Beach Volleyball – but where’s the beach?

Last weekend saw me indulge in one of those weekends that only the single, the lonely, the desperate, the foolish, the crazy, the bored, the spontaneous, the free spirit, the daring or the reckless participate in.

I feel that I qualify for more of those characteristics than most people.

Friday night was spent at a lovely birthday party, which saw us end up in the wonderfully named “Reflex Niteclub” in the Flemish countryside, near Westerlo.

Believe me – whatever you are picturing in your mind’s eye as you read this, I would suggest that you multiply your idea tenfold to get somewhere close to what this place is like.

Lot’s of neon lights, plenty of exposed flesh, several floors, and observation balconies for patrons to check out the dance floor and more importantly those patrons ON the dance floor.

It was a meat-market in the style of so many nightclubs I frequented back home in Northern Ireland, as well as during my time spent in the North West of England.

Needless to say - I loved it!

I danced like an epileptic on speed; I sang along to all the cheesey songs and made a right tit of myself.

As you do.

OK then – perhaps you don’t but believe me, I do.

I can’t dance but what I lack in ability I make up for in enthusiasm and I used all my ‘top-drawer’ moves that night on the dance floor. I’m cringing as I type these words but the big grin on my face tells me that I had a good night.

Following day and I was in the much more familiar territory of the terrace at my local back in Antwerp and was soon joined by some people that I’d met during the World Cup Final.

Not AT the world cup final, you understand but whilst it was being shown in my local. As I mentioned in a previous blog, it turned out that he was also from Northern Ireland and we got on famously, as people living in a foreign land so often do when they meet people from back home.

Rather kindly, they invited me to their house for a bit of a dinner party on the Saturday evening. They explained that it was a ‘bring your own food’ party but in my case they would give me an exception due to the short notice.

Then they explained that it was a vegetarian party.

Now – I must admit to having a certain amount of prejudice towards vegetarian meals, being a bit of an old fashioned “meat and two veg” kind of bloke and was somewhat perturbed by this new development.

They reassured me that everything would be OK, and anyway, there was a frituur nearby to get fries, just in case things went pear-shaped. And, of course, there was plenty of wine and beer.

Needless to say - I loved it!

The food was tasty, plentiful and the wine and beer even more so. We had a great time sitting out in the garden in the hot evening and chewing the spit into the wee hours of the morning and listening to the music. It seemed we all had the same taste in music as well. I met some members of a volleyball team and it turned out that they were all taking part in a beach volleyball tournament the following morning, in the Kempen region of Belgium, which is famous for its sandy soil base.

After a few drinks, this seemed like a splendid way to spend a Sunday. Even the prospect of an 08:00 start in the morning did not put me off and because everyone was meeting at my friends’ house the next morning, I was invited to crash overnight on a mattress in their spare room, which turned out to be a bit of a surprise to the girl that was already crashing in this room, her having gone to bed a couple of hours earlier.

I’d like to state for the record that we did have separate mattresses and they were located in opposite corners of the large room but apparently this was not enough, the poor girl awoken by my snoring and unable to sleep had to resort to sharing another room with one of the other players.

BTW - I’m a bit worried by this most recent of developments - The Drunken Snoring. Not something I was ever prone to until recent months, it seems to have appeared unannounced, along with the grey whiskers that rather surprisingly appeared on my chin at the recent rock festival. Worrying times indeed.

Moving swiftly on…

At just after 08:00, I was awoken by the poor girl who I had kept awake with my snoring, as she crashed around looking for her stuff. I’m sure it wasn’t intentional (!) that she was making so much noise but I got up, got showered, dressed and walked downstairs into a cacophony of noise, energy and activity.

The kitchen was full of female volleyball players, all milling around making sandwiches, preparing drinks, talking excitedly, joking - far, far, far too much energy for that time of a Sunday morning, that’s for sure. Eventually my mate dragged his arse downstairs looking as rough as I felt.

