Goodbye Georgie

OK Folks,

Another afternoon, another blog – more to pass the last couple of hours of my working week before Christmas - than to entertain all three of you out there that read this thing.

Although - that's not entirely true. I have been looking to write this one for a while and started it and finished on many occasions but the combination of being busy in work (imagine that?!) and getting up to mischief in the evenings has caused the delay.

As some of you may already know, a couple of weekends ago, the streets of my beloved Belfast saw sights the like of which it shall never see again.

Tens of thousands of people of all ages, from all walks of life and from all colour and creed, braved the terrible weather conditions to say goodbye to their hero, the Belfast Boy, Georgie Best.

Some of you may have seen it on TV; I went over there to be a part of it.

As the news of his inevitable death filtered out, I wrote my own fumbling attempt at a tribute to the man and put it on my blog.

I also went to the website of The Belfast Telegraph, Northern Ireland's biggest selling daily news paper and left a small tribute along with tributes from hundreds of others.

It was obvious that his death had touched a lot of people although just what happened in the days that followed probably took everyone by surprise - none more so than the Best family themselves.

Speaking for myself - I had never before mourned the death of somebody that I didn't personally know. I'm not some sort of sentimental, funeral groupie who gets all dramatic and starts using phrases like "isn't it such a tragedy?", "what a waste", etc. etc.

Princess Di, Freddie Mercury, Bobby Ewing - their untimely deaths, whilst perhaps leaving me with a certain feeling of sadness (apart from Bobby's) - didn't cause me to stop and think about what a loss to me personally, their deaths were.

Georgie's passing, however, really struck a nerve.

Now I know there are plenty of people out there who would say that he was a waste of space that drank himself to death, somebody - who through the kindness of a donor - got a second chance at life and fucked it up.

As far as I'm concerned, these people can go away and catch themselves on (to use Belfast parlance).

I had no time for the people that were so quick to kick him while he was down when he was alive. I am frankly disgusted by the people that crawled out of the woodwork and stuck the boot in before he was even put in the ground.

But still - even with all my love for the guy, I still did not feel compelled to go home for the funeral.

At least not yet.

On the Friday he died, I braved the blizzards and went out to the sticks to have a night out in Geel with some friends. We sat around a table getting all dewy eyed whilst sharing Our George Best Stories.

The manager of the bar, a fella named Colin and a friend of ours, had obtained the song "The Belfast Boy" - George's very own theme song (how many footballers can boast that?!) and on occasion, the bar was reverberating to it's beat long into the wee hours.

And then things started to get weird.

We sang our songs from the Emerald Isle, we drank our Guinness and we told our stories. Colin, a fella from the "Rebel County" of Cork and I, from Belfast, Northern Ireland united in our Irishness by the passing of one of the greatest people our island has ever produced.

Then, the conversation took a rather surreal and unexpected twist.

"I bet you I can grow a better George beard than you"
"No you can’t"
“Prove it”

And so – it came to pass that we decided that we would both try and grow a George Best beard.

(Look - it was 5 in the morning and it's just one of those bets that drunken boys make at that time, OK?)

I then ended up spending the rest of the weekend "on holiday" in this wee town with the strange name. ("Geel is the Flemish word for "Yellow") At least I think it's wee - I can’t really admit to stretching my wings much beyond the pub during those 36 hours.

On the Sunday evening, back in my snug apartment nursing a battered and bruised body from the excess of the weekend, I checked my emails and things got even weirder.

There was one from my family informing me that I had been published. My dream had finally been realized - my writing was in print!

Even better than that though, my tribute to George Best had been published in Saturday's Belfast Telegraph - a memorial edition dedicated to the loss of our hero.

But it got better.

An excited voicemail from my brother informed me that I was in the centre pages of the newspaper along with several other tributes from around the world.

And it got better still.

The sub heading in big, bold type across the bottom of the inside double pages was my quote!

Needless to say, I was chuffed to bits.

I then read some online newspapers and was amazed by what I was reading. Having effectively cut myself off from the real world for the best part of the weekend, I had no idea of the reaction to Georgie’s death. Suddenly they were talking about hundreds of thousands flocking to the streets of Belfast for the funeral.

Needless to say, I got caught up in the emotion of it all and the next morning I booked myself on a flight with Ryan-sometimes-in-the-fucking-air from Charleroi to Dublin. Leaving on the Friday afternoon, I was going to be home for a couple of short days to say hello to my family and goodbye to Georgie before returning to Belgium (is Boring) on the Sunday afternoon.

The inconvenience of arriving at Dublin was softened by the fact that my Da, who works in Dublin during the week, was able to pick me up. The somewhat long and mind-numbing drive up to our home-town was a special occasion for me that I shall treasure for years, the two of us talking animatedly and with great reverence about the wonderful George Best and catching up in what was going on in each other’s lives.

As far as we were both concerned, this was not a sombre occasion to mourn the death of one of us – instead this was going to be a celebration of the man, the legend - the working class hero from Belfast who’d “done good”

As he dropped me off at my mum’s I said my goodbyes and made arrangements for the morning. My brother and I were to meet at my dad’s house at 07:00.

I can’t get out of my bed on a workday at 07:00, never mind the morning after my first night back in the loving arms of my family - arms that are all too often laden with wine, beer, whiskey and Irish coffees.

The conversation continued long into the night with Georgie as the main topic of conversation. Even my other brother – not a great fan of the beautiful game (I know, I know Dear Reader – a helluva shame) got caught up in the whole occasion.

At 5 in the morning (there’s that time again), the youngest brother took himself off to bed. After all – he had to drive the 2 miles to our dad’s place at 07:00.

My other brother, supported ably by my mum and step-father battled bravely on through the night, deciding that we’d feel the worse for sleeping and indeed, the youngest brother’s demeanour as I woke him up 2 short hours later confirmed this.

And so it came to pass that my father, my brothers and I, met up at 07:30 on a cold, dark, damp Saturday morning to take the short journey to the austere location of the service, Stormont parliament buildings, Belfast.

After a little bit of illegal parking (which involved moving a few police cones out of our way), we made the short walk to the gates leading into Stormont and were amazed at the site that greeted us.

It seems we weren’t the only people who had woken early to take their place in the queue in the damp, dark Belfast winter morning air.

Thousands of people were queuing waiting on the gates of Stormont to open and as we followed the queue from its start to its seemingly infinite end, we realised that we were going to be a part of history.

For far too long, Belfast makes the headlines for all the wrong reasons. Here, the city was united by one common goal. To come out and pay their respects to a man whose life had touched us all.

We eventually found the end of the seemingly infinite queue and after standing around for the best part of an hour as a dull morning dawned over Belfast, the queue started to move - the organisers deciding to open the gates early due to the numbers of people that had already turned up for the funeral.

As we filed slowly towards the gates of Stormont, I noticed that bus shelters lining the funeral route had been transformed overnight to carry giant stylised portraits of Best pictured at his ragged, 1970s peak; more handsome pirate than professional sportsman.

As we neared the gates, we paused briefly to look at the hundreds of tributes that lay there in the form of flowers, cards, football scarves and shirts and flags from all backgrounds.

In this shrine to Best, I spied two things in particular, that caught my eye.

The first thing was two football shirts hung on the railings side by side - one from Glasgow Celtic and the other Glasgow Rangers – as indicative a symbol as any to show how the man crossed the religious divide in his homeland.

The second was a Northern Ireland flag. On the flag was the message:

“Maradona Good, Pele Better, George BEST”

I cursed myself, wishing I had thought that one up.

I was awoken from my thoughts when I heard a distinctive English voice:

“As you can see behind me, the thousands of people file somberly past the temporary shrine to George Best that has been set up here at Parliament Building gates.”

I did a double take before I realized what was happening.

The TV company Sky were broadcasting live and I had just walked past in the background, no doubt looking like somebody from another planet but at least looking the part in my green George Best No. 7 shirt. I was later to find out from friends that this clip was used by Sky News at the top of every hour for their news headlines.

It’s not often that I get published and on Sky News in the one week.

It’s only then that I realised the enormity of what was taking placed. I looked up into the skies and saw half a dozen helicopters flying overhead - some police, others TV crews.

At various vantage points, TV camera crews were setting up, trying to get a good view of proceedings.

On the roof of the Stormont Hotel across the street from the gates, we saw several members of staff struggling to unfurl one of the biggest flags I’ve ever seen. OK so it was Man United but it was no less impressive when displayed to its full extent from the roof to the ground of the 6 story building.

And then we reached the gates of Stormont and looked up the mile-long hill to Parliament Buildings.


Already there were several thousand people inside, lining the route but we decided to keep on walking to get as far as we could.

Three huge screens lined the route, to ensure that everyone got to see as events unfold. We made a bee-line for the one furthest away and closest to Stormont building and got into position around 09:30, almost two hours after arriving in Belfast.

We had arrived.

As we waited for George’s last trip, the organisers played marvellous footage of the man in his heyday – a truly awesome sight to behold.

Just then, I was approached by a woman in her 40’s to see if I would mind posing for a photograph.

A surprisingly less frequent occurrence than you may think.

It seemed that my efforts to grow the beard and the hair combine with the George Best shirt had actually paid off. I put my arm around the woman and posed for the photograph, taken by her rather pissed off looking husband.

“Er, no we don’t want that, it’s just the back of your shirt we’d like, with Best 7”

Typical.

Shortly after that, the skies started to open and a very heavy rainstorm swept Belfast and soaked us to the skin. It seemed rather fitting for the occasion – the tears of Belfast skies mixing with the tears of its people.

At 10am, with the Stormont gates already shut to stop more people arriving, across the city at the family home in the Cregagh council estate the coffin was taken to the waiting hearse. Spontaneous applause erupted from the crowd, a fitting tribute to the man described by Pele as the greatest footballer the world has ever seen.
The giant screens erected along the driveway at Stormont beamed out live pictures of the cortege’s progress, and as the procession entered the gates, the gloom was momentarily lifted by the flash of hundreds of cameras and mobile phones, while applause rippled up the hill. Attendants had to clear away hundreds of scarves and flowers tossed on to the hearse. More flowers crowned the vehicle. Inside, Best’s coffin was draped in an Irish Football Association flag.

