Saturday, January 28, 2006

A modern-day Leonardo da Vinci AND he’s Belgian?! Nobody told me!

Except that’s not quite true.

I had heard of the guy who calls himself Panamarenko - a name I absolutely love the sound of. So much so I am saying it aloud as I type it. Although to be fair, I’m typing this whilst on my lunch break and my colleagues are not too impressed by seeing the half-eaten mouthfuls of the tuna sandwich that I keep presenting to them so I’d better stop it.

Eating.

Not saying PAN-AMA-RENKO.

But before I talk about the man who I think is the greatest Belgian ever, let’s talk about the guy who Belgium thinks is the greatest Belgian ever.

Recently, the Belgian public was asked to vote for their Greatest Belgian.

The people of Belgium let their voice be heard and they all united as one.

Wallonions and Flemish, arm in arm, ran naked in the streets with Stella Artois in hands, munching on chocolates, all screaming the same name from the top of their voices (and spitting beer and crumbs of chocolate in the process).

The name of …… Father Damiaan.

Yes quite.

Not wishing to offend any Belgians out there and I hope you will please excuse my ignorance but….

Father who?

Wasn’t he the guy with the white beard who used to hang out with the Smurfs?

So – if like me – you needed a little bit of a refresher course on who this guy is – Remember The GREATEST Belgian *EVER*, here is a brief biography:

Father Damiaan (Missionary in a lepers' colony)
Born: Tremelo, 3 January 1840

Died: Molokaï, 15 April 1889

Jozef de Veuster grew up in Tremelo, the 7th of eight children. At the end of 1863, Jozef — who in the meantime was known as Damiaan — left for missionary work in Hawaii. In 1873, Bishop Maigret decided to send him to the island of Molokaï for three months. He stayed there for the rest of his life. Ignoring advice to avoid any risk of infection, Father Damiaan worked for and with those suffering from leprosy. He eventually died in 1889 from leprosy, but had become world famous in the meantime.

So let’s this straight folks:

This is a guy from a small town in Belgium, who managed to get the dream ticket of a cushy little number preaching to the “heathen hordes” in Hawaii – Hawaii of all places – and decided to leave it to go to a leper colony to help out. Which in itself, is very commendable, although not everyone would have made the move.

But to then follow that up by going against all medical advice and staying for too long on a disease-infested island, then contracting the disease himself, and finally dying on aforementioned leper colony with aforementioned disease, could surely seem to some to be acts of anything BUT greatness.

Acts of bloody stupidity even.

Of course I think what he did was truly courageous and showed super-human levels of kindness. The guy’s complete lack of thought for his own well-being when compared with being able to help suffering people has got to be admired and the world would be a much better place if there were more people like him.

Provided they listened to some friendly advice from time to time.

I have no doubt the guy “became world famous in the meantime”. I mean – the rumours of this guy must have spread throughout the civilised world when they got a hold of this story.

Just how daft can one guy be?

Apparently not as daft as a whole country can.

But then who am I to comment? The people of Belgium have spoken and their choice has been made.

Father Abraham, sorry, Damiaan it is.

Which brings me to the point of this blog. (Is there ever a point?)

Panamarenko (there’s that name again!)

For those of you that hadn’t heard of this Belgian guy before, here’s a brief bio.

(Folks - isn’t this week’s blog just so EDUCTIONAL? Don’t panic – next weeks will be all about setting fire to one’s farts…)

Anyway – on with the show.

This is taken straight from his website
www.panamarenko.be – including the spelling and weird turn of phrase at the end.

“Panamarenko (born in Antwerp, 1940) is an exceptional and unclassifiable figure in contemporary art, who has been described as 'one of the great creators of the end of the century'.

Artist, Engineer, Poet, Physicist, Inventor and Visionary, and has for thirthy years pursued a singular course of exploration of space, movement, flight, energy and the force of gravity.

His work, fusing artistic and technological experiment, takes many forms: Aeroplanes, flying carpets, cars, flying saucers, submarines and birds. Spectacular structures of strange beauty, both playful and inspiring.

Welcome in the wondrous world of Panamarenko.”

OK – but his own website would say that, wouldn’t it?

What about website from a shit-kicking bogman from the Antrim valleys? What does it have to say about it?

Well folks –

The show finishes on Sunday (29th Jan) and if you have a chance GET TO IT BEFORE IT CLOSES!!

I know that sounds like a cop-out, but come back this time next week and we can discuss further. You can tell me what you thought about “The Raven’s Variable Matrix”, the “Prova Car” or the wonderful “K2 – The 700-metre-high flying jungle and mountain machine”.

And of course the “Aeromodeller” has to be seen to be believed.

You’ll thank me for it afterwards. Honestly you will.

Now of course I’m no art critic (no really I’m not) but I loved it.

So go to the exhibition - I’ve been there, done that, and bought the ridiculously overpriced glossy book to go with it.

You should do the same.

What are you waiting for? Go!!

Ah yes ok – WHERE is it perhaps?

It’s in the Museum of Modern Arts, Place Royale, Brussels. See website for details:
www.fine-arts-museum.be/

Finishes Sunday.

I’m excited for you! Have fun in a world where words like BING are in everyday usage. It will do you good.

Saturday, January 21, 2006

Are your eyes painted on?!

The frost twinkled in the early-morning sunshine of a fine, crisp, winter Saturday morning as I made my now customary weekly drive from Antwerp out to the suburbs. To be precise - a small village with the strange name of 's Gravenwezel located about 20 minutes north of Antwerp.