The Belgians were definitely winning the “Sunday Morning Energy Level” competition, with Northern Ireland being very poorly represented by us two hairy-arsed, hungover eejits.

We said goodbye to the girls and then went to pick up another friend who had also been convinced to join us for the day.

And I have to say, it was with some surprise that, at just after 10:00 on a Sunday morning, we arrived on the outskirts of a small town called Bel – “Bel-End” if you will – and immersed ourselves in a world that I had no idea existed.

I surveyed the scene before me with something akin to amazement.

There must have been 20 beach volleyball courts and every single one of them had a game already in full swing. And all this in a naturally sandy area in the middle of a forest in the middle of nowhere in a place I had laughingly referred to “Bel-End”,

There was a huge beer tent, food stalls; an outdoor shower and all this to a backdrop of the most eclectic mix of music playing on the speakers located around the venue. There must have been upwards of 400 people running around the place.

I checked my watch again. 10:10, Sunday morning.

I had no idea that Sunday mornings were for anything else other than recovering from the Saturday. I was suitably impressed.

Some of our friends had already started their first match. So we got a few beers in and settled down to cheer them on. Or what I mean to say is that we settled down to put sun tan lotion on each other and soak up the early morning rays. It was already so hot that we were already struggling with the heat.

We quickly headed for the shade after the first game finished and didn’t move from there until much, much later that day.

In the meantime, we kicked back, drank a few beers, and watched the tanned, athletic, lithe bodies parading around the ‘beach’. And that was just the guys. I felt suitably inferior and consoled myself with another cold beer.

As the day progressed more friends came and joined us and I must confess we had a rip-roaring time. I was soooo impressed by the girls’ efforts on the court that day that when the tournament finished, I decided to have a go at it myself.

I should state at this moment that the sand was so hot that evening standing and walking on it was difficulty. Just how those girls managed to play competitively on the hot, bumpy surface, I’ll never know. I also had a few too many beers.

OK – disclaimers aside – I have to say that it is a really difficult sport to play and nowhere near as easy as the girls made it look.

So hats off to beach volleyball players around the world. After having spent a day in your company, I now admire you for your athletic prowess and ability…

…and not just your ability to look damn sexy in those skimpy outfits with those muscular thighs…

*ahem*

And that was another bizarre, but oh so much fun, summer weekend in Belgium.

This upcoming weekend is a long weekend in Belgium with tomorrow (Friday) being the national day of Belgium.

Deciding to forgo the “National Appreciation of Waffles” or the “History of the Saxaphone” or whatever they have organised in Brussels, I will celebrate the fact that I am an adopted member of Belgian society by the much more authentic “Getting-Really-Pissed-at-the-Gentse-Feest” this evening until the wee hours of the morning.

Tomorrow evening is the free concert given by the city of Turnhout with my favourite Belgian artist, Daan performing.

See you there!

So PUMPED am I to be living in Belgium at this moment, I’d sing the Belgian National Anthem but I’ve yet to find a Belgian that can teach it to me.

If you see me over the weekend, feel free to teach me it!

Cheers.

It is Old But it is Beautiful

Last week saw me indulge in my usual mid-July trip back home to Northern Ireland, a trip home that I have been doing each year since leaving Northern Ireland some 11 years ago and I hope to be able to continue to do so for as often as is physically and financially possible.

Of course there is a chance in the future when it may not be possible to go home at this time of year – personal situations can change at any moment - and perhaps I will even miss the occasional Christmas time with my family, but up until now, I’ve managed to get home for at least these two occasions every year.

And long may it continue.

For you see, the 12^th July is a very important time for my father’s side of the family – a time when we all get together and celebrate that most traditional of events in our calendar, a time when the family get’s a bit carried away with things, dancing, singing, drinking, playing music, just generally Having a Good Time.

So what’s the special occasion that falls on the 12^th July every year back in Northern Ireland every year that is so important to my family and me?

You’ve maybe guessed it already but yes, every 12^th July I go home to celebrate….

My Father’s Birthday.