Inside Stormont, 300 mourners gathered in the Great Hall to pay tribute to the footballer, friend, husband, father and brother. Among them were both Best’s former wives, Angie and Alex, plus Manchester United manager Sir Alex Ferguson and Best’s father Dickie.

Personal eulogies were read by Bobby McAlinden, a friend from his youth with whom he ran “Bestie’s” bar in California, and by Best’s friend and fellow Man Utd player Denis Law.

It was a nice service – a mixture of humour from Law, honesty from McAlinden, the medical from the Professor and then of course the sadness from his son Callum and his sister, Barbara.

Best, the beautiful boy of the beautiful game said he always wanted to be remembered for the football.


On this performance, it would seem he got his wish.



BTW - For the record - Colin's beard was better - although it has to be said that there was a distinct dodgy gingerness to it…

simply THE BEST

The world goes to sleep a lesser place tonight.

This afternoon, in a quiet London hospital room surrounded by friends and family, the shining light that was George Best finally burnt out - his body finally giving up its brave battle to stay alive.

There was never a name more apt for a person, because, George – “The Belfast Boy” – was, quite simply THE BEST footballer the world has ever seen.

An artist - with the football as his paintbrush and the football pitch as his canvas – George Best dazzled the world with his breath-taking skills: mazy dribbles with both feet, powerful shots, deft touches, superb balance, tenacious tackling, a lion’s heart, he had it all – there really are no superlatives too great for this footballing genius - superlatives that get thrown about too easily in this modern-day era of the football superstar with big wallets and even bigger egos - most of whom wouldn’t even have been fit to lick George’s boots.

On top of all that he was unbelievably cool and handsome.

From having no football icon, no style guru, no pop star to worship, the people of Northern Ireland suddenly had all three overnight. He was - and still is - a God, revered by his people.

I’m not going to say a lot on the matter, I’ll leave that to others more capable than I am but I want to use this blog to share some of my thoughts with you.

I remember as a teenager reading George Best’s autobiography “The Good, the Bad and the Bubbly” where one of the opening lines read: “I am the greatest player that ever lived.” I remember reading it at the time and after that thinking that was a bit big-headed until you read the next sentence – “That’s what Pele said and who am I to argue with him?”

Now as you all know I’m a Liverpool supporter. But some of you may not know the reason why I’m a Liverpool supporter and how Manchester United’s George Best played a big part in it. You see - when my da was growing up and kicking football, all the kids WERE George Best. There were no other footballers on the planet. And therefore everybody supported Manchester United.

My da and his mate decided to buck the trend and started to support Liverpool, to wind the rest of their mates up - a legacy borne onto me as well (including the winding up of Manchester United supporting mates).

When I recently told a football-knowledgeable mate of mine, and a life long supporter of Manchester United (do those two things go together?) he had a good old chuckle to himself and said “See?! It’s always about Manchester United!!”

Well in this case it was ALL about George Best but it wasn’t that my da didn’t like him – far from it. We may have been Liverpool supporters but there was never, ever a bad word said about George Best. He had his faults. Lord knows he had his faults, but the people of Northern Ireland loved him like one of their own. And let’s face it – he was one of us.

George Best, the boy from the Protestant working-class housing estate in the Cregagh area of Belfast had given the people back home more than just a footballing icon that they would be forever proud of, long after his death.

At the height of his game, he also gave the people of Northern Ireland hope at a time when his beloved homeland was staring into the abyss with the madness of the Troubles just about to start.

Nobody could have foreseen the tragedy of the following 35 years.

As Northern Ireland became a battleground where the price of a life became less and less with each murder, George Best was fighting his own war - a war against himself and his inner demons. Disillusioned and deserting the beautiful game at the criminally young age of 26, he was already battling against alcoholism.

Over the next three decades his life went on an amazing roller coaster ride - a ride which has been well documented by the world’s press as he made front page news for all the wrong reasons.

But I’m not here to talk about that. I’m not even here to talk about the football (and that’s saying something). I am quite simply here to say that I’ll miss the guy. It’s a weird thing mourning the loss of somebody I didn’t know personally but that’s the way it’s been with George. We all lived his life. The highs and the lows.

I discovered this piece of text this afternoon which I think sums up the football perfectly. Former Observer sportswriter Hugh McIlvanney described him thus:

'With feet as sensitive as pickpocket's hands, his control of the ball under the most violent pressure was hypnotic. The bewildering repertoire of feints and swerves, sudden stops and demoralising turns, exploited a freakish elasticity of limb and torso, tremendous physical strength and resilience for so slight a figure, and balance that would have made Isaac Newton decide he might as well have eaten the apple.'

He was only ever truly happy when he was on the football field which is rather fitting considering the joy he gave to millions of people world-wide.

Let’s hope that as I type this blog, God is getting ready for a kick-a-bout, because it’s about time the Big Man Upstairs got a chance to see first hand the talent that he bestowed on that shy, little boy from Belfast.

George Best
R.I.P.

Lord of The Ring

Just a quickie.

Two years of bloody road-works on the ring of Antwerp and still the traffic going into the Kennedy tunnel is as bad as it ever was. I contemplate this as I am about to leave the office and join the thousands of cars trying to get through what has to be one of the most congested tunnels in the world.

Not since the days of Charles Bronson squeezing his fat arse through freshly dug escape tunnels in The Great Eascape have I seen congestion like it.

And don’t even get me started about the road-works IN Antwerp. I’ve never seen anything like it in my life. Each morning as I drive out of the city, I make a silent prayer to the saint of lost causes (Alex McCleish) in the hope that I’ll find my way out onto The Ring.

Honest to God – it’s like some magical mystery tour.

I’m all for a city developing and growing and improving its traffic system but come on guys! Somebody must be having a laugh out there!

Changing one way streets into two-way streets overnight, creating dead end streets at the drop of a hat, changing the direction of one way streets to the opposite direction without warning and then sending you down streets following diversion signs, only to find that at some point they just decided to stop providing signs anymore, turning the whole escapade into some sort of a sick, twisted version Treasure Hunt.


Bring back Anneka Rice’s pert buttocks.

All is forgiven.

The Internet and Christmas - Here we come!!!

One of the great things about the proliferation of PCs and the internet in our everyday lives is that it makes the world seem just that wee bit smaller for a wee country boy from Ireland living on the continent, away from family and friends.

For instance, I can sit here in the office at the client site, quite feverishly beavering away at the keyboard looking to all intents and purposes like somebody that’s actually Doing Some Work when in fact I’m emailing family, friends, or, as in this case, writing for my blog.

However - unfortunately for me, this easy form of communication that I have at my disposal only serves to add further weight to the “I am a bad son / brother / mate” theory because, when you get down to it – I am terrible at keeping in touch.

Long gone are the days when my dear NaNa would greet the early morning post with a flutter of hope and expectation that there would be hidden within the bills and junk mail a letter or a postcard from her eldest grandson – the Intrepid Explorer, sharing a little anecdotal tale from some far flung corner of the world, like Duffel, for example.

Or even just a simple “Hello Nana – I hope you are keeping well. Lot’s of Love. Me”

But no.

Nothing.

Then - just when she had come to terms with the fact that her eldest grandson was, in fact, a Selfish Twat, with far too much going on in his little corner of the world that he couldn’t find the time to write anything to her, fresh hope arose like a phoenix from the ashes of her disappointment in the form of EMAIL.

Through the magic of the internet, messages could instantly be sent and received from anywhere on the planet.

Except to or from my Nana’s wee bungalow back home.

But never fear! My mother came up with the solution. They would get email!! Hurrahh!

Cue much rejoicing in the family. Here we were, truly throwing ourselves with wanton abandon into the 21st century! The technological age was waiting for no man, woman or indeed, Nana and we were making bloody well sure that we were getting on that super-highway along with the rest of the world.

Except - it didn’t quite work like that….

Wary of the demons that lurk in the internet’s darker recesses and let’s face it – even some of it’s most public of places, mum was not keen on the idea of bringing full-blooded internet capacity into the home.

And who could blame her? I mean – take last week for example…..there I was doing some research for an article on my two favourite birds - robin red breasts and blue tits that I was planning to write and I have to admit, I was shocked and stunned at what I found.

So in order to avoid “all manner of filth” coming into their home – a compromise was reached and they purchased a rather snazzy Amstrad telephone with email capabilities.

Perhaps some of you know the phone that I mean but perhaps for those that don’t, I should, at this point, explain just what “email capabilities” referred to.

Basically, we are talking about a rather quite gorgeous all-singing and all-dancing telephone (phone book, speaker phone, big display) but with the additional feature of a keyboard.

A keyboard which is roughly the equivalent size of a nicotine patch – a patch which I can tell you, you will be in more than desperate need for by the time you type anything out of any great length on the damn thing.

So tiny are the buttons on this thing, that you are totally unaware of the quite convincing Mr. Magoo impression that you’re doing as you squint, hunched over the phone, as you search hopelessly to find the desired key. And then - even when you do find it, you end up suffering the ignominy of pressing three (wrong) buttons at once before embarking on a crusade to find the delete button to undo all your typos.

It is more frustrating than a Chinese finger puzzle, played outside at the North Pole, wearing nothing else other than your undergarments and a grimace.

But here’s the thing folks.

Did you think that stopped my Mum from emailing me paragraph after paragraph of tales and updates from back home?

Of course it didn’t.

Did you think it stopped my mum from bollocking me on a regular basis?

Not a bit of it.

On regular occasions, my inbox would suddenly become weighed down with a dose of motherly advice, covering such diverse subjects as looking after myself, staying out of trouble, eating healthily, not drinking so much, not partying so hard, sleeping more, exercising more, smoking less, stay away from that weird girl you introduced us to last. That sort of thing….

