine gig, and there were regular cries of request for our hirsute friend to strip off and get naked.


For a moment, I thought he was only too happy to oblige - teasingly sliding down the odd strap, popping a button or provocatively lowering his waistband to groin level.  Despite his far from buff physique and ludicrous attire, Katerine still exuded an inkling of sexual energy through his confidence and sheer audacity, even when he stood in front of the crowd in nothing but a pair of unflatteringly stretchy mock denim undercrackers.

Entertaining as all this was, I am uncertain whether it

would translate well to an Anglophone culture.

The show’s air of the bizarre and slapstick adds up

to the kind of humour that is quintessentially français. Ooh là là.

Check out Katerine's website and help him catch those bananas.

Would I try it again?: Oufti.......oui!

Just What I've Always Wanted

Last week, for the first time ever: I wore a Bumpit.
I am a sucker for novelty items and the first person to be drawn in by a new product claiming to be the answer to all health and beauty dilemmas. Only very recently I spent a ridiculous 8 Euros on a miracle cold sore cure which has now left me with a huge branflake in the corner of my mouth.

On a recent trip to my hometown of St Helens, my Mum caught me in the act of falling hook line and sinker for a video in Boots the Chemist promoting a revolutionary big hair product: the Bumpit. Before I squandered the £3.99 that was already half way into the hands of the cashier, my shrewd Mother informed me that the same item could be acquired from Poundland for, you guessed it, a cinch at just a quid.

Since my teenage years, I have not been very experimental with my hair. Maybe I have been scarred for life by the hideous orange spiky mushroom 'do that I had at the tender age of 14, leading me to abscond from school after enduring the
contemptuous shrieks of my fellow schoolies. I think I have also fallen into the trap of playing it safe; my hair doesn't look good long and it doesn't suit me short, so chin-length it is, with the occasional dramatic angle that keeps me from being too boring. However, in the back of my mind, I was born in the wrong era and I hanker after the days when women
painstainkingly teased their hair into fabulous beehives. I guess I have never been the same since I first saw the retro chic of Mari Wilson on Top of the Pops and will never fail to admire and envy the Bardot bouffant. On the occasion of my brother's wedding, I went the whole hog and spent the morning with my Mum's hairdresser as he coaxed my locks up into a beehive which has gone down in history at that particular establishment as being "fuckin' massive". The whole thing didn't budge for a matter of days and the CEO of Insette has now retired to the Bahamas from the proceeds of that appointment alone.

The Bumpit is a banana-shaped plastic article with teeth around the edges. The idea is to grab a section of hair, push it up with the Bumpit and then smooth it down over the top, spraying into place. Amazingly, with just a few trial runs, I managed to achieve the desired effect and it was eat your heart out Amy Winehouse. Surprisingly, the Bumpit manages to stay relatively secure and the style sleek. The amount of hairspray applied is key ("fuckin' massive") as is your planned evening activities: a night moshing on the dancefloor will have you rooting down the back of your frock for the Bumpit and would-be djettes should note that headphones are not the best accompaniment.

Mari Wilson: 80s retro icon and beekeeper...

....Massive.

Would I try it again?: Well I guess I need to get my money's worth from that quid... 

His Name is Rio

Last week, for the first time ever: I went to the Rio de Janeiro Carnival.

Well ok, not quite...but probably as close as I'll ever get.

How does a Belgian guy from the humble background of Herve end up being the centre of attention on a float at the world's biggest carnival?

The answer is simple: passion.

This is what I discovered last Sunday when I visited Alain Taillard's exhibition, and, for the first time ever, feasted my eyes on a variety of costumes that have been an integral part of the Rio Carnival during the last decade.

After pouring me a healthy glass of wine, Alain proceeded to tell me about his all-consuming hobby that takes him to the other side of the world every year along with partner Bernard who is only too happy to be his accompanying photographer.

Since the mere age of six years old, Alain has taken part in the carnival at his Belgian hometown, Herve, and over the years, his growing fascination has taken him to Nice, Venice and finally the biggest carnival of all, Rio de Janeiro. Most of us can only dream about the once in a lifetime possibility of visiting Rio; Alain has been to the Rio carnival every single year since 1992 and his dreams came true when he was invited to mount a podium on one of the samba school floats. Since then he has climbed the ranks and earned himself more and more prestigious roles each year and is now officially listed as a destaque, or floatee, with the Mangueira samba school.