A great time had by all and a good excuse for that side of my family to get together and have a wee party. The hundreds of thousands who join in all around Northern Ireland and beyond are of course more than welcome to join in the celebrations and boy do they!

For you see, the 12^th July sees the carnival of bands, lodges, men, women, children, pensioners, taking place at various locations throughout Northern Ireland as well as the Republic of Ireland, Scotland, Canada, USA, Australia, and many other far flung places.

This year was no exception.

Arriving on a flight from Amsterdam early afternoon Tuesday 11^th, into Belfast International Airport (Aldegrove – not the newly renamed George Best Belfast City airport), I was picked up by my Mum and Stepfather and whisked off for a nice lunch in the afternoon sun with Nana in the garden of my mother’s.

The wine flowed almost as much as the conversation and we were soon to be joined by my brother and his fiancé along with their dote of a baby boy who has just learnt to walk. As I played with him in the back garden, I couldn’t help but see the similarity between him and his father walking home after a session on the drink, as he continually wobbled and fell over.

Later on that night, long after we said goodbye to Nana, the baby and his mother, My mum Stepfather, my brother and I headed up the road to see the other brother and admire the work that he has been doing on his newly purchased home.

How he lives there is beyond me. Not content with tackling the job on a room-by-room basis, this guy has gone for the let’s-do-everything-at-once-method.

Walls have been knocked down, windows blocked off, windows created, garden dug up, radiator installed in the attic to protect his books, garden shed is being built, and water mains have been extended out to the garage.

It is the only house you wipe your feet AFTER you leave.

It’s a helluva job he’s undertaken, but fair play to him, he is getting and will get there. Forgoing the option to go visit the many bonfires that they light on the eve of my father’s birthday, we stayed in my brother’s house, sitting on old chairs, buckets, basically anything we could find amongst the mess (after dusting it down) and had a great wee time. More drinks flowed and the back door of the house was more like the revolving door of a busy hotel foyer as people came and went.

At around 04:00 in the morning, we called time on the evening’s activities; the following day, my father’s birthday, if anything like the previous years was after all to be a busy one.

The following day, woken up by my mother at 09:00, I got out of bed in a panic. This was the latest I had ever woken up on the morning of My Father’s Birthday. Springing into the bathroom, I take care of the “3 S’s” in record time and then rushed downstairs to put on my suit, freshly ironed by my stepfather.

It is, after all, very important to look my best at My Father’s Birthday.

For the first time in history my youngest brother was ready and patiently waiting for me. Folks, this goes to illustrate just how late I was. He NEVER has to wait on me.

Suited and booted, and grabbing a piece of toast on the way through my mum’s kitchen, we rushed to the top of the town to join in with the rest of the festivities in the hope that we weren’t late.

As we arrived at the Orange Hall at Ballyclare, I was greeted by the smiling face of the man of the moment, My Father. After (manly) hugs and kisses were exchanged, as well as a heart-felt ‘Happy Birthday’ we started to prepare for the occasion.

Dues were paid to the secretary, orange sashes were adorned with Sweet William flowers, sashes were carefully pinned to suit jackets and white gloves were put on. Silent prayers were offered in the hope that the somewhat overcast skies wouldn’t burst, soaking us as we set off for our parade through our town. On this occasion we needn’t have worried. The weather turned out just fine.

God’s, as the saying goes, a Prod.

Following the banner of our lodge looking resplendent with King William of Orange on one side and the portrait of my father’s departed brother looking down on proceedings on the other side, we proudly paraded through the town to the buses that would take us all to the main party, in a town called Randalstown, where we would be joined by thousands of others for the main parade.

We got down to the bus station and boarded the buses. On the bus that we travelled on, the passengers started to sing “Happy Birthday.” Everyone was in fine spirits.

Upon arriving in Randalstown and after a bit of organisation not to mention the obligatory hanging around, the parade of tens of thousands of lodges, flag-bearers, string-carriers, flute bands, accordion bands, pipe bands, brass bands, silver bands, Lambeg drums all began following a route through the town which would give the tens of thousands of spectators a chance to catch a glimpse of the parade.