And all was good in the world again.

Nana could receive updates through her daughter about how I was getting on “on my travels” and I was able to keep up to date with family life back home. They even had the dubious pleasure of receiving my blog updates, delivered electronically into their little Amstrad telephone.

How they all managed to read it, I’ll never know.

Or maybe they don’t.

Hey! Wait a minute…..


And then – disaster struck.

Those Bloody Thieves (BT) decided to raise the phone bill to exorbitant prices and began to charge an arm and a leg for the privilege of receiving forwarded jokes, spam mail and the regular disappointment of another day going by with no communication from that Selfish Twat living over in Belgium, for I am ashamed to admit that the advent of email didn’t improve matters that much.

Deciding to cut their losses, the Amstrad was reduced to seeing out the rest of its days as a normal phone with a few useless add-ons - a bit like a skateboard with a car stereo.

Faced with the pressure of having to actually pick up the phone and start phoning home on occasions when I wasn’t actually looking for something, or having to actually post letters and post cards again, I was in a dilemma.

That is - until last night and a little phone call with back home produced a surprising development….

They were contemplating on buying a PC!!

Pretty mundane stuff I expect for most of you out there, but ground-breaking stuff for my family I can tell you.

Apparently unlimited internet broadband access is actually cheaper than what is charged to send emails on the phone, so mum was prepared to bite the bullet and get “hooked up to the net”.

The conversation also turned to Christmas and it was then that a wonderful plan was hatched between us all.

Being of the computer nerd persuasion, it will probably come as no surprise that I have two laptops in my possession. Ok, so one is mine and one belongs to my employers, but you get the idea – and I’m sure you can see where this is going here….

So it is with great personal pleasure I will be arriving home this Christmas with a laptop for home under my arm.

This is already a huge relief to me - that’s my mother and step-father’s Christmas presents sorted in one fell swoop!

Only another 10 to go.

To a totally committed anti-shopper like myself, the whole prospect of Christmas shopping makes me feel nauseous. This was in no way helped recently when I received an email from my youngest brother (ok – so I exaggerated the whole “I’m crap at keeping in touch with home” story). In this email - dated three weeks ago I might add – he casually informed me that he had ALL his presents bought!!

Here comes that nauseous feeling again…..

I’m sure if my mum had a choice, she would prefer me to come home with a nice homely bride under my arm; somebody who loves me for who I am and who wants to look after her eldest son but in the absence of anything remotely like that, she’ll have to make do with a second-hand laptop.

I’ll just have to make sure I take all the porn off it first.

Greetings from "Mijn Stamcafe"

Dearest Bloggees

(or whatever terminology they’ve come up with for those people unfortunate enough to be on the receiving end of what us bloggers deem interesting enough to put finger to key and share with you).

I know it’s been a while (would you expect anything less from me?) but I thought I’d get in touch because something is burning deep inside of me, and it’s not the Hungarian goulash effort that I just prepared for myself, but something much more spiritual (and hopefully a little bit more healthy).

Just how the hell are you doing?

Are you keeping well?

No really – is everything ok in your world? I mean - are you happy in yourself (to coin a phrase from back home).

As this is a one-way communication medium, I sincerely hope so and will have to assume so, unless you take the time to tell me otherwise.

And this brings me to my point.

It may come as a surprise to you but this medium of conversing does indeed provide an opportunity to make this into a two-way experience.

A little visit to my wee corner of cyberspace (http://www.belgiumisboring.blogspot.com) is all you need to do to make this a two-way interaction by posting a little response to my blogs.

Of course, for the growing numbers of you that have registered with this blog in order to receive my updates directly and conveniently into your email’s inbox, (albeit in a sporadic nature) this is not the case and frustration must surely take over your every waking moment.

And not just frustration about being unable to share your innermost thoughts with a faceless humble scribe that feels the need to share his with you.

For instance, I know that some of you receive these little rants in the form of a close to unreadable lump of text, which I can imagine must be just more than a tad frustrating for you.

But can you imagine just how frustrated I must feel?

I spend time and effort putting the damn things together and no matter what I do to ensure that it arrives to you in the manner that it was intended; you still end up with what is basically a horrifyingly difficult-to-read lump of crap (and that’s even before you decipher what I have decided to share with you)

The fact that you endeavour to decipher it at all is a constant source of wonderment for me and I feel humble as a result of it.

But the burning question for me is - just why do you put yourselves through the heartache and undeniable frustration that this experience causes? I can only hope that it is because you enjoy what I write (as I said – I can only hope) but I have to ask why put yourself through the misery?

I pride myself on the fact that I passed my GCSE English.* I think I know when a paragraph should finish and a new one should start but reading my blogs you’d swear blind that I was incapable of writing a wish list to Santa, never mind something that could (potentially – but why not aim my sites high?) be read by anyone with a connection to the internet.

Of course – for those of you that this provides a (welcome?) distraction from work, it makes a lot more sense to suffer the email in it’s received form, rather than have some nerd in your employer’s IT department finding you accessing a website with “BelgiumIsBoring” in the title.

Especially if you are working in Belgium.

So having said all that – go to the website, leave a comment, share a little bit of love. This blogger gets lonely and it would be great to hear from you.

I think you are all lovely.

This is your chance to prove it.

Thanks for reading.
Your Humble Scribe.

* - Am I the only person amazed by just how many forms of the English language Bill Gates and his cohorts think there are?

In this edition of Microsoft Word that this text has been lovingly crafted on, I am reliably informed that there are 18 different forms of the language, including Canadian, American, Irish, Trinidadian and Tobagan and Belizean.

Is that all really necessary?

I mean – surely it couldn’t have been too much too ask the invading forces of the British Army to at least leave a dictionary behind as they were raping and pillaging?

PS – In case you didn’t know – “Mijn Stamcafe” is Flemish for “My local” – a lovely little bar across the street from where I live.

It’s a real ‘Flemish locals’ bar. This means that men, women, children and pets (of all ages) rub shoulders in a relaxed atmosphere; that Flemish is very much the language of communication, smoke hangs thick in the air, the cold Stella flows indefinitely and anyone of an Arabic persuasion are most definitely not welcome, never mind the quiet Irish computer nerd sitting in the corner beavering away on his laptop.

I brought my laptop into the bar tonight to do some work in an atmosphere I thought conducive to creativity – but not (originally) for this blog – I actually came here to do some work for a presentation I have to give next week but got a little distracted by a combination of the burning desire to get all of this off my chest, the fact that I hadn’t written anything creative for quite some time and of course the aforementioned indefinitely flowing cold Stella.

The Company Weekend - 2005

The time is 08:08 CET, Friday morning, precisely and I have been in the office since 07:30 - and what do you know? - There were already two other people in the office before me. Grrrrr…..

I feel the need to explain the reason why I am in work so early….just in case you think I wet the bed or something.

The reason, in fact, is two-fold:
(1) This weekend is the annual company weekend and I want to get away early because the traffic will be horrendous this evening.

(2) The whole country of Belgium is on strike today and I want to get away early because the traffic will be horrendous this evening (see point 1 for reason for wanting to get away early).

Yes it's the company weekend. Hurrraaaahhhh. 60 hours in the Belgian countryside with a bunch of IT computer geeks and their spouses and sprogs.

I can hardly contain my excitement.

Actually the place we're staying looks very nice : http://www.blogger.com/ but I have a certain amount of trepidation when it comes to these sort of things….Perhaps if I share the agenda with you, you'll get a feel for my predicament:

Friday
check into hotel from 14:00 onwards
19:30 - evening meal
21:30 - fun quiz

Saturday
07:00 - 10:00 - Breakfast
10:00 - 12:00 - Clown for the children
12:30 - Lunch
14:00 - 18:00 - Golf clinic

Sunday
07:00 - 10:00 - Breakfast
11:00 - check-out of hotel room

Perhaps you're already on the same page as me but if not I'll explain further….

First of all, should I state for the record that I think it's great our employers go to this trouble every year. It can't be easy coming up with venues/ideas to try and keep employees/spouses/sprogs entertained in the middle of nowhere in Belgium for a whole weekend.

However, I feel the need to point out a few things:

The fun quiz.
The idea of a fun quiz with my colleagues quite frankly scares the shit out of me. Some might say that this is just sour grapes on my part - I have, after all, been the host of the quiz for the past two years and yet for some inexplicable reason see me being relinquished of my position this year.

Not so.

I'm actually looking forward to being on the other side of the questions - heckling the quizmaster, even though, considering that the quiz master is also my boss, this would not be the wisest of career moves. I feel that it is my God-given right to heckle after being on the receiving end of quite some abuse over the past two years.

There is, however, the small matter of the quiz being in Flemish. Whilst my Flemish ability has improved somewhat in the past year or so, I fear a situation where I will only be consulted upon by my team mates once they have exhausted all other options.

Oh how special that will make me feel.

The Clown.
Call me an old-fashioned stick in the mud or even a killjoy if you will, but I think clowns are seriously disturbed individuals.

There is something deeply suspicious about a middle-aged man covered in make up, wearing colourful clothes and playing with small children in the name of "entertainment". The fact that this will take place in the Belgian countryside only makes me even more nervous, given the country's somewhat dubious past.

Golf "Clinic"
Can somebody please inform me just what the hell this is? All I know is that I am booked in for a two hour session tomorrow afternoon.

I was not aware that my golf was in need of medical attention - especially considering that - with the exception of a couple of rounds of "Crrrrrrrazy Golf" and a session of pitch and putt in a shit-covered field among the Wicklow Hills a few years ago, my golfing experience is practically zero.

Indeed I have had more attempts at such obscure ridiculous notions as snow-boarding, white-water rafting and going sober for a weekend than I have at playing a round of golf.

There is also the fact that I as the only non-Belgian and as an Irishman I am worried that I will therefore be regarded as the golfing "expert" of the group. I just don’t know if I can live with the disappointment on all those people’s faces when they realise that I couldn’t hit a barn door with a banjo, never mind an inch wide ball in a straight line for a couple of hundred yards.