In a previous life, I would have seen 09:00 on a Saturday morning as “lying-in-my-bed-being-lazy time” or on some occasions, it would still constitute part of my Friday night out but yet, for the past couple of months I have found myself doing this trip on an increasingly regular basis.

Indeed, irrespective of the weather, or regardless of the excessiveness of the night before, I’ll more often than not find myself out in the suburbs combating the early nature of the hour by shouting myself hoarse at a bunch of six-year old kids.

So what is the reason for me sacrificing my comfortable bed at such an ungodly hour on a Saturday morning?

Well, it probably comes as no surprise to those that know me that the reason is of course football-related.

But bear with me; for this is not just about any football, this is football in its purest form – junior football. The under 7’s of FC ‘s Gravenwezel to be exact.

Now before you jump to any conclusions, I am not some sort of closet pervert that gets his kicks out of watching small boys run around in shorts.

In fact, the eldest son of dear friends of mine plays in the team and when he was a bit younger, I used to spend a lot of time playing football in their garden with him. I like to think I taught him everything he knows but of course that couldn’t be further from the truth. He is a great wee player in his own right – a bit timid on the ball perhaps but certainly one of the team’s most skilful players.

It has to be said the team that they have put together is really quite a special collection of kids, having only suffered one defeat this season – and that a closely fought 6-5 defeat.

There is a lot of talent in the team and if they can stay together for a few years I can see the team developing into a force to be reckoned with. Their coach is a great guy and their parents are really enthusiastic – the only thing that could happen is that the guys start to find an interest in other things - girls for instance - and what a slippery slope that would be, eh?

I have to say the first time I was asked, I balked at the idea, much more preferring the notion of being tucked in my bed until the pm of the Saturday.

However, my friends, not to be undone and being of a resourceful nature, invited me over to their place for the Friday evening and we went out for drinks, and let me stay overnight.

So, it came to pass at some God-forsaken hour on the Saturday morning that their youngest son came into my bedroom and bounced up and down on the bed, screaming and shouting until I was forced to get up.

There was no getting out of that one.

And I have to admit, I haven’t looked back since, I think missing only one game over the past two months.

Make no mistake – this is not just two teams playing each other every week. This is a whole other world that up until that point I hadn’t known even existed. There are something like 500 members affiliated with FC ‘s Gravenwezel, male and female, representing teams of all age groups, right up to veteran stage.

The facilities are impressive as well, with four pitches, changing rooms, floodlights, and last but not least the club house. And some of the away matches have been in even more impressive surroundings.

As I walked to the football pitch (thankfully just out the back of my friends’ expansive back garden), slowly coming to terms with being awake, I was struck by all the hustle and bustle going on around me. Proud parents, energetic kids, enthusiastic coaches, referees – there are four matches going on at any time. The place is a hive of activity.

A veritable cacophony of noise, coaches barking orders, mothers cheering their kids on, children shouting, referees whistling, fathers giving encouragement and me – the Irish football hooligan shouting at the referee.

Lord knows what they made of me at the first game.

Of course I toned it down compared to going to watch Liverpool but after my initial
“Auch Referee!! Are your eyes painted on??!!” I did receive some strange looks.

Needless to say it did not take long for me to sober up, although the post-game beers that went on long into the afternoon as the kids continued playing football, made sure that sobriety only visited for the shortest of time.

Since that first day, I have gone back as often as I can and it is always a great social event. I was even invited to the parent’s New Year party last Friday - and me – the only one without any children of his own.

As I stood in the club house, swapping football stories with the coach and fathers and flirting with the mothers, I wondered just who enjoyed the football more – the kids or the parents?

I suppose when you think of it – it doesn’t matter. The whole environment is a pleasant experience and one that has become as big a part of my social life as I perhaps used to spend chasing women.

And since I’ve officially retired from that caper, I hope my friend’s son continues playing football for years to come!

For tomorrow’s game, I get a lie in – kick off is only at 11:30 – which is probably just as well, because tonight I’m going to a transvestite show.

As you do.

At least I’m staying at my friend’s again. You can’t be too careful.

Wednesday, January 18, 2006

New Year’s Resolutions – The Follow Up

Keeping New Year’s Resolutions is never an easy thing.

We start off the New Year with all the best intentions but invariably we succumb to our weaknesses and by the end of January we’re back doing all the stuff that we said we wouldn’t do and are not doing the stuff that we said we would.

But I am determined to do better this year.

A case in point being the resolution to “Do More Exercise”.

So with that in mind, I found myself heading to a sports hall in the outskirts of Antwerp yesterday evening to take part in my first game of indoor football in 9 months.

With a couple of games of squash, pushing my luck, running up bar bills and chasing after women the only forms of exercise that I’ve been pursuing in the interim, it was not before time that I got myself back onto a football court.

Little did we know as we set off from the café at 18:15 yesterday evening just how eventful the evening was to become.

Taking two cars with six “strapping athletes” / “overweight beer monsters” (delete where applicable), we set off to the game.

In no particular order the cars were populated by:

DJ Bram - a guy who shared his birthday with the late Pope John Paul II
Stefan – Man United fanatic, so therefore not that knowledgeable about football.
Mark – Former marine and tri-athlete with the emphasis on ‘former’
G-Man – The granddaddy of the group but as an ex-professional footballer a lot was expected from him (based on his own build up)
PopTart – My good mate from Cork, the wizard on the ball, the guy is a legend. In his head.
And me, your humble scribe.