Before speaking to Alain and seeing the exhibition, I had little idea of the effort, love and attention that goes into crafting each of these costumes over a period of 6 months. It is purely an indulgent, artistic pursuit: each costume is only used once and for just over an hour during the festivities. Only a true afficionado would be prepared to don this heavy, beaded intricate attire and sweat half their body weight in temperatures that sore above 30 degrees.

The detail and magnitude of each costume astounded me. Having tried my hand at fancy dress over the years, I can safely say that what I witnessed in the Ancienne Halle aux Viande in Liege that Sunday afternoon puts my last minute attempts at cobbling together a Marge Simpson costume to shame. Some of the costumes were even incomplete, missing a few tons of peacock feathers; far too expensive to risk damage in transit and thus, left behind in Rio.

Alain and Bernard fund their annual escapades by hosting similar exhibitions throughout Belgium, definitely a worthy cause for the token price of 2 Euros. You can read more about them here: Carnaval de Rio


Would I try it again? All proceeds via paypal to http://www.sendclaireonafreebietorio.justgiving.com/

A Day at the Races

This week for the first time ever: I went Lindy Hop Dancing.

Last weekend saw the arrival of one of my favourite annual events: La Fête de la Musique, when the Francophone cities of the world are treated to three days of wall-to-wall free music. After a manic rock 'n' roll fuelled Friday night and an enthusiastic and well-received performance with Android 80 in the town of Malmédy on Saturday evening, what could be better than taking a trip back in time and revelling in the laissez-faire ambience of the Roaring 20s?

As part of the weekend's events, my friend Vincent was hosting an afternoon 'thé dansant' in the park and the dance of choice was Lindy Hop. It was not until very recently that I had heard of Lindy Hop. My friend Rebecca has been taking classes in Brussels and this piqued my curiosity. The dance first evolved in Harlem in 1927 as a mutation of Breakaway and Charleston and incorporated elements of tap and was made popular in the famous Savoy Ballroom. It was named after Charles Lindbergh's atlantic crossing in 1927.
As it turns out, I am slightly familiar with it through its other name, 'Jitterbug'.

Thanks to Vincent for recommending this scene from The Marx Brothers 'A Day at the Races' featuring Whitey's Lindy Hoppers. I'm sure I don't have far to go to reach the same level as the girl 52 seconds in.

Lindy Hop is a swing dance set to jazz and ragtime and, with a fondness for this kind of music, I had high hopes for an enjoyable afternoon. So I slowly ambled down to Liège's Parc d'Avroy in that half-hearted, post-alcohol manner that comes with the territory of Sunday afternoons.

On first arrival, events seemed a little tragic: One lone hippy-looking guy was flopping around the dancefloor to a Duke Ellington number, admittedly putting his best foot foward, but I have doubts that Caterpillar sandals were ever the footwear of choice at The Cotton Club. As often occurs on a June weekend in Belgium, the weather was also putting a dampener on proceedings. It was the kind of weather that lulls you into the false sense of security that Summer's almost here kids, until two minutes later, somebody creeps up behind you and throws a bucket of water over your head.

Never one to let the weather prevent my enjoyment, I ordered a round of beers (the Belgians would not dream of serving PG Tips at a tea dance) for me, my husband and the friends we had bumped into and dragged along, and soon settled into the relaxed Sunday atmosphere appreciating the delights of Count Basie, Louis Jordan and Cab Calloway. I was especially thrilled to hear Ella Fitzgerald's 'Paper Moon' and thought to myself, "If there's a dance to go with this music, I want to learn it!"

The opportunity was not too far away, as Vincent had engaged two teachers who were more than willing to share their expertise, and, before long, I was forming part of a 'Lindy Circle' on the dancefloor. After mastering some very basic steps in 8 time, we partnered up and put our newly acquired skills to the test. The girls where asked to move around the circle with the aim of changing partners, as is common practice in dance classes. I particularly enjoyed dancing with a little Indian guy half my height who seemed unable to stop giggling, but not so much with a little weasely guy wearing a flat cap who spun me 'round and 'round to the point of nausea. I became more and more relaxed with what seemed to be my kind of movements; shuffling feet, a shake of the leg, a shimmy here, a shimmy there...In fact, I was later informed by my husband that the Lindy Hop is no different to the way that I normally dance!