The disco evening
First off – I am not a dancer. I don’t like doing it – never have done and never will. This may come as a shock to anyone who has seen me on a night, dancing on podiums, singing on stage, or doing a combination of both.

Ever since my pubescent years the word disco has always managed to instil a fear in me that not much others have. Indeed from the Allen Hall discos at the local church, where I would get my first experience of dancing with girls, to the Newtownabbey Tech discos organised at the Kilwaughter House Hotel, where I would get my first experience of under-age drinking, to every wedding disco, where I would get the repeating experience of acute embarrassment of dancing with family.

There are some things in life that are relatively easy to get over but the sight of your auntie and uncle doing the Lambada, her in her stockinged feet, him with his tie tied around his head looking like a pot-bellied Rambo is just one of those images in life that stay with you to your grave.

But surely I’m not alone when I think that a disco with colleagues must be one of the most excruciatingly embarrassing things that a person should have to face…..ever.

On top of all of this, I probably do not need to point out that this weekend is a football fest, with my wee team looking to build on their glorious humbling of the English three weeks ago, by entertaining the Welsh on Saturday.

A choice between supporting Norn Iron and taking part in a golf clinic? Well – there simply is no choice.

Throw in the fact that I have a ticket for an English speaking comedy night in The Hague and I’ve got more than enough reason to avoid clinics and discos.

Having said that, this evening could turn out a great laugh and I’ll end up staying for the weekend.

Either way, I’m sure you’ll find out how I got on.

One man and his drag - Kamikaze Karaoke

Now I realise that this blog, coming hot on the heels of my previous one may seem a bit of a contradiction in terms, but I don’t want you all thinking that I’ve gone soft with this new era of sense and sensibility in my life.

Not so.

As a couple of weekends ago proved, there are still more than enough opportunities for me to behave like a drunken eejit and get myself into ridiculous situations, in my seemingly pathological need to embarrass myself, my family and my friends.

Luckily no family members where present on this particular occasion although quite what they’ll make of this one once news of it gets out in my back home town I’m not sure. A town where the men are men and the sheep are nervous….

A few weeks ago I, along with an English friend who for the purpose of this tale I shall call Mark, because…erm….that’s his name, decided to go visit Clair, a friend of mine living in the capital city of our most favourite boring country.

Clair is soon relocating to England, so it seemed as good a reason as any to pay her a visit - the invitation of bed and breakfast, complete with bacon sandwiches and brown sauce just swaying the decision.

Things started off calm enough for me – at one o’clock in the afternoon – as I watched two football matches in Antwerp, the first a heartening win for my other team Glasgow Rangers over their great rivals Celtic, with the second match being a rather less than impressive Liverpool win over newly promoted Sunderland.

Needless to say, as the football ebbed and flowed, so did the beers, ensuring that by the time I arrived at Mark’s place, I was a little the worse for wear, the drive to Brussels not helping me sober up much at all.
(Perhaps if I’d have driven slower it might have helped).

We met up with Clair and took the tram into Brussels town centre to one of those neighbourhoods the name of which escapes me, where we hooked up with another friend of hers, Karen.

The group of four complete, we headed off to a famous Belgian ‘brown café’, the name of which escapes me as well – a big, noisy, open spaced affair with original fixtures and fittings and an impressive selection of Belgian beers to choose from. We all went for my favourite girl - Stella Artois.

The arrangement was to meet another friend of the girls, whose mother was over visiting. The idea was that we would meet for a bite to eat in a Moroccan restaurant, although to be honest, food was not really something that any of us were too keen on and I got the feeling that we perhaps weren’t the most wonderful of dining companions on that occasion.

After the meal, we said our goodbyes because basically, we wanted to go and get pissed, paint the town red and collapse in a taxi back to Clair’s and fall asleep watching the hilarious Peter Kay on video for the umpteenth time.

Upon reflection, I would have to say that it was mission accomplished, with our pub-crawl taking us to several places, one bar sticking out because dancing on the tables was nigh on obligatory, as was the high standard of female revellers.

Then, at some stage, for some inexplicable reason, the wheels came off the wagon, leaving such carnage and wreckage that even thinking about it now brings back some horrifying memories and a nervous shiver down my spine.

One minute we were crawling around Brussels bars on a busy Saturday night, the next, I found myself on stage in a gay night club with a huge spotlight on me, microphone in hand and with a couple of hundred gay guys that I could just make out in the darkness looking up at me as if I had two heads.

As you do.

So what had happened in the brief interlude between dancing on a table in a busy bar full of members of both sexes, to being in the position that I found myself in such a short space of time later?

En route to a bar, the name of which escapes me (I really wasn’t paying attention at all that night, was I?), Clair decided she wanted to say hello to a gay friend of hers, the owner of a gay nightclub. Asking us if we were ok with it, Mark and myself – being men of the world, you understand – replied in the affirmative – of course it would be ok.

“As long as they keep their hands to themselves we’ll be fine – and if it gets too much for us we can start talking rugby, football, beer and women in loud, rough, manly voices” was the advice we gave to ourselves as we walked into the venue.

To say I was shocked is a bit of an understatement.

Kylie Minogue’s angelic voice was blasting out of the sound system and for once I had to agree with her. For I think the sight that I saw as I entered that place was something that “I Can’t Get Out of My Head” either.

All manner of men (except heterosexual of course) danced and writhed to the little Aussie pop pixie’s music. Transvestites mingled with leather clad men, middle-aged with ‘more youthful’ companions, men kissing dancing and groping.

I really didn’t know where to look but made a great scene out of making sure that I looked cool.

Which of course I failed at miserably.

As Clair went off to see her friend, I looked at Mark, whose startled face was I’m sure a perfect reflection of my own, and we decided to get the drinks in. Emergency action was required. “I’ll have a vodka and orange, Mark” thinking that a good, stiff one was just what I needed. Thank God I didn’t speak that out at the time….

Shortly after the drinks arrived, Clair introduced us to the nightclub owner.

And as I type these words now, I realise that this is where the wheels fell off the wagon - right at this precise moment:

“Do you have ‘Mack The Knife’?” I shouted, struggling to be heard over Kylie

(You can see where it’s going readers, can’t you??!)

“What?”
“Do you have ‘Mack The Knife’?” I repeated.
The owner looked at me, seemingly contemplating on whether I was serious or not “No – we don’t have it” he replied, without so much as even a token look for it.
“Seriously – could you have a look for it, please?”
“We don’t have it!”
“That’s a pity – I’d like to sing it.” I explained.
“What?!”
“I’d like to sing it”
Once again, the owner looked at me, seemingly contemplating if I was on the level or taking the piss. It seemed that he trusted me.
“Well, we have a microphone, if you want to sing it without the music - you’re more than welcome to if you want!!”

This was my chance to bail out, pull the plug, abort mission, fold, surrender, give it up, abstain, quit while I was ahead – anything but say…. “Sure – no problem – I’ll give it a go!”

And so it came to pass, that approximately 25 seconds later, Kylie had been shut off mid-song, blokes pulled themselves off……each other!….each other!! - Godammit – where are your minds??!!! and I had walked up onto stage to a deafening silence.

The disco lights were switched off and replaced with a light which I can only assume was a searchlight in a Prisoner of War camp in a previous life, the reflection of it bouncing off the huge glitter ball above my head a thousand times.

Which is approximately the same number of deaths that I experienced during my short time on stage.

With nobody to count me in, no accompanying music to settle myself into any sort of rhythm, and with absolutely no background noise whatsoever to distract me (you really could hear a pin drop), I charged on, trying everything in my repertoire to get a reaction from the crowd

The silence was total and absolute – apart from Clair and Mark’s giggles which permeated through the darkness from a corner towards the back as they seemed to be having a gay old time (pun intended).

I sang, I danced, I even shouted out “Come on lads, sing along!” but got nothing, nada, niks, for my efforts.

I left the stage a broken man - much to the bemusement of the establishment’s clientele and returned to my friends and my Vodka and Orange - except that it wasn’t there. It turned out that as I was up there dying on stage some bastard had snuck off with my drink – presumably to test it for drugs, based on my performance…

I ask you – what is the world coming to, when you can’t even sing a capella in a gay nightclub in front of a couple of hundred total strangers and not expect your drink to remain where it was left?

The world’s gone mad, I tell ya…

The Weekend Has Landed!!

For most of us, as the time slowly runs out on another working week, thoughts inevitably start to turn to those upcoming 60-odd hours off from the world that is more commonly known as The Weekend.

Whether it is a quiet, relaxing time spent with friends and family, a romantic break with your loved one, or a non-stop hedonistic, alcohol and drug-filled escape from planet reality, we all start looking forward to that escape from the rigours of work, almost before the dust has settled on the previous weekend.

Perhaps you’re going to use the opportunity to do some shopping, fix some shelves, read a book, climb up a mountain, jump in a lake, I don’t know - but the fact is that The Weekend is a time that should be filled with what you want to do – not what somebody else tells you to do. Of course, those of us with family’s, partners, or other commitments may find yourself with certain compromises to make, but to all intents and purposes The Weekend is a time for relaxing – a recharge of life’s batteries, if you will - in whatever form that may take.

On this occasion, as I consult my social calendar, I see that this weekend has nothing to offer me, save for the no-small-matter of Liverpool v The Scum (otherwise known as Manchester United) to be played out at Sunday lunchtime.

In the past, this kind of vacant whole in my social life, a weekend with absolutely nothing planned, would have filled me with something akin to holy terror. A nervous sweat would have swept over me as I pondered a weekend where I did not have some party or other to go to, some dirty decadence to involve myself with, or at the very least a weekend full of romantic liaisons.

Not so, the ‘new’ me.

For you see folks, after several years of burning the candles at both ends, being the last one standing at a party or the last one to leave the pub - something which is easier said than done, in a country such as Belgium with 24-drinking a very real possibility, I now find that the prospect of having nothing to do this weekend an absolute Godsend and I really cannot wait….for nothing to happen.