As we headed off, my car in lead, with Mark following behind, we deftly weaved our way through the Antwerp rush hour.

Unfortunately, not quite sure of which direction I had to go and somewhat confused by the sign posts (certainly not the first time that that has happened to me in Belgium!), I ended up in the wrong lane and tried a quick manoeuvre into the lane to my right to rectify the situation.

A manoeuvre that proved to be too quick for the gentleman who was driving up alongside me.

Before I noticed my mistake, our cars collided, the right side of mine embracing and kissing the left side of his.

Pulling out of the madness of the traffic and cursing myself, we started to deal with the formalities of the insurance details.

Having spent my entire existence in Belgium slagging off the driving abilities of the locals, I have to put my hands up and say that the accident was entirely my fault.

I also have to say that the guy who I crashed into was probably the nicest, calmest victim of a crash in the world.

Ever.

I would even go as far as to say that if I ever had the misfortune of crashing again, I would choose to do it with this guy (although he might not be so keen).

Along with our insurance details, we swapped, jokes, cigarettes, football stories, although I drew the line at swapping saliva with him. His wife didn’t look so amused but as he kept saying… “Shit happens”.

So once the details were shared, we then went on our journey again – with the guy that I crashed into actually saying “Follow me out of town and I’ll show you where you’re supposed to be going”

Stefan, the wit, followed that comment with a “Make sure you don’t follow him too closely”

After all that excitement, we arrived on the football court at 19:15, a mere fifteen minutes later than planned. 15 minutes that we were glad of not having played, come the end of the hour.

We met up with the other three players that had turned up:

“Monster” Mons – top bloke from Libya and the chief organiser of the game
Crazy Legs Gerd – a tall Belgian whose long legs have a habit of taking the ball off you and finally,
Tony, an English fella who we hadn’t met before but endeared himself instantly to me by turning up wearing a Liverpool shirt.

The game itself was an entertaining affair.

Because of the odd number, we had to split into two teams of 5 and 4, but the numerical advantage didn’t seem to have much affect at first; the team of 4 (Gerd, Mons, Tony and me) streaking off into a 2-goal lead. The first a tap-in by me after some good teamwork and the second a thunderbolt from distance by Tony.

The team of five looked rattled.

Suddenly however, the game turned with 2 goals coming in short succession restoring parity.

2-2 and game on.

A bit of tit-for-tat goal-scoring ensued that saw the scores go to 3-4 in favour of the team with only 4 players, the fourth a particularly memorable goal (at least for me) when I turned Mark inside out and from a narrow angle blasted the ball high and hard into the roof of the net, leaving the G-Man, who was in goal, with absolutely no chance. The fact that he was wearing a ManYoo shirt at the time making it all the more satisfying.

The game continued at pace and it wasn’t long before I hit the physical wall of pain. My nose was running and my throat felt like I had swallowed broken glass.

I went into goal, relieving The Monster of goalkeeping duty.

The Monster, having already notched his team’s third goal, seemed energised by being released from the shackles of the goal and buried a sweet shot from distance after some good work on the right by Gerd.

5-3 to us!

And then disaster struck.

A 50-50 challenge between the Monster and PopTart resulted in a sickening crunch that saw Mons hobbling off the field and in search of some medical attention, citing a possible broken ankle as the problem.

A quick reshuffle and with the teams now an even four players each, G-Man taking the wise option and opting to join the winning team, we restarted the game.

What?!

The guy was injured; there was nothing we could do for him. He was going to go to hospital. We’d paid for an hour and had already missed a quarter of it. He said he would be ok. He told us to play on!

*ahem*

Anyway. Where was I?

Oh yes - the game continued to ebb and flow and goals went in at both ends, with all of us registering at least a goal or two, although it has to be said that my own contribution was quite significant – raining shot after shot on the goal and some of them actually hitting their intended target from time to time.

Then, with the scores at 7-7, disaster struck again, G-man citing a broken toe as the result of a fairly innocuous looking tackle. He did however, play on, the loss in speed barely noticeable, because, well because he wasn’t that fast to begin with…

Shortly afterwards, we got the hat trick, when Mark joined the fast growing list of casualties.

After ghosting past me with a shimmy and a body swerve that a young John Travolta on the dance floor would have been proud of, he inexplicably stumbled over the ball and tore a muscle in his ankle.

Thankfully he was able to drag himself from the court as it could have been difficult trying to move him on our own, if you know what I mean…

So with 4 against 3, and one of those with a broken toe, the game it has to be said went a little stale. General fitness (or lack of it) was becoming an issue and we chopped and changed to try and keep things fairly even.

A tactic which seemed to work as the game finished 10-10.

It was with some relief that we greeted the players who had booked the court for the following hour - relief that we could retire to the bar and relief that the rest of us had made it to the end of the game without too much incident.

After showering, we joined a fairly forlorn looking Monster at the bar, nursing his exposed foot with some ice.

So, as we drank our non-alcoholic drinks, we made our arrangements for the following week, injuries permitting.

I’m pleased to admit that the car-journey back to Antwerp was pretty uneventful although PopTart and I went for a few drinks afterwards (to “work off all that exercise”) that were anything BUT uneventful.

Disgraceful behaviour for a Monday night but we deserved it – after all, we’re back doing regular exercise now, aren’t we?