Looks a bit more like Riverdance here...

When the occasion presented itself to pair up with the professional dance teacher, it was clear that I was now a Lindy Hop afficionado, worlds apart from the other beginners and just a couple of lessons away from embarking on a new career in the world of dance. Bruce Forsyth would soon be knocking on my door.

Would I try it again?: Where do I sign up?

Spaghetti Western

Last week, for the first time: I cooked Spaghetti with Marmite.

I'm quite partial to the odd cookery programme these days - the excitement and pressure of Masterchef or Saturday Kitchen's culinary delights for the Swap Shop generation, but I think most of you would agree that there are way too many TV chefs cluttering up our screens. One that is definitely surplus to my requirements is Nigella Lawson. I really have no desire to watch some upper middle class wench strolling around in her satin dressing gown and sitcking her grubby mitts in a jar of Coleman's at 3am or immersing a ham shank in a litre of Red Bull. Her approach to cookery leaves a lot to be desired: I have actually witnessed her using the phrase "apply to face" as a final recipe step. Vile.

In a recent conversation with my dear sister-in-law, I discovered that Nigella's repertoire included a recipe for Spaghetti with Marmite, which she had pilfered from her Milanese mentor Anna Del Conte. I'm pretty confident that I can't be alone in finding the idea of mixing Marmite into butter and emulsifying it with pasta water before serving over spaghetti, positively bile-inducing. However, several reliable sources assured me that it sets the palette alive and my friend Maria persuaded me last week that it would be a positive addition to my quest for new experiences. The marmite campaign slogan claims:

"You either love it or you hate it".

I guess I must be the excpetion to the rule, as, quite frankly, I'm just not that fussed. (There's always one!) My husband has always been a big fan, so when I texted him to let him know what concoction would be sitting waiting for him on a plate that evening, he simply replied "Not Arf".

The beauty of this recipe lies in its simplicity and with its salty flavour and wealth of carbs, it is the ultimate in comfort food. It could be tempting to add some extras (chopped walnuts and/or fried mushrooms perhaps), but this can often be my downfall in the kitchen - I have a tendency to overload on ingredients until a recipe loses its distinct flavour and each pasta dish ressembles the last.

Although not strictly her own creation, Ms Lawson has come up trumps on this occasion. While not something I would serve to dinner guests, I will reserve this recipe for tv dinners and comfort food occasions. In fact, I am almost looking forward to coming down with a nasty cold so I can experience its psychological healing properties.

Would I try this again? Not Arf!

Some Marmite facts:

• The Danish government has recently banned Marmite as it contains an illegal amount of added vitamins
• There are claims that Marmite can be used in the prevention of mosquito bites (I'll wager that Dirty Nigella smothers herself in the stuff just before bedtime)
• 25% British people take Marmite with them when they go on holiday (presumably to prevent mosquito bites)

For more Marmite facts and quality products like Marmite Vaseline (mmm), visit http://www.ilovemarmite.com/

Welcome to The Spice of Life!

Somebody once said to me:

"I’ll try anything twice…in case I got it wrong the first time".

Not a bad philosophy on life if you ask me. On my 28^th birthday, my Mum very charitably bought me a book called Turning Thirty. One glaringly obvious truth hidden amongst what was mostly cliché-ridden, throw-away fluff, was that many thirtysomethings are very much set in their ways: they know exactly what they like and are reluctant to try anything new for fear of disappointment.

The blog you are about to read stems from my desire to avoid this kind of trap: Aubergines are yummy, but why not cook asparagus this evening? My exercise of choice is cycling, but how would I fair in a tap dancing class? I love the silken tones of Chet Baker, but how about a bit of Sun Ra?

I guess now I could be classed as thirtysomethingplus. In fact I’m expecting Mum’s next thoughtful gift to be a novel entitled Pushing Forty. But age is just a number and, at any time in your existence, life is like conveyor belt sushi: if you don’t grab as much as you can, then you won’t get your money’s worth. I intend to get more than my money’s worth (hopefully without making myself throw up in the process).

So I have come to a decision: every week I will try something new: this can range from the mundane, to the sensational via the downright pointless, but it must be a totally new experience for me. All ideas are welcome, within reason: I am not about to embark on a serial killing spree or sleep with my boss, and financial constraints will prevent anything involving a trip to the other side of the world (although all donations are welcome and will not be squandered!)