We waved at friends, family, ex-school chums, ex-work associates, colleagues, football chums, who had all come out to show their support and join in the celebrations, continually looking out for good looking girls in the crowd. Well at least I was – you gotta do something to pass the time of day when you walk for the best part of ten miles in a day, don’t you?

Arriving at our destination, a field on the outskirts of town, we made a bee line for one of the many fish and chip vans for some much needed sustenance before settling in for the next couple of hours to catch up with old friends and family, or listened to the preachers, or went shopping amongst the many stalls offering many bargains to part with our hard-earned money.

Alas, there were no beer tents. This is, after all, not Belgium, where beer tents are erected at the drop of the hat and considering the lodge that I am a member of is a temperance lodge, it wouldn’t be appropriate for me to be seen necking a few cold beers. No matter how much in need of them I may have been.

Some of the braver amongst us headed back into town for a drink but with, rather strangely, only one bar deciding to open its doors on the occasion, I decided there wasn’t much point in going to join in with the undoubted scrum that would be going on down there.

So a lazy afternoon was spent in the sunny afternoon, before gathering up and beginning our return trip. With the weather improving, the crowds had swelled in size giving me all the more opportunity to “scout for talent” although I must confess; there was not a lot on show that day!

Once our buses finally arrived to take us back to Ballyclare, we returned home and paraded once more through the town. Some of the spectators had obviously been indulging in one or two many bevies in the afternoon and spirits had been raised higher but all in all, everyone was having a good time.

Children joined their proud father’s for the homecoming parade including my nephew and we returned to the hall where a rendition of “God Save The Queen” was respectfully performed by our flute band and observed by the lodge members and the spectators.

As we dismissed we shook hands with each other, discussed the events of the day with our brethren and family.

“So that’s it for another year” was uttered on more than one occasion with a wry smile as we all wished each other a good evening.

Our evening was to involve going to a Chinese restaurant for a birthday meal for my father. A table of 8 was booked for Daddy and his wife, my brothers and their girlfriends and my girlfriend and I. Needless to say the seat beside me was empty.

My embarrassment was further compounded when the waitress came over and asked me if I was waiting for somebody else to join us. *sigh* The meal ensured lots of wine flowed and then we headed off to the local for the karaoke / disco / pool evening they had organised to spend the next few hours enjoying the party.

It was here that I gave my father his birthday present – me singing “Mack the Knife” and “Happy Birthday” (ably assisted by the customers in the pub).

Afterwards, we said our goodbyes and headed off into the night.

“Same time next year?” my father asked me as he gave me another hug.

“You’d better believe it!” I replied.

DISCLAIMER:

I would like to say at no stage were Catholics, antagonised, victimised, burnt at the stake, beheaded, ostracised, demonised or any other form of ‘-isation’.

Don’t believe all you see on the TV.

“Sure it is old but it is beautiful…”

Cheers my friends.

12^th July 2006

Zot van Antwerpen

Just in case there are any of you out there who are in any doubt – I actually quite like this wee corner of Europe that I live in.

Granted of course, there are moments where I find myself questioning why I am still here after almost seven years but there have to be reasons that prolong my stay here in Belgium and it is about that that I would like to write about in this blog.

First of all of course there is my job – the reason I first came to Belgium as a wide-eyed graduate trying to make his way in the Big Bad World and the reason why I decided to come back and do “The Belgium Thing” again 4 years later.

However, being employed as an SAP consultant, I find myself in the rather fortunate position of being able to use my profession to see other parts of the world. And yet, in spite of this, I am still here, having turned down opportunities in the past to work in such varied and interesting places as the US, Barcelona, Sweden, Germany, France, the Netherlands, Saudi Arabia, Australia and err… Iran. There’s even been chances to go back to Ireland and work in ‘The South’ but none of these have proved tempting enough to leave Antwerp and go exploring.