FINAL SCORE:
10-10
( + 2 damaged cars / 3 damaged bodies / several bruised egos)

Saturday, January 14, 2006

The Strange Phenomenon of Sinterklaas and Zwarte Piet

First of all – Season’s Greetings to you all. This blog is coming to you from my little shoebox of an apartment in Belgium, having returned from a near life-threatening alcoholic overdose of a trip home, I now find myself in shorts and T-shirt at lunchtime on the Eve of New Year’s Eve, having treated myself to an evening off the booze and a twelve hour sleep.

All is good in the world again.

It’s taken me a while to write about this one but its something that I’ve wanted to bang on about for a while

On this planet called Earth that we all share and call our home – apart from those ex-girlfriend’s of mine who were most definitely from another plant – there is a wonderful diversity of life.

Languages, skin colours, morals, characteristics, appearances, fashion sense (or lack of it – see USA for details) all go to make this world of ours a world of constant wonderment.

Granted I’m no Alan Whicker, Louis Theroux or Bill Bryson but believe me, I’ve been around a bit.

And I’m not talking about ex-girlfriends this time.

The thing that I want to discuss in this blog; something that differs the world over and has a huge impact on the life we live, the way we behave and the opinions we opine is perhaps one of the most curious of all.

Tradition.

Tradition dictates many things to us in many different forms.

For example, if you were a resident of Stonehaven, Scotland, tradition would dictate to you that every twelfth night of Christmas (6th January), you would take part in the Fireball-Whirling ceremony.

Or of course, who could forget the Stilton cheese rolling festival on the early bank holiday Monday in May?

Pancake day, Easter Bunny, pagan rituals, the list is endless.

And then of course there’s the dressing up that’s involved – like kids dressing up for Halloween Trick or Treat, the infamous wearing of beads at Mardi Gras, or the bowler hats as preferred by the less fashionable members of the Orange Order on the 12th of July.

But readers, there is a wonderful dressing up tradition that some of you may have been privy to already during the build up to the festive season here in Belgium.

The one of Sinterklaas and his seriously dodgy sidekick Zwarte Piet.

First of all, the history of this tradition - a tradition that I have witnessed the Flemish and the Dutch indulge in for several years now with more than a hint of uneasiness:

In the fourth century a.d. St. Nicholas (in dutch called "Sinterklaas" or "Sint Nicolaas"; in german called "Sankt Nikolaus") was the bishop of Myra, which is now situated in Turkey. According to the legend, he saved his town from starvation. He is also said to have revived three dead children, and to have offered gifts of dowries to poor girls. Some sources say that he died on the sixth of December in 343. In 1087 his relics were taken to Bari in Italy. It is unclear why, according to the Dutch tradition, he comes from Spain. Possibly it has something to do with the fact that St. Nicholas was the patron of sailors. In the 17th century Holland was famous for its navigation. Maybe by contact with Spanish sailors this myth began. It could also explain why St. Nicholas has "zwarte (black) pieten" to help him because the Moors dominated Spain for several hundreds of years. (Another [more popular] explanation for "zwarte piet" being black is that he has come down the chimneys so often [see below] that he can't wash the dirt off.)
His legendary gifts of dowries to poor girls led to the custom of giving gifts to children on the eve of his feast day, 6 December. The companions of St. Nicholas (in Germany and Austria they are called "Knecht Ruprecht" or "Krampus") show the victory over evil. Together with his "pieten" he visits children to punish the evil ones and to reward the good ones. The worst punishment is to be taken to Spain in "zwarte piet's" bag out of which the good children get the sweets (called "pepernoten", "taai-taai", or "schuimpjes") and presents. A less radical punishment is to get the "roede" (rod) instead of presents. Nowadays there are not much evil children any more...
A few weeks before his feastday St. Nicholas comes to Holland (and Belgium) on his steamer with all his "pieten" and the presents which they prepared in Spain during the year. This event can be seen on Dutch television. From his arrival in Holland till his feastday the children can put their shoes in front of the fireplace. During the night St. Nicholas visits all the houses by travelling over the roofs on his horse, traditionally a white/grey (called "Schimmel" in dutch), and "zwarte piet" enters the houses through the chimney to put little presents in the children's shoes. Sometimes the children put straw, carrots and water near the shoe for the horse.
On the eve of his feast day St. Nicholas visits all children. After knocking on the door he gives them a bag full of presents (if they were good children). Early in the morning of 6 December, when he has visited everyone, he leaves and goes back silently to Spain, to come back next year.

OK, pretty harmless fun this may all seem, and the similarities with Santa Claus are plain for all to see, so why should this make me so uneasy?

Perhaps it’s because I come from the British Isles, where political correctness has gone mad.

Do you think that back home it would be possible for grown-up, white, men to paint their faces black and run around singing, playing pranks and giving sweets to little kids?
Remember the outcry from the golliwogs on the side of marmalade jars? Or who could forget the sudden lack of work for black and white minstrel shows? Or indeed our surprise to learn that “Baa, Baa, Black sheep” was not, as I had thought, a harmless children’s rhyme, but in fact something akin to the KKK’s anthem.

Erm, quite.

But yet, in this modern multi-cultural society that we live in, the legend of Sinter Klaas and his sidekick Zwarte Piet continues to be played out on a yearly basis to the delight of young children across this little corner of Europe.