So what has brought upon this massive change in my psyche?

Am I getting wiser? Debatable. Am I getting older? Most definitely. Have I stopped partying? No of course not - there’ll always be a bit of an animal in me when it comes down to that – and long may that continue.

I suppose, put quite simply, I have had enough.

Now I realise that most of you don’t know me personally, in spite of the fact that I pour my heart out to you, the readers of this blog, on a (somewhat) regular basis – but take my word for it - for me to make such a bold statement has taken quite an effort. Some would say years of effort (Hello Mum).

It’s like a switch has gone in my head. I no longer need the party lifestyle to be happy - at least not to the extent that I have in the past.

And what about the romantic side of things? I (don’t) hear you ask.

Well, readers – that’s a strange thing as well. My love-life recently has been anything but wonderful for several reasons, none of which I’ll bother you with - but to be absolutely honest, I’m OK with that as well – which is another rather bizarre admission for a guy like myself, who often regarded not having a girlfriend as some sort of affliction.

Like most people my age I suppose I look back on my adult life with many conflicting emotions – pride, shame, happiness, sadness, embarrassment, regret – they’re all there.

It sounds clichéd but I’ve been fortunate enough to experience things that I would never even have dreamed about as a kid and I will always be grateful for the privileged position I have found myself in throughout these years. Perhaps I’m being greedy but I would like for some more of the same please over the next 15 a well.

The point is that the one thing I would say about my life so far is that I’ve enjoyed myself along the way. Certainly the one positive thing at any rate. Failed relationships, wasted career opportunities, stupid business decisions, are all blots on the landscape of my past 15 years but for the most part, I’ve went through life with a smile on my face.

In fact, should I ever get bored of enjoying myself, and end up going to meet my maker, it would certainly be a fitting epitaph. The problem is, however, that I’ve been enjoying myself to such a reckless and impulsive degree on occasion that people close to me have suffered. As have I.

I’ve carried out things on a whim and worried about the consequences later. Fine behaviour for some, especially with youth on their side but I’m 33 years old now and perhaps need to be a little bit more sensible in my approach to things and life in general.

And I suppose that’s what it boils down to really - becoming a bit more sensible. It’s perhaps taken me longer than most to reach this state of “inner-sensibleness” or whatever you’d like to call it, but there is no doubt in my mind that destination sensible is the only way forward.

There was no defining moment in the life of your humble scribe, no single event to make me wake up and smell the coffee, no flash of inspiration to steer me off the path to self-destruction that I was surely running head first along.

But it’s happened and I’m embracing it. Sure of course I want to settle down, maybe have kids some day soon but if that doesn’t happen, I’m not going to worry too much about that either.

Perhaps I’m just bored with Belgium, which would be a bit ironic considering the title of this blog was in itself meant to be ironic. Perhaps a change of scenery would re-awaken the “beast that lies within” but I very much doubt it. The beast is still there, all be it a more controlled, focussed one – one with a bit of will power.

I’ve not completely changed overnight – I don’t think anyone can – it’s just all about prioritising things in your life. For the first time in a few years, I’m enjoying my work – which more than compensates for the quieter social life.

In the past, on a night out, I would have flogged a dead horse, kicked it around a few times just to make sure, and administered mouth to mouth resuscitation to it - anything to keep the party going. Now I really couldn’t give a fiddler’s, flying, fuck.

Anyway, having said all that – enough of the sensible stuff – I certainly don’t want to put anyone on a downer before the weekend starts. In fact, this ‘bloggette’ was supposed to send out a message of positivism, although re-reading the words, I’m not really sure that that’s what it comes across as.

I reckon that I’ve got about 2 and a half hours to go, the sun is shining and I’ve got a hot date this evening with my couch, a glass or two of wine, chilled music and a good book.

I can’t wait.

If anyone wants to get in touch with me – tough – I’ll have the phone switched off.

Of course, come Sunday lunchtime and things will take on a slightly different hue. Let’s hope Liverpool continue their return to the upper echelons of world football with a timely first win over the old enemy since 2001.

Have a good weekend folks!

“The Sensible One”

The Cauldron of Hate

[NOTE: For those of you having trouble reading this in email form due to lack of paragraphs, it can be viewed in all its intended splendour at http://www.belgiumisboring.blogspot.com]

Folks,

It’s been a while since I last blogged and instead of going through the usual apologies, I’m gonna cut straight to the chase.

Suffice to say that my head has been up my arse ever since I came back from holiday in France and it has taken a while for the operation to remove it to be a success. Wednesday night, it has to be said, was a big step in the right direction for me.

For two hours, I was able to forget about all my troubles and worries and it was good therapy to see something that made me feel inspired enough to put finger to keypad and share with you what has got to be one of THE greatest moments in my life.

I’m trying to think of moments to compare it with and I’m struggling to do so. For you see, even at the ripe old age of 33, I have not experienced births of children or marriages, nor similar life-altering events of such lofty stature which would normally be reserved for the title of “The Best Day of My Life”

But without doubt Wednesday night has certainly joined a shortlist of few.

So what happened that night that has inspired me so and got me appreciating the birds singing in the trees, the sun shining in the sky, the pretty girls in their summer clothes? (Actually that last one I have always been very appreciative of)

Well I suppose for those of you that know me - and let’s face it – if you’ve been reading my blogs you know me better than most – it will come as no surprise that this latest blog is once again football related.

But before you reach for the ‘delete’ button – hear me out. For those of you that hate my football-related blogs I make absolutely no apologies for this one. For this was a result of epic proportions. Even in comparison, Liverpool’s European Champion’s League winning exploits back in May pales into insignificance.

All I do ask of you is to please bear with me - this one is coming straight from the heart. Words are coming through my head way too fast for my poor battered hands to keep up but I have the feeling that this might just be my favourite piece of writing ever. It’s certainly the least I can do to pay homage to what I witnessed on Wednesday.

There is no other way to describe it, there is just simply no way I can make it sound any better than by stating the simple fact. Even if I was capable of waxing lyrical with all sorts of wonderfully descriptive sentences littered with beautiful artistic expressions, there would simply be no point. On this occasion, stating simple, pure undiluted fact is the only way forward…..

WE BEAT THE FUCKING ENGLISH!!!

Now – before you think – “here he goes off on an anti-English rant” – keep the faith - it is nothing of the sort.

But make no mistake about what my home country of Northern Ireland (or “Norn Iron” as it said by the locals) achieved on Wednesday.

In football terms - it was nothing short of miraculous.
David slaying Goliath.
David slaying a whole army of Goliaths.
A whole army of Goliaths armed to the teeth with AK47’s, rocket launchers and those cool light sabers out of Star Wars.
Anyway – I think you get the picture…

Every one of those men dressed in green on Wednesday night did us proud – and I’m not just talking about the men on the pitch either. Every Northern Ireland supporter that was at that match must surely have woken up yesterday with a hangover (and a few others who weren’t at the match either will not be feeling much better either - I know one fella sitting at his desk here in Antwerp that was a “little under the weather”) but it has got to be one of the sweetest hangovers many of us have ever experienced.

Not so long ago, Windsor Park, the football stadium in South Belfast where Northern Ireland play their home games was dubbed as “The Cauldron of Hate” by none other than that most honorary of English-born Irish men, the former Republic of Ireland team manager, Jack Charlton.

Please indulge me a little walk down memory lane….

A little under two decades ago, Northern Ireland and The Republic of Ireland were drawn together in the same qualifying group. A draw that was greeted with much anticipation by both sets of supporters for obvious reasons.

When the fixture list was organised, it was deemed that Northern Ireland should play the Republic of Ireland in Belfast on the last qualifying match.

We could not wait.

Tickets were at a premium but my mate “Gaffer” and I block-booked for all the qualifiers, so our seats were guaranteed for the big game.

Playing the Republic of Ireland in Dublin, Northern Ireland were duly beaten. The better team one. There was no shame in that. Hard to take, yes but we certainly couldn’t argue with the result. At that time, Northern Ireland was very much the poor relation in Irish football.

The memories of knocking the host nation out of the 1982 world cup in Spain – even after we had a man dubiously sent off and had to battle against some shocking refereeing decisions – were slowly fading. No matter how much we wanted to hold on to the glory days of Spain ’82 and Mexico ’86, they were confined to the annals of history - whether we liked it or not.

And boy did we not like it.

To further compound our misery, the Republic of Ireland was fast becoming a force to be reckoned with in world football. Jack Charlton had galvanised a team of English and Scottish-born players (with somewhat dubious claims to Irish ancestry) – along with a few real Irish thrown in for good measure – and moulded them into a team to be reckoned with.

Add to this scenario, the politics of Ireland and Northern Ireland’s turbulent past, this was an enormous game for the Northern Ireland supporters.

And Jack Charlton knew it.

As the qualifiers came down to the crunch, it became apparent that in order for the Republic of Ireland to be certain of qualification, they would have to come to Belfast and win. Northern Ireland, alas, were languishing near the bottom of the group, our hopes of qualifying having long faded.

Still – we had more than enough to keep up our interest – we could still prevent the Republic of Ireland from qualifying.

As I write these words I realise that this all may be perceived like the rant of a narrow minded bigot but I ask you – would it be any different if it was England v Scotland or Wales? Belgium v Holland? Spain v Portugal? Argentina v Brazil?

Of course not.

Our nearest neighbours – a country that we’ve shared a less-than-easy existence with on the Island of Ireland - a team far better than ours was coming to town – and what was all the more annoying was that it was a team littered with people born in places like London, Liverpool and Glasgow. Footballers who had no hope of playing for their native countries where digging up their Irish roots and turning up to play for the Irish.

A great example of this is Tony Cascarino – the then Republic of Ireland striker. When his team qualified for the world cup in USA 1990 – he didn’t even possess an Irish passport because he didn’t have the necessary paperwork.

So of course there was intense rivalry leading up to the game. And then Jack Charlton started to play funny bugger.