Perhaps I’m holding out for the invitation to come and ply my trade in Afghanistan but I don’t think so; which means of course, there has to be something more to it than just somewhere I can eke out a career for myself.

So what is it that has kept me here for so long, especially considering I had decided on my return to Belgium to stay here for a couple of years, three maximum.

Anyone who knows me will I’m sure agree when I say that I am a bit of a social animal. I’m happiest when surrounded by people and find it difficult to spend time on my own; a rather strange confession for somebody who would place the rather solitary hobbies of reading, writing and masturbation high on his list of things to do during my free time.

But you see folks, whilst masturbation is most definitely done in the confines of my living space – even the Belgians would frown upon considering that as a spectator sport (believe me – it isn’t) – my reading and writing is almost entirely done in public view on a terrace during the summer and inside the welcoming, warmth of one of Antwerp’s many bars during the winter. I need to be around people.

So why is this?

I think a lot of it is to do with the fact that my apartment is pretty small, meant as a temporary solution to an accommodation problem I was experiencing after going through a messy ‘divorce’ with the ex but it is still providing me with a home of sorts, two years later.

I enjoy social interaction with people - conversing, telling stories, listening to stories, hearing crap jokes and telling even crapper ones, even just sitting watching the world go by. I don’t watch a lot of TV, save for programmes such as The Simpsons, The Sopranos or Lost.

Football takes up a lot of my free time as well – but I think even if I was to go ahead and get Sky TV installed in the apartment, I would still need the atmosphere of a pub with other football fans and the discussions that revolve amongst them as we all offer our extremely high-browed analysis of The Match.

Two years after moving to Belgium, I moved in with My Belgian Girlfriend and everything went more or less according to plan for the two and a half years that followed. Until I fucked it up of course.

So after four and a half years of living in Belgium, I found myself single and without a place to call home. I think I was officially at what is known as a crossroads in my life. Looking back, it was as good a time as any to leave Belgium and go farther a field. Indeed it was something that I threatened to do on more than one occasion but something kept me hanging on in, continuing with my existence here.

There’s no doubt that some of the reason was my policy of taking the easy way out in times of difficulty. Surely it was easier to continue plodding along with what I was doing than uprooting what little I had and moving on to the next chapter in my life. Not a particularly noble reason for staying but I have no doubt that it played a part.

But the problem with taking the easy way out is that there is always the nagging doubt in the back of your head that eats away and fills one’s mind with thoughts of doubt and regret over having made the right decision or not.

So there must be more to it than that.

Being a self-confessed social animal, I meet a lot of people. Over the past few years I have met many interesting and nice people. Some of them were even Belgian. I have a few people that I consider to be friends and am more than happy when in their company. So that’s already a reason to stay.

The female interest hasn’t been particularly successful in recent times but I think that is more to do with me than the fact that I live in Belgium. A few girls have been in an and out of my life since ending my co-habiting relationship but nothing has proved to be especially long-term. Not a situation that I was too familiar with but something that I grew to enjoy, perhaps too much at times. I wasn’t particularly looking for Mrs. Right and anyway – I think women can smell desperation from 10 paces away.

But I could have lived the single life style anywhere I wanted – without the baggage of a relationship, or children and at a relatively young enough age to travel some more, the world should have been my oyster.

And yet, I remained in Belgium.

So, just what the hell is it?

Such Belgian delights as 24 hour drinking, frituurs and waffles are not enough to keep even the least demanding of people happy for long. And yes, that includes me.

I’ve mentioned already that I have questioned my reasons for persisting with Belgium but it has to be said that most of my moments of doubt and self-analysis occur during the winter time. For you see folks, the difference between Antwerp - and indeed Belgium as a whole - in the winter and in the summer is quite remarkable.

I’ve mentioned in a previous blog that the number of outdoor festivals organised in Belgium is incredible but there are many, many other events organised by various towns throughout the summer months. Enough to keep a bogman from Northern Ireland more than amused.