Belgium is Boring? Perhaps not. But it’s certainly a lot more blasé about being politically correct.

Perhaps it’s we stuck-up Brits and Americans that have the problem? It certainly wouldn’t be the first time…

New Years Resolutions

OK Folks,

As sure as eggs are eggs, the old year has passed us by at an alarming rate.

I’m sure the seeds of time fall quicker the further on life’s journey we travel but that’s the sort of philosophical bullshit I’ll leave for other better qualified luminaries such as Keith Chegwin, Mr. Blobby and errr, George Galloway.

Just what the hell is that man doing??? As if it wasn’t weird enough an MP appearing on naff (but oh such compulsive viewing) reality TV show, Celebrity Big Brother, I hear that yesterday evening he was in a dressing gown, acting like a pussy cat and getting stroked by “actress” and ex-wife of Dennis Waterman, Rula Lenska.

And to think this man had the entire US senate by the balls just a few short months ago. If only they had this TV footage to discredit him at the time, then the senate might not have been made to look so feeble and useless by the Scottish MP.

But (and not for the first time) I digress…

As is common for most of us, this is the time of year where we take stock of our lives. We reflect on the past 12 months and look forward to the next twelve, usually (if you’re like me) hoping that the next year will be better than the previous one.

It’s also an opportunity to wipe the slate clean. To start afresh. To get your act together.

Hence our penchant for making New Year Resolutions.

It’s not something I would usually do, but this year I’ve decided to make a list and not only that but I’m going to use this moment to share them with you. I wonder if yours are similar?

So here they are. In no particular order:

In the year 2006, I will endeavour to:
(and to assist you I have broken them into little sub-sections – very thoughtful of me, eh?):

Health
Drink less
Eat healthier
Do more exercise
Sleep more

Mind
Read more
Write more
Laugh more
Cry more
Smell the roses more
Smell my farts less
Keep my blogs down to a shorter length (Hoooorrrrayyyy!!)
Make my blogs more frequent (Booooooo!!!)

Financial
Basically, just get myself sorted!!

Personal (and this might take a while…)
Spend more time with people that care for me as much I do them
Spend less time with egotists, bullies, users, arseholes and twats
Avoid women who are Psycho Bunny Boiler Chicks / jealous / manipulative / beautiful (who wreck my head)
In fact, fuck it, I’m avoiding women, full stop.

Let me explain:

The year started off well, had a dip mid-spring, became a little bit nicer for a while at the start of summer, then became confusing as the summer progressed and then petered away to a depressing slump by the end of the year.

But hold on, if I reflect on the year past and indeed the past few years, I’m perhaps being too hard on the female species because don’t get me wrong…..I LOVE WOMEN!!

I think they’re a great invention. Every one should have one, but MY GOD how they can turn a quite normal care free life into a torrid existence of torture and torment.

But as I write these words to vent my spleen (as I so often do), or get something off my chest, I feel a calming influence come over me. It’s like the harder and more frantic I batter this keyboard, the more at ease with myself and the world that I live in, I become.

So having calmed down just a little, I am now able to see more clearly and can see my predicament…..

I MUST STAY AWAY FROM BELGIAN WOMEN!!

Hence my existence as a monk over the past few months. Some more of the same this year please!

OK – I feel better after that one.

Thanks for listening. The rest of the world – lock up your daughters!

Thursday, January 12, 2006

My Christmas Tale

So that's the end of that then, eh??!!….

Christmas and New Year fly by in the blink of an eye, or at the very least a drunken squint.

So here is a brief (!) summary of the festive season and what we all got up to:

Leaving from a frosty Eindhoven airport on Thursday 22nd Dec. at 19:00, I returned home for the festive period, arriving into Dublin airport at around 20:00 local time, with a horse's head under my arm, as well as some presents for the family.

The horse's head had been given to me by a friend, but it was nowhere near as sinister as it may first sound, although considering the true nature of this gift, it might have been better for the macho ego in me had it been of the ilk made famous in the Godfather movie.

In fact, the horse's head (plus body and accessories) was a lovely lilac affair that would soon belong to the Barbie Doll of my friend’s niece. Apparently the shops in Ireland had run out of stock and I had to deliver one over from Belgium to ensure that the Christmas sparkle continued in this young girl's life.

As arranged, I met her brother, in Dublin airport arrivals hall and we made the 'transaction'. I was glad to see him – my friend had suggested that if her brother was delayed then I should just go to the airport information desk and leave it with them, apparently oblivious to the notion that a young man with a Northern Ireland accent leaving a package in Dublin airport might raise a few suspicions...

I also bumped into another friend, who had flown in from Charleroi airport, arriving more or less at the same time as me. This was different (and if I must say - a relief) compared with what we had first expected – she had originally thought that she and the three kids and all their presents were going on the Eindhoven flight with me. I was therefore spared the job of chaperone, father and luggage carrier rolled into one. How she managed is beyond me.

Having wished them all the best for Christmas and New Year, I set about finding my father, not normally a difficult task in Dublin airport. Thanks to a no smoking policy ANYWHERE in the building, there is a large congregation of lost souls to be found huddled outside the terminal building of which my father was sure to be amongst.

I sparked up myself and looked through the crowd of people for the friendly face.

He was nowhere to be seen.

The first pangs of fear started to take grip. Perhaps he'd forgotten and was already on his way up North. The last bus “Up North” was at 20:20. I checked my watch. My watch told me it was 20:20. I cursed and put my cigarette out and returned to the terminal building.