Claiming that he was worried for the safety of his players and supporters travelling to Belfast to play in what he described as a ”Cauldron of Hate”, he asked for the game to be rearranged to a ‘neutral’ venue. By neutral he suggested Liverpool or Glasgow. If any of you have been to either city, it is laughable to even suggest that either city would be neutral when Ireland was playing.

But apart from being laughable, it was also an absolute disgrace and an insult to the people of Northern Ireland.

FIFA (the governing body of world football) quite rightly laughed in Jack Charlton’s face and told him to put up and shut up.

And that is where the “Cauldron of Hate” was born. We, as Northern Ireland supporters never thought of it as such but it was nice of Jack to point It out and throw petrol on what was already an explosive situation.

We tried our best to oblige, the atmosphere in the old stadium was electric and we very nearly did it – the match finishing 1-1 and the Republic scraping through thanks to some heroic goal keeping in the other match that night by the Danish goalkeeper Peter Schmeicel.

But anyway….on to more recent times.

Wednesday night to be exact.

Yes - Northern Ireland, a team ranked 116th in the world, a team who last year set the dubious world record for being the international team that had gone the longest run without scoring a goal (1298 minutes to be exact), a team made up of footballers plying their trade with such footballing powerhouses as Hull, Peterborough, Plymouth and Hearts, a team who only on Saturday recorded their first competitive win in four years….over the mighty Azerbaijan…took on the 200 plus million pounds worth of footballing talent that the English could boast – and beat them.

And make no mistake – this was no lucky win. Northern Ireland fully deserved the victory. Apart from a wonderful free-kick from the boy Beckham (nice hair David), and an opportunistic overhead kick from the lad Owen (oh – so he was on the pitch…) the only other thing that England contributed to proceedings was Shrek-a-Rooney throwing his obligatory foul-mouthed tantrum and throwing his considerable weight around, narrowily escaping a red card from the referee.

Honest to God that lad has got nothing but a wind-tunnel going between those two big ears of his.

"Are you Scotland in disguise?" taunted the Northern Ireland fans. Certainly not, for the Scots are a winning side again. But it has to be said that the fans played a huge part in our unlikely success.
They were magnificent – and like the players were up for it right from the start.
I love going to Northern Ireland matches. The stadium is tiny by international standards, with a capacity of 14,000 (which could have been sold out 10 times over for last nights match).
Windsor Park is dark, dingy, exposed and there is nearly always a gale force wind blowing around the place. It’s certainly a far cry from what the English team of superstars, with their millionaire lifestyles would be used to. – and of course this played to our advantage – but make no mistake – 13,000 Northern Ireland supporters can make a helluva lot of noise and the English team looked visibly nervous coming out onto the pitch.
The 1000 travelling English fans were drowned out by the cacophony of noise from the Green and White army but they surely couldn’t have been surprised by that - after all - at the corresponding fixture in Manchester (a game that I was at), the 7000 travelling Northern Ireland fans outsung the 60,000 English for the entire afternoon. Even though we got hammered 4-0
I had a ticket for Wednesday night’s game but unfortunately was unable to make it, my brother saddled with the far from tortuous task of trying to find a buyer for it. Oh how I wished I was there.
3 hours before kick off, I received a phone call from my brother Darren already well in the party mood in Belfast. “We’re gonna do it tonight, Jonny – bet on a 2-0 win for us – I’ll give you the money out of my winnings!!”
Darren – I should take this opportunity to confess that I didn’t follow your conviction and failed to put the bet on, as I thought it was obviously the request of a drunken fool - a drunken fool that would regret his impulsiveness when he woke up the following day after defeat, with a hangover AND have a hole in his pocket from the foolish bet. And with two minutes remaining, we very nearly did score a second – Warren Feeney’s shot going inches past the post.
I would have had some explaining to do had that one gone in…

So instead of being at the match adding my considerable vocal encouragement to the Green and White Army, I had to settle for a bar in Antwerp dressed in full Northern Ireland kit, scarf et al. Needless to say I was sweating buckets and that was before I started to watch the match.

To use a phrase coined in the BBC comedy series Little Britain, for as long as I have been in Antwerp, I have always been “The only gay in the village” and by that I mean being Northern Irish AND proud of it. I have met a few people from the same country but thanks to the politics and history of Ireland, they don’t recognise that as a country and prefer to be known as Irish.

Each to their own and I’m certainly not going to make any political statements here. I am just saying that being the way I am has set me up for a bit of criticism from certain Irish individuals in Antwerp; people who perhaps have a problem with me because of who I am or where I come from.

Most of it of course has always been good-natured banter and I can certainly give it just as much as take it but when it came to the football there was really never anything I could say in response. We have been bad - there can be no doubt about that.

I sometimes wished that I was in this situation – living abroad, surrounded by English, Scottish and Irish (do the Welsh ever travel?) – during 1982, when we enjoyed our finest ever moment in our proud 125 year history.

But Wednesday night has provided all of us Norn Iron supporters something to be proud of and put a smile on all our faces. Even my mum and my other brother – neither football fans have been in touch about the result. The whole country has been lifted by it.

For far too long, we have been berated by our own people, the press and media. In fact, for a World Cup qualifying match last season, BBC Northern Ireland decided to show only highlights of the game instead of the whole match live but chose to show a 1-hour studio debate before the highlights. The topic of the debate? “Is there any need in today’s society for a Northern Ireland football team?”

What sort of bollocks is that???

Now - after the performance of Wednesday I no longer need to….I am proud to be The Only Gay in The Village!!

Here’s to a magnificent performance from Norn Iron – players and supporters alike and good luck to England in the World Cup finals, coz we all know you’ll qualify for it anyway.

But before I go, here is an excerpt from yesterday’s Belfast Telegraph, perhaps a little tongue in cheek…

How our heroes rated Marks out of 10 for the Windsor Legends
By Paul Ferguson

Maik Taylor: Only had to make two saves during the first half and in the second period dealt with everything that came his way. Looked totally assured catching crosses and totally dominated his area. 10

Chris Baird: Wayne Rooney never got a sniff with the Southampton Reserves player keeping him quiet throughout the game. Will be disappointed to have received a booking for time wasting but I'm sure he doesn't care after this result. 10

Aaron Hughes: Led the Northern Ireland back four with great authority and soaked up any pressure that came his way. Kept calm and composed and deserves all the credit that comes his way. Quite simply, captain marvel. 10

Stephen Craigan: Sensational display from the Motherwell centre back. Outstanding in the air and easily his best performance for Northern Ireland. Owen and Rooney didn't look dangerous with the Newtownards man brilliant alongside Aaron Hughes. 10

Tony Capaldi: Struggled during the opening 20 minutes with Shaun Wright Phillips but once he settled down he grew in confidence and actually enjoying going forward alongside Stuart Elliott. Solid and terrific. 10

Keith Gillespie: Did what he had to do very well - help out Chris Baird in the right back position and go forward at every opportunity. Scared the life out of Ashley Cole at times towards the end of the first half and during the second. Back to his old self. 10

Damien Johnson: Didn't give England's midfield players any time or space on the ball and along with his young partner Steve Davis was unbelievable. Will be annoyed with a booking during the first half after a foul on Frank Lampard - but that certainly didn't mean he pulled out of any crunching tackles. 10

Steven Davis: The Ballymena man came of age last night and certainly didn't look out of place in the midfield against Steven Gerrard, Frank Lampard and David Beckham. He was strong in the tackle and created a number of opportunities for Healy and Quinn. Easy to see why David O'Leary gave him his Premiership chance. 10

Stuart Elliott: A brave and committed performance from the Hull City winger. Never stopped running and putting his head in to win important balls. Wasn't able to play his usual game as Luke Young marshalled him well. But gave his all as usual. Ecstatic at the end. 10

David Healy: Scored his most important goal in a green shirt when he shot past Paul Robinson on 74 minutes last night. Ran his heart out for the Northern Ireland cause despite still carrying an injury. Rio Ferdinand certainly wasn't comfortable dealing with the former Manchester United hotshot. 11

James Quinn: A moment to remember for the Peterborough United striker when he dispossessed England captain David Beckham with a crunching tackle on 62 minutes, which set up a Northern Ireland attack much to the delight of the Windsor Park faithful. Was a nuisance to the English defence all night and held the ball up very well. An immense performance. Had one shot in the second half which went just inches pastRobinson's left hand post. 10

Substitutes:
Warren Feeney: Came on for James Quinn and simply ran at the tired England defenders. Had a chance to score in injury time but unfortunately it just went past the post. 10

Ivan Sproule: What a night for the former Institute and Omagh Town winger. Not much time to impress, however enjoyed every moment of his seven minutes on the pitch. Replaced goalscorer David Healy. 10

Michael Duff: On for Stuart Elliott in injury time as Lawrie Sanchez ran down the clock. 10

An open letter to the International Olympic Committee

Dear Sir/Madam/The powers that be in deciding these matters,

Please spare me a few minutes of your undoubtedly very precious time without further ado, I shall get straight to the point.

I have just returned from a very enjoyable vacation in the south of France, a vacation I shared with 7 Flemish friends and a little 13 month old baby, who doesn’t really have anything to do with the reason for writing, but I just mention him, because , well – he’s a cute kid.

Now where was I? - Ah yes, the vacation.

A great time was had, lazing around the pool of our stylish villa all day long, relaxing, reading and sipping at chilled rosé wine. We even found the time to go on a couple of wine tasting days out, one to the charming village of Gigondas and the other to the world-renowned Chateauneuf de Pap. (I hope you’re as impressed as I am).

Anyway, the purpose of this letter is not to swap vacation stories with a complete stranger – although if you would like me to, I’m certainly up for it if you are (photos guarantee reply); oh no, the reason is that I have a proposal for you to consider a sport for inclusion in the Olympics possible even in time for the 2012 London Olympic Games.