A case in point:

Last weekend, the city of Antwerp played host to a mechanical elephant and it’s ‘owner’ a giant mechanical girl. Following a certain storyline over the Friday, Saturday and Sunday, these amazing constructions could be seen around my adopted home town – the elephant sleeping on St. Jansplein, the girl shopping down the Meir, the elephant squirting onlookers through apartment windows as it walked through the student district of the Paardenmarkt, even the girl took a leak in full public display (see above)

And boy did the public come out in force for that one, with an estimated 650,000 people descending upon the city to catch a glimpse of proceedings.

On the Sunday afternoon, there was a free concert organised to promote the multi-cultural aspect of Antwerp. Some friends and I watched what can only be described as a Moroccan version of Take That, Flemish rappers and a reggae band from the Caribbean.

And all this before going to my local to watch the world cup final in the company of Belgian, Dutch, English, Canadian and of course Northern Irish. However, on this occasion I wasn’t the only one hailing from My Wee Country, the pub being besieged by a few others that came from the same neck of the woods as I do, much to my pleasant surprise.

How GREAT it was for my MATES to hear EIGHT people all pronouncing these words in capitals the SAME way as I do! A GREAT night was had by all and it put me firmly in the mood for my trip home for my father’s birthday a couple of days later.

But more about the trip home in the next blog – “IT IS OLD BUT IT IS BEAUTIFUL”

PS – No doubt the winter months will roll around once again and the whole of Belgium will go into hibernation and I’ll start questioning why I am here….

The Rock Werchter 2006 Report – Part 3

Paul McCartney once sang about The Long and Winding Road. Perhaps he had the walk from the festival site to the camping in mind when he penned the lyrics.

In normal circumstances – i.e. without 79999 other people staggering back in the same direction, without the consumption of copious amounts of alcohol and without the temptations of all the various food and beer tents, the walk from the festival site to our tents would normally take about 20 minutes.

On Day 1, our walk back took three and a half hours.

Suitably buoyed by the evening’s festivities and firmly in ‘festival mode’ we made our by now annual and of course obligatory stop at ‘our local beer tent’. There are many beer tents to choose from but of them all, we keep coming back to the same one.

Once again, this gives the members of our group a target to aim for in the event of us breaking up and losing each other amongst the hordes of people, either by accident (drunken meandering can lead a person in many strange directions) or intentionally (stopping to chat to fellow revelers about – well about the things that drunken revelers talk to each other about in the wee hours of the morning).

My wingman and good buddy, the aforementioned PopTart who sadly wasn't able to join us this year and I (quite literally) stumbled across it on Day 1 of last year’s Werchter when, drenched from the torrential downpour during the Chemical Brothers and in need for somewhere to dry off and take care of the bandage on my hand, we stopped in for a moments rest.

We must have looked a right sorry pair because the girl that was working behind the bar – the beautiful Mireisse – took pity on us and gave us a couple of beers and provided me with a nice, new - and more importantly dry - Stella T-shirt.

This girl was an angel amongst all the rain and the mud. With eyes so deep, dark and warm that you felt that you could just dive in them and swim around and with a smile that could melt even the coldest of hearts, she truly seemed to be heaven sent.

On top of that, there were a bunch of guys that had obviously made this their Werchter local as well. Taking turns to stand on a chair and sing party songs, the singing and the dancing continued until 04:00 in the morning when unfortunately all the tents have to close.

We were hooked and went back every evening after that.

It has to be said that on occasion I was also known to stand up on a chair and give the crowd a few songs of my own with my favourite – the Liverpool Anthem “You’ll Never Walk alone” a daily occurrence.

Everyone joins in the fun and I suppose if I’m honest - it appeals to the extrovert side of me having a tent full of people singing along with you and applauding your efforts. No matter how bad they may be. This wasn’t about the quality – this was all about the taking part.

Approaching the tent this year, I was a wee bit nervous. What if Mireisse and the other friendly guys that operated the tent every year for a “bit of a laugh” decided that they couldn’t be arsed with it all? What if the 'choir' weren’t there doing their party pieces?