I wandered aimlessly for a couple of minutes searching the sea of faces for my father.

Thankfully, he found me and it was only when he was about 10 feet away and waving like an over-enthusiastic jack-in-the-box that I finally noticed him. Hearty embraces and patting of backs ensued and then we started the 2 and a quarter hour drive up home - there was no time to spare.

Every year, my brothers and our friends organise a meal, colourfully titled “The Spanker's Ball”. Nothing too fancy, it's in our local, and as well as the 3 course meal, there are ballots, prize-giving, speeches, followed by a 2-piece band attempting to play cover songs, a male stripper(!) and alcohol. Lots and lots of alcohol.

Resigned to missing the food, we certainly wanted to ensure that we were there in time for at least some of the booze.

About an hour into the journey I received a call from my mum. It was obvious that she had been already embracing in the Christmas Spirit.

"Is that you???"
"Yes mum, it is"
"Are you on this island?"
"Yes mum, I am"
"Ohhhhhhhhhh Loooooooooovvvvveely, my oldest and dearest is on his way home!!"
"Well, that's the thing - I'm going to go to the pub for a few drinks with Daddy and meet up with the brothers and the rest of the lads"

There was a silence. I feared the worst. Christmas as the eldest child of divorced parents can be a tricky thing. Somewhat of a political minefield even.

"That's ok - we'll come up to the pub as well!"

Certainly not the response I was expecting but I went with it. It was Christmas after all; the season to be jolly. Surely the whole family would get along ok?

As it turned out, we all got along swimmingly, all of us being united in our amazement at just how drunk by younger brother was. Worst I've seen him in a looooonng time. Daddy left around midnight because he had work in the morning. I then managed to lose my Mum and stepfather (not sure how that can be possible, in such a relatively small place such as our local). Then my youngest brother did a disappearing act as well, leaving one brother his girlfriend and myself. It had also been her Christmas party so she had been quite merry by the time she got into the pub but I think the thought of taking my brother home in the state he was in soon sobered her up.

I was all set for a few late drinks by way of a lock-in but thanks to my brother’s inability to sit up straight, never mind talk properly, the two of us decided to take him home in a taxi. After being told we'd have a 45 minute wait in a taxi, we were resigned to walking home, eventually getting him home sometime after 02:30.

I phoned mum to say that I was going to walk down from Daddy's but she sent a rather the worse-for-wear step-father up to collect me in the car. Not too sensible but it saved me a 20 minute walk in freezing conditions.

That night, the three of us made a huge dent in the house’s alcohol supply for the Christmas period. Talking and chatting until 07:00 in the morning, a sure sign that none of us are getting any more sensible with old age!

Friday lunch time and with the power bestowed upon me of an Ulster Fry-up, washed down with the elixir of life that is known as Lucozade, I took my mum's Nissan Micra and braved the Christmas shopping on the streets of Belfast. I didn't have to get everything but there was still enough on the to-do list to make me nervous enough.

Still, it was a lot milder back home than it had been in Belgium - the sun was shining, it was Christmas time and I was back in my home town. All was good in the world. I took in the scenes around me, pleased to be back amongst "my people" (I hate that use of phrase), getting a buzz when I heard all the Northern Ireland accents that surrounded me. I smiled at passers by and enjoyed the apologies from people that bumped into me; something that Belgians have long since forgotten to do.

I took time to go to some clothes shops that I like and I treated myself to a few items of clothing. Oh, how I'm good to myself when I'm Christmas shopping for others! I make no excuses for this - there is just something I like about the clothes back home compared with Belgium. Perhaps it's the less serious approach to fashion in the UK, or just the fact that colours do range beyond black and grey…

Unfortunately on the shopping-for-others front things weren't going so well. Queues in the music and video stores were unbelievable. This was a problem, because all the presents I had to buy were….music and video related.

Things were to get worse.

When I finally did manage to get a sales assistant's attention, each store I tried didn't have all the things I wanted and I didn't want to join a queue for just a couple of the items.

Beaten but not finished, I returned home, confident that I'd get everything the following day, Christmas Eve. Today had just been a reconnaissance mission and I was starting to feel a wee bit tired from the night before and a wee bit battered by the Christmas shoppers.

I returned to mum's and had fish and chips from the fish and chip shop at the bottom of the town and officially the best fish and chip shop in Northern Ireland (and 5th in the UK) and then went to bed for a few hours, to prepare for the night ahead. An evening in the pizzeria at the top of the town with my dad, step-mum, their 9 year old daughter and her wee mate, as well as the two brothers and their better halves, followed, of course, by drinks afterwards in the local.

Needless to say food and wine consumption exceeded necessary amounts and as we dined the shop next door fell victim to an armed robbery. Merry Christmas, Northern Ireland style. (the perpetrators, a father and son, were later caught in their car a few miles outside our home town).

After the meal, we said goodbye to my step-mum, the kids and my younger brother (who had allowed his fiancé a few late drinks so that he could go and relieve Mum + Stepdad of babysitting duties).

She stuck the pace for a short while before she became wracked with guilt. The other brother’s girlfriend took that as her chance to make a break for the border, leaving my brother, dad and I to prop up the bar, which we did most valiantly until we begged to be locked-out rather than locked-in.