[BTW thanks for giving us that one – you know we’d have sulked for years if you hadn’t and The Sun would have gone on one of it’s xenophobic rants and the whole thing could have got terribly messy, so I’m sure you know that it’s for the best – but am I the only one that thinks it was worth it just to get one over on Le Frogs?!!]

But I digress.

The sport that I would like you to consider for inclusion – nay include is that most taxing of disciplines, petanque or “French Bowls” as it is more commonly known in the rest of the civilised world.

For the uninitiated, I would suggest visiting the website http://www.laboulebleue.fr/en/html/reglepetanque.htm for details of the rules, but I certainly do not question the sporting knowledge that lies within your ranks and will not insult your intelligence by going through the rules at this juncture.

Not only do I feel it is a sport worthy of inclusion but I’m sure intelligent people like yourselves can also see the beauty of including this game – the French may not have got the Olympic Games, but at least they’d have a little piece of back home in which they can compete in with a great chance of winning. This should ease their loss somewhat and give them something to strive for, although I draw the line at making ‘acts of cowardice’ or ‘smelling’ Olympic disciplines – we may as well just give them the bloody medals straight away if that’s the case.

Petanque is a fine sport, suited best for lazy, sunny, Sunday afternoons at the local town square, whilst sipping on chilled pastis or rosé wine, so it’s obviously perfect for London and its environs. I mean just think what the Eastenders omnibus would be like if they were all playing petanque in the gardens of Albert Square?....Exactly!

However, this is not just about recommending a fine upstanding sport for inclusion in the Olympic Games, for I must confess to an ulterior motive for me mailing this suggestion to you.
For you see, whilst on vacation, I was introduced to this most magnificent and noble of sports for the first time and I embraced it into my manly bosom with great gusto and fervour. Indeed, I found it to be an absolute joy - mainly because I kept winning, granted – but also because it gave me an excuse to drink lots of rosé wine without too much of a reprimand from the other half.

Cometh the man, cometh the hour and I don't mind admitting that for the period of that vacation I was a lean, mean, rosé drinking, petanque playing machine - Man, rosé and petanque in perfect harmony.

I've finally found my talent in life! OK - it's taken me into my early 30’s to find it but the beauty of it all is that I can still play petanque when I’m old, fat, bald and stink of piss – you only have to go to any town square in rural France on any given Sunday to see this to be the case. My time has come!

Indeed so impressed am I with my talent for petanque that I have copied the Great Britain and Irish Olympic teams into this letter, to offer myself as a representative for either fine nation in both the individual and team events.
(Dual nationality being one of the benefits of being from Northern Ireland and therefore twice the chance for Olympic inclusion!)

Especially when you consider the fact that I was playing with my "bad arm" (my good arm still bandaged and recovering from a recent operation) and also this was my first time playing the game. Ever! And I was up against seasoned veterans in the sport, Belgian guys who are certainly no strangers to the demands of playing petanque in the blistering heat of Provence in conjunction with all day drinking .

What can I say? When it comes to combining all day drinking with throwing objects accurately I'm definitely the guy for the job (and this has certainly got nothing to do with me being brought up on the streets in Northern Ireland).

As I am already convinced that you’ll give the sport of petanque the big 5-ring rubber stamp (and it’s been a while since I encouraged anyone to give me one of those), I have a few suggestions for you as to how the games should be incorporated into the global event that is The Olympic Games, in order for the sport to retain some of its humble authenticity:

• The arena should be an exact replica of a typical French village's town square, complete with small café terraces, where the spectators can sit and read newspapers whilst drinking café au lait and breathe in an atmosphere made all the more authentic by the subtle infusion in the arena's air conditioning system of smells of garlic, onions and unwashed sweaty bodies sprayed with eau de toilette.
• Chilled rosé must be available for competitors constantly. Not only does this add to the relaxed atmosphere of the sport, it also helps to loosen up the player’s throwing arm
• Berets, whilst optional in real-life petanque, should, in fact, be made compulsory for the Olympic version. This will add a certain colour and style to the sport which will have those in disciplines such as the cycling and swimming green with envy
• The berets could sport the player’s flag of nationality which will make it easier for Sky cameras to pick out players from their overhead ‘blimp-cam’
• Walking around with an air of indifference whilst shrugging shoulders and smoking Gauloises should be encouraged at all times

I trust that I am not alone in seeing how obviously the Olympic Games would benefit with the inclusion of petanque and look forward to reading your confirmation that my proposal has been accepted.

Regards

Jonny "The Petanque Prince" Black

PS – Team GB and Team Ireland, I look forward to receiving your invitation to represent these proud nations. It’s not an easy decision to make so I’ll base it purely on a first come, first served basis. Get in touch asap!

Blood, Sweat and Tears - The Rock Werchter Report - Part 3

Well folks, the gap between part two and three has been even longer than the one between parts one and two and I can only assume that by now you couldn’t give a flying fuck about the blood, sweat and tears from that eventful weekend, the memories of which are fast receding.

If this is indeed the case, I can only apologise as I demonstrate my innate stubbornness and continue with this, the third part of my sorry tale.

I’m sure there are already several papers circulating the internet, published by eminent psychologists as they analyse the mindset of the blogger and indeed that of the person who reads the blogger’s musings.

I suppose – if I was to think about it for any length of time – that there is something of an exhibitionist in the Blogger, perhaps even a kind of arrogance to even think for a moment that the experiences of one’s life would be remotely interesting for somebody out there to read, so I thank you, Dear Reader, for your perseverance.

Booker Prize material, whilst this stuff most definitely is not, I do hope you find the stories at least a little bit entertaining. Of course I enjoy writing and would continue to churn out this crap even if nobody out there were to read it but the fact that there are some of you out there that read my musings, keeps me motivated to continue with it, all be it at irregular intervals.

As a little anecdote to all of this, I am typing up this instalment, in the cool, shaded living room of a beautiful villa in the south of France, having decided to come here on vacation with several Flemish friends.

So having left the sweltering heat of the poolside, and the Belgians to their Flemish conversations, I have sought English-speaking solace here in the world of my blog, and considering that I have been here since Thursday evening, it is now Monday afternoon and we are only set to leave for Belgium at the weekend, there is every chance that I will come back and write some more.

I’m having a good time, but I’m sure you’d all be able to sympathise with the fact that it can be at times a little bit frustrating for all concerned at the language barrier that exists between us. They all speak English, of course, and whilst I have little more than a rudimentary knowledge of Flemish, it’s still difficult – we are, after all, on vacation, the heat is incredible and we are all hear to relax. Stumbling our way through conversations in ‘Flenglish’ sometimes seems to be just a little bit too much trouble for us all. But c'est la vie (just to throw in a third language into the mix).

So as I pour myself another local rosè wine, and enjoy the cool air of this villa, join me on this the third part of the Werchter Weekend tale.

I thank you for your patience…

As we all dragged our abused bodies out of our tents, we slowly set about regaining a state of consciousness capable of dealing with the day’s festivities that lay ahead. Breakfast consisted of bananas, oranges, those Grany cereal bars as well as a lot of crap - crisps, sweets, chocolate bars, and of course alcohol.

One of the participants of the weekend was a young English fella called Warren, the son of Abbie’s ex-boss and at 19 years of age, the baby in the group. This was his First Festival and he was embracing it with all the energy and innocence of youth and not to mention an unnerving ability to turn his space in the campsite into an episode of that American TV show, MacGyver, the guy who it seemed could put his hands to anything in order to get himself out of a tricky situation.

For a start, Warren’s tent was camouflaged and matched nicely with the camouflaged vest that he was wearing. Armed with a little gas cooker, we then watched in amazement as he then proceeded to make himself a pot noodle and cup of coffee. A fine breakfast that I’m sure, had it been around in bygone days of yore, would have ensured that the British Empire stretched even further throughout the four corners of this globe.

As we sat eating our breakfasts, we looked at the bands that were to be performing that day with much excitement. Closing was the dance act Faithless but before we got to that we were to be entertained by bands such as Within Temptation, The Kills, Garbage and my personal highpoint of the day’s entertainment – American punk rockers, Greenday.

PopTart continued to regale me of the previous night’s events, mainly at my expense. Apparently, during the chemical brothers and having decided to forgo the natty blue rain-mac, I had danced the night away, oblivious to the fact that I was absolutely drenched, the sweater that I was wearing turning into more of a tent as the evening had progressed.

I had absolutely no recollection of the visit to the first aid tent or the stop at the beer tent on the way ‘home’ although I was vaguely aware of wandering around the wrong campsite, like a little lost sheep, being lost in the dark surrounded by snoring Belgians sleeping in their tents seemingly having some sort of sobering affect on me.

With breakfast, along with my memory refresh, complete, we made our way to the festival site, where I immediately went to the first aid tent, this time accompanied by another friend, Matt, who needed attention to a tooth that he was having problems with. We were fast becoming extras in a low-budget version of ER.

When the resident doctor looked at my hand, his face became one of nervous horror.

“You’re going to have to go to hospital, the wound is getting infected! We’ll organise an ambulance to take you to Leuven hospital as soon as possible.”

I was absolutely gutted, and if truth be known, a little frightened at this new development.

And so it came to pass, that within a few minutes, I was saying goodbye to Matt and climbing into the back of an ambulance destined for nearby Leuven hospital, accompanied by another Werchter casualty, a young girl who had tripped over in the dark and managed to sprain her ankle.

I sighed to myself as I came to terms with the fact that my weekend was set to come to an abrupt end and cursed the decision to get my hand fixed. I was also aware of the fact that this was my first time in the back of an ambulance – an experience that I did not want to be repeating anytime again in the near future. I conceded a rueful smile as I thought of my time watching my home football team, Ballyclare Comrades, when we would sing “You’re going home in the back of an ambulance!” to players of opposing teams who were being stretchered off the field of play. It was a bit of a laugh then but there was certainly no humour to be found in my present situation.

I was admitted into the hospital and waited to be seen to for what seemed like an eternity, then a nurse came and called me into a room where she inspected my wound. Granted, it didn’t look too clever but I clung on to the slim hope that she would tell me everything was ok as she washed the wound.