As we slowly neared our destination, at the pace dictated by the thousands walking the road, it soon became apparent that I needn’t have worried as their dulcet tones could be heard thrashing out their favourite anthem – “I Am The Music Man (what can you play?)”

And as we entered the tent, much to my surprise and obvious enjoyment, a few of the guys recognized us.

“Jonny, Jonny Sing us a Song, Jonny – sing us a song” came my totally unnecessary invitation to stand up on a chair and belt out “You’ll Never Walk Alone”. Everyone joined in - except of course the bitter Man United supporting members of our group (and you know who you are.)

After my ‘performance’ I got off my seat to much shaking of hands and patting on the back.

God – it was great to be back!

I said hello to Mireisse and the rest of the crew and we settled in to join the party.

One guy in particular was the ringleader (there’s always one) and he got up to sing the tent’s anthem once again - “I Am The Music Man”

In case you don’t know the song, it goes a little like this:

Ringleader: I AM THE MUSIC MAN

Drunken Hordes: WHAT CAN YOU PLAY?

R: I CAN PLAY……PIANO

Everyone (whilst ‘air pianoing’):
PI-A, PI-A, PI-ANO, PI-ANO, PI-ANO
PI-A, PI-A, PI-ANO, PI-AANNOOO!

Ringleader: I AM THE MUSIC MAN

Drunken Hordes: WHAT CAN YOU PLAY?

R: I CAN PLAY……SAXAPHONE

Everyone (whilst ‘air saxaphoning’):
SAXA, SAXA, SAXAPHONE, SAXAPHONE, SAXAPHONE
SAXA, SAXA, SAXAPHONE, SAX-A-PHOOOONNE

……

However – unlike the version that I had heard before, this one had a few interesting variations.

THIS Music Man could also play:

WASMACHINE (Flemish for ‘washing machine’) which involved him flicking his beer over everyone as he spun around whilst stood up on the seat.

FREE WILLY – which involved him filling his mouth with beer and blowing it up into the air.

And then his pièce de résistance SUPERMAN – which involved him climbing up on the bar and then taking a running jump, superman style, into the catching arms of his mates.

I think you get the picture.

Granted - not very hi-brow stuff at all, but great fun to a gathering of pissed-up partyheads getting their freak on.

Various other songs were performed and more beer was consumed until the part of the evening that we all dreaded sprung up on us. Quite how 04:00 in the morning can spring up on anyone after an evening at Rock Werchter is anyone’s guess, but believe me, it does.

We all said our goodbyes and arranged to do the same thing all over again the following evening. I thanked Mireisse and the crew for their wonderful hospitality and wished them all a good night’s sleep, something I think we all knew only too well wasn’t going to happen.

After the weekend, I found out that our campsite, A3, was the biggest at the festival – 25000 people in tents in a field in the middle of nowhere at four in the morning sounds like a recipe for disaster when it comes to getting your head down for a few hours kip but to be honest, our little corner of the campsite was a comparatively quiet place, in spite of the thousands of people snoring, farting and belching in close proximity.

The campsite had taken over a somewhat eerie lunar-like appearance, with a landscape of domed tents, barely visible in the mist, lit up by the security lights.

Of course there were some people still milling about but by in large people were pretty well behaved (or just too bloody tired) and when I got into my tent, I fell asleep almost as soon as my head hit my James Bond Mattress.

Ah yes – the James Bond Mattress.

On our way to the festival, we stopped off at a large supermarket for some essentials – water, disposable camera, luggage trolley and my James Bond Mattress.

Originally looking for an ordinary air mattress only to be disappointed to find out that they were all sold out, I spied a self-inflating mattress. It cost 17 euros and was a fantastic investment. Although I have to say, when I unrolled it when setting up my tent, it looked like I’d have been better off unrolling some kitchen roll – so flimsy was the material.

But it was a nice piece of kit – unscrewing the valve at the top causing the mattress to automatically suck