I went back to the brothers - which is like a building site these days, as he undertakes a complete renovation of the property. Why he can’t do one room at a time is beyond me. We subsequently fell asleep watching a DVD - I don't remember which one, but there is a good chance Sylvester Stallone was in it…

Following lunchtime the following day, I had promised to take Mum into Belfast to do her shopping, which also allowed me to finish mine off.

So, as we arrived in Belfast, we said our goodbyes and arranged to meet in 2 and a half hours. There was nowhere near the same amount of people in Belfast compared to the previous day - the people of Belfast seemingly better organised than my mum and me, so I managed to get the presents organised in double-quick time, before sitting admiring a young jazz quartet for half an hour giving decidedly jazzy renditions of Christmas songs. Excellent stuff.

Still - with an hour and a half to kill, I did the only thing that I knew that would not involve spending a lot of money on more clothes - I went to a city centre pub and had a couple of pints of Guinness. I was a sucker for the advert outside, proclaiming “Come inside for the Best Pint of Guinness in Belfast”. I can't say that I was disappointed. The pub, “Kelly's Cellars”, has a nice feel about it, and I was amazed that I'd never been in it before, although, to be fair, it is in a bit of a republican stronghold. The benefit of the peace process, eh?

As I still had 20 minutes to kill and two pints of the black stuff inside me, I headed off to meet mum, but could not resist the temptation of an inviting virgin, whose beguiling charm and promises of untold treasures diverted me from my destination.

A Virgin Megastore that is.

One mad dash around the shop, and I had purchased 8 DVDs and a couple of CDs:

DVDs
-----
SAW
Hitchikers Guide to the Galaxy
Base Moi
Animal Factory
The Secretary
Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels
Straw Dogs
House of a 1000 corpses

CDs
---
Robbie Williams
Gorillaz

Like I say - I'm good to myself, eh? To be honest, when the sales are on in the UK, the prices work out cheaper than in Belgium and I never buy Cds or DVDs in Belgium. The DVDs were only between £2.99 and £5.99. (I sound like I’m trying to justify myself)

Anyway, we met up and got out of Belfast and I went for my usual post-shopping nap, before going to Gran's for the usual Christmas Eve get-together with the "outlaws”.

Gran was looking frail but still has her wits about her. Lord knows what she makes of us coming into her tiny little living room and shouting and messing around, but it's been tradition for decades now, so there's nothing she can do about it!

After having done that we headed to the centre of our universe, ‘the local’, where the party was already in full swing. It was just like old times - with mates and family. We all joined in with several renditions of the best Christmas song ever, "Fairy Tale of New York" and whilst there were plenty of Shane McGowans, it has to be said that there were not so many Kirsty McColls about the place…

The party continued down in a mate’s house into the wee hours, before I thankfully got a taxi to my mum's around 04:00. I say thankfully because I don't think that I could still be in my home town and walk a further distance from one house to another. The town is increasing in size and apparently is the "fourth most popular place to buy property in the UK".
I was of course told this by people who live in their own property in the town and have yet to receive official confirmation from the internet, so I'll hold judgement on that one. Still, the place is expanding at a frightening rate and I didn't mind the double taxi fare to get me home. It was 4 below freezing when I set off in the taxi. The walk back to my mum’s would have been a good hour.

Christmas Day

In the past we’ve gone to Mum’s around lunchtime, opened presents, eaten early and then gone to Dad’s and done it all again.

Circumstances (and a little family politics) meant that my family decided that they would do something different this year.

My step-father was working Christmas Day from 11 until 16:00, so our Christmas dinner was delayed. The step-mum was going to prepare a buffet for the following evening, Boxing Day. This meant that things went at a lot calmer pace this year.

I was up at Daddy’s for 10:30, to open the presents from his side of the family. The onset of adulthood has ensured that the presents we open on Christmas morning don’t have the same sparkle as they once did. Also, in the past, we would have opened presents from “Daddy Santa” but this year in a break with tradition, we decided that those presents would be opened the following evening down at the step-mum’s. (I tell ya - organised with military precision these broken-home Christmases!!)

This resulted in the morning being spent playing on the playstation and eating a fry-up as prepared by the brother. Even the early morning cans of Harp didn’t make an appearance until long after noon. Gran wasn’t up to the usual visit to see us, thanks to the icy conditions, so they skipped the traditional, “let’s go laugh at and play with Harry and the weans’ (see: http://www.peevish.co.uk/slang/w.htm for that translation) presents”

All in all, a calm Christmas morning, although it’s worth noting that in spite of their being no snow for a white Christmas, thanks to the heavy frost from the night before, there was a good covering of white frost around the town.

Present count: Socks, sweater, ice-pack hangover cure, chocolates, a football quiz book, a prank that laughs hysterically when it senses movement – good for use in the bathroom on unsuspecting victims and a frog massager. That’s a massager in the shape of a frog, rather than a massager for frogs.

Around 14:00, we headed down to Mum’s to “help out” with dinner. Although, to be fair, the only thing that I helped with was perhaps emptying a couple of bottles of wine, ably assisted by Nana – that woman drinks like a fish - set anything down in front of her and she’ll drink it!

The step-father got a flier from work, so he was home by 15:30, not that it made that much difference, with Christmas dinner, I get the impression it’s a lot like a big steamer boat - once it’s in motion, it’s hard to change direction.

So, around 16:00, we all sat down to Christmas dinner – Nana, Mum, the step-father, the younger brother, the youngest brother and his fiancé as well as the new addition to the family – their 6 month old son, “The Wee Man” although to be fair, there’s nothing too wee about him these days.