“I’ll go get the doctor to have a look at this” I heard neither for the first time nor the last for that weekend.

I waited for several minutes for the doctor to arrive.

Whilst managing to keep a calming bedside manner, he looked even less impressed than the previous doctors.

“Our hand surgeon is in the operating theatre at the moment, but to be honest, you need to get this looked at by the surgeon that operated on you in the first place.”

I explained that my surgeon was only in the hospital on Tuesdays and Thursdays and after a long discussion, the doctor decided that he would consult with the hand surgeon to see what she had to say on the matter. He instructed the nurse to place a temporary bandage on my hand and sent me back out to the waiting room to await my date.

After some time passed, a time which was spent watching the limp, the lame and the damaged that proceeded past in Accident and Emergency, the nurse returned to me to inform me that the hand surgeon did not want to operate on a hand that had been operated on by another surgeon and that I should see my surgeon as soon as possible.

And that was it.

After a 45 minute wait for an ambulance and an even longer trip back to the festival site through the traffic jams (my encouragement to the driver to use the sirens and lights to speed our return being flatly refused) I arrived back at the scene of my departure two hours previous and rejoined the group with a really, really, crap bandage on my hand.

I didn’t see any reason for the weekend to finish, I mean after all, the hospital had washed their hands of me (pun intended) and sent me back to the festival. What was I supposed to do? Needless to say, I enjoyed the rest of the night and played catch up on the rest who had had by now a few drinks head start on me.

Shortly after I rejoined the group, I received a phone call from the late arrivals to our party, my Canadian friends, Chris and Janet, who had just returned from a week long trip to Yellowknife, Canada and were winging their way from Brussels airport to join us at the festival site.

It also transpired that on their journey in the train from the airport, they had fallen in with an Irish couple who were travelling from Luxembourg to join in the festivities and they had decided to tag along with the Canadians and put their tent up at our campsite.

A campsite that I, rather surprisingly, considering my lack of ability to find it the night before, managed to direct them to by phone from within the festival site and with Garbage performing in the background.

I suppose my Northern Ireland flag, brought especially for Therapy’s performance the following morning, flying proudly from the gazebos helped them find their way, but it certainly hadn’t helped me the night before.

They joined us just as Garbage finished which is a shame because that was one of the highlights of the weekend - I had no idea just how horny that Shirley Manson is and made a mental note to myself to dig out their CDs from my collection – the music definitely worth a revisit.

The rest of the night continued in the way that these things tend to do, with alcohol flowing, greasy food following greasy food but to be honest my experience that afternoon had left me feeling a little nervous as to just how bad my damaged appendage was becoming and because of that, and correctly so of course, I took things a little bit easier than the previous night.

Can I just state now for the record that Greenday were absolutely fan-fucking-tastic, every song an anthem and I really enjoyed their performance, for me the highlight of the weekend and even Faithless, who I have seen several times, put on a great show that sent us off into the night thoroughly satisfied with the evening’s experience.

As we joined the throng struggling to leave the festival site, suitably buoyed by the events of the previous few hours, with all the other thousands of people, I did what I generally do in these crowded, frustrating atmospheres – I started to sing.

And within a few lines of my song, and even though the mass of people were by and large tired, frustrated and impatient, it wasn’t long before I had managed to encourage a large proportion of the crowd to join in with me, which gave me no end of satisfaction.

The song that these Belgians and I were singing? None other than that greatest of football anthems – ‘You’ll never Walk Alone.’

Liverpool supporters around the world would have been proud.

Having been suitably encouraged by so many people’s involvement in this truly great song, I felt inspired to keep the mood going – after all we were no closer to leaving the venue and I had a captive audience.

So there was only one song to follow it up with – “Bohemian Rhapsody” by Queen and what a beautiful sight to behold it was! Belgians, rubbed shoulders with English, Irish, Canadian alike in one of rock music’s finest offerings.

Oh how the heart glowed with pride as I watched all these people of different nationalities united in that most of uplifting of experiences – the head banging section of the song as so once wonderfully demonstrated on the silver screen by Messers Wayne and Garth.

Having blasted out a wonderful rendition of that great song, we filed out into the night, searching for the beer tent from the previous night and the hospitality of the nice girl that had donated a couple of t-shirts to the sad and sorry-looking waifs that had stumbled into her establishment.

And upon arrival there it wasn’t long before we had the whole tent and beyond singing the same songs again. I decided I was on a role and encouraged by lots of alcohol, drunken friends and strangers alike and a delusion that I can actually sing, I stood up on a chair and gave a wonderful (at least I thought that then) rendition of ‘City of Chicago’ by Luka Bloom. A wonderfully, sad but inspiring song about the Irish potato famine and the lengths people went to, to try and survive the deadly pangs of hunger that drove so many from our land to seek survival in America.

Despite the fact that no-one there knew the words, ii was afforded a respect that you wouldn’t normally expect in such a situation and as I finished the song, I opened my eyes looked at the faces of the bemused onlookers and stepped down from the seat (but not before I got a rendition of Wonderwall going).

I went to my tent a happy man, the trouble with my hand long since dissipated in the darkness of night and the comforting embrace of drunken sleep…

Blood, Sweat and Tears - The Rock Werchter Report - Part 2

Apologies for the delay in getting this post out into blog land, I’m sure you've been struggling to eke out an existence in this crazy, cruel world since i placed part 1 up on the internet all those days ago and since left you hanging in suspense, so without further ado…

Having played the old "I-can't-help-anymore-I'm injured" card, my mate Isabelle and I headed off to the first aid tent, which just so happened to be inside the festival site, ensuring that we got to see the first act of the weekend, The Bravery, perform as well.

Showing a rare glimpse of sensibility and demonstrating a far too often missing responsibility I immediately took myself off to the first aid tent upon arrival at the festival site, where I was led to something that looked like the set of M*A*S*H – a huge canvas tent with lots of people milling about inside.

I filled in my details in an admission form and noticed that I was number 37, 36 people managing to injure themselves even earlier in the weekend than I had; which, rather bizarrely, I found quite reassuring.

I showed my hand to a nurse and watched as the colour drained from her face as she unwrapped what was left of my bloodied bandage.

“I’ll get a doctor to look at that for you” she said before hurrying off into the canvas labyrinth in search for someone that would help me.

I took the opportunity to look at my hand and was quite horrified to see that some of the stitches had popped out leaving a flap of skin dangling exposing a hole in the palm of my hand about the size of a 2 euro cent coin.

I was not impressed and although I am not of the medical profession, it seemed that the doctor shared my opinion.

“This is not the sort of environment to be walking around with an open wound. You run the risk of getting infection and your situation will get worse. I can patch this up, but you should really get this seen to by your surgeon as soon as possible.”

I listened in dismay and watched as he did his best to patch me up. Suitably repaired and with a nice fresh bandage I returned the festival, rejoining Isabelle to take our seats in the grass soaking up the evening rays supplied by the sun which had decided to make a grand reappearance just before The Bravery began their act.

But before doing so, there was one more important stop to make.

At the beer tent, I tried to get an inflatable Stella Artois tray that was capable of carrying 9 drinks but was dismayed to discover that you had to buy 10 drinks to get the tray for free.

There was only one thing for it.

“Can I have 7 beers and three waters please?”
“You want them all now?” said the barman looking at me like I had two heads.
“How else do you think I’m going to carry them?” I replied waving my bandaged hand.

The barman went to get a tray and set it down in front of me.

“Do you not think I’ve got enough to carry?” came out of me before I could stop it, quoting an old Smithwicks beer advert from Northern Ireland.

It has to be said that I laughed at my wit a lot more than the barman did….

Watching The Bravery, and singing along to classics such as “Honest Mistake” and “Fearless” we awaited on the arrival of the rest of the gang.

And we waited.

Faced with the predicament of a tray full of drinks going cold we did the only thing we could and consumed the lot, and indeed it was just as we were going to the bar for more during the set of New Order (yes – they’re still going) that the rest showed up.

It was time for the party to really start.

And boy did we party.

Unfortunately, I embraced the whole festival thing with just a little more gusto than was required and very quickly found myself stumbling amongst thousands of Belgians lost and trying to find the rest. The fact that we had set up base camp just to the left of a tall tower of speakers not helping me much in my quest to find a friendly face.

Next up on stage was the American rapper and self styled pimp (aren’t they all?) Snoop Dogg but to be honest, recollection gets a little hazy at this point, with “The Dogg’s” performance barely making an impact on my festival experience.

And anyway, I was there (at least for that night anyway) to see “The Chemical Brothers”, a band that I’ve had a soft spot for ever since my step father renamed my two brothers and I with the same moniker for reasons that should be quite obvious to regular readers.

Unfortunately my recollection of this act is not much better although I do remember dancing in the torrential rain (which had decided to return) waving my hands in the air only to get slapped in the face by my bandage which had decided to come apart again.

Cue another trip to M*A*S*H at the end of the night where I was rebandaged and this time supplied with a snazzy rubber glove to help keep the bandage dry.

All this I know now but you can imagine my surprise when I woke up the next morning completely oblivious to this knowledge in a tent with my mate “PopTart” and wearing a rubber glove.

I feared the worst.

Thankfully PopTart set my mind at ease as he recalled the evening’s events to me, including a visit to one of the many beer tents on the way from the festival site to the campsite.

Somehow, however, I had managed to lose PopTart on the way to the tent and had to be talked by phone by another friend, Abbie, back out of the wrong campsite and into the correct one.

Believe me, for Abbie to be soberer than me is quite an achievement but thanks to her help I eventually managed to get back to the tent for a few short hours sleep before embarking on day two of the festival, a day which would include such acts as Within Temptation, The Kills, Garbage, Greenday and Faithless.

Shame I didn’t get to see them all as I was ‘otherwise engaged’ sampling the delights of the back of an ambulance and two hours in nearby Leuven hospital…