Apparently the proud parents – because the mother is Scottish - have come to an arrangement. If he turns out to be a footballer, Northern Ireland can have him, but if he’s a rugby player, Scotland can have him. Well, The Wee Man could well be doing second row for Scotland in 20 years. You heard it here first.

Food, drink, entertaining stories and a bit of a sing song from The Wee Man complete and we were ready to open our presents. This year, the youngest brother got to play Santa and deliver all our presents. We humoured him and said it was so that he could “do it for The Wee Man’s first Christmas” but to be honest, it’s because he’s the only one of the three brothers that has the belly for it these days…

Present count: A great haul for me – receiving a DVD, a couple of books, a Norn Iron supporters pack including commemorative “Norn Iron 1 – 0 England” calendar, Allure aftershave, a stylish shirt and a limited edition “Champions of Europe 5 times” Liverpool watch

At around 19:00, the party started to wind down. The young family were the first to leave and they offered Nana a lift home but she had half a glass of red wine in her hand, so there was no way she was for shifting just yet.

After a while, the other brother went up the road to spend Christmas evening with his girlfriend’s family and Nana eventually relinquished control of her wine glass long enough for the three of us to put her in a headlock and wrestle her into the car, so that he could take her up the road and put the drunk to bed.

This left the three of us with the Christmas evening ahead and a peaceful house. There was only one thing to do - get the cigarettes out, turn the music up, open some more wine and put the world to right.

Around midnight, we retired to watch a couple of Pat’s DVD’s – the two funniest men on the planet – Billy Connolly and Peter Kaye. Although, I don’t remember much of the second DVD, the next thing I know awakening in my bed in a blind panic thinking it was the middle of the afternoon and I had already missed some of the festive Boxing Day football.

Boxing Day


Suffice to say, no need for panic and after another fry-up and some Lucozade, I was off down the town again, this time to another pub, the best place in the town to watch football.

Several big screens and TVs dotted over the premises, and coupled with the fact that they have Arabic satellite boxes as well as British satellite boxes, ensures coverage of even some of the more obscure games.

4 pool tables, cold flowing Carlsberg, and some of the town’s finest fuckwits complete the scene.

I took my place at the bar and watched 3 of the lunchtime games at once. (Who says men can’t multi-task, eh?) After that the afternoon games commenced and I was joined at the bar by the wee brother and my da (if only I had seen them coming but they sneaked up behind me).

Boxing Day afternoon and in the Protestant working-class community of my home town and the three games that they were showing - Liverpool, Glasgow Rangers and Manchester United.

The owner must have thought all his Christmases had come at once. The bar was packed out and the atmosphere was jolly. Especially when it looked like Liverpool and Rangers where going to do the business – until Rangers conceded a late equaliser. Let’s not speak of that other team. A few drinks with a couple of my da’s mates completed the afternoon. Two funny men (and the three of us aren’t too bad in the old humour stakes either!)

After that, it was back to Mum’s for a quick change, grab the rest of my gifts, said goodbye to them because they were both working the night shift that evening and then back out again to go down to dad’s for our “second Christmas”

A lot of fun was had - all the ingredients were there - more presents, more alcohol, good food, funny people …. and a karaoke machine. I’m not sure how much the neighbours enjoyed hearing Jeff Wayne’s The War of The Worlds musical at 01:00 but we sure had a great time.

Although perhaps with hindsight it was not a good idea to let the wee brother loose on one of my presents.

Let me explain:

One of my presents was a remote controlled helicopter, so at about 10pm, we took it out for its maiden flight. History will show that it was not a successful one. My brother overcooked its take off and it went into a terrible spin, crashing back to earth before it had even had a chance to enjoy its new found freedom from its packaging.

The rotary blades came off and it hit the ground with a sickening crunch. Daddy and myself tried valiantly to repair the craft (the brother was most conspicuous by his absence at this stage) but even with some ingenious use of chewing gum, the helicopter flew no more that night. It remains at my father’s in the hope of a repair job, but I fear the worst. Perhaps I’ll get it back in time for my birthday.

Present count: Included a couple of books, a box of magic tricks (the brother had better watch out) and one slightly damaged remote control helicopter.

I said my goodbyes to my father et al and I left in a taxi for mum’s sometime after 01:30 and as I sat in my mother’s oddly quiet kitchen, considering the madness that had ensured the few days previously, I poured myself a nightcap and started to read The DaVinci Code, thinking that at long last I’d better see what all the fuss is about.

I’d got into it a few pages but stopped reading and just sat there, enjoying the quietness of the house and the draw of my cigarette and the sip of my red wine.

Perhaps it was the alcohol but I was content with my lot in life.

With my flight back to Eindhoven the following afternoon (or later that day, depending on your viewpoint), my time back home was coming to a close but I had had another mad few days in the warm, loving bosom of my dysfunctional family and friends – and had loved every minute of it.

It might not be everybody’s cup of tea when it comes to family life - Lord knows we’re far from perfect but it seems to work.

I know it works for me.

So as I said my goodbyes in the morning after breakfast and got into my step-father’s car to start the first leg of the 8-hour trek back to Antwerp, it was not with heavy heart for I had accomplished my Christmas mission:

To go home, enjoy my family and friends and let them know I love them.

Out of sight, out of mind? You must be joking!

Best Wishes for 2006!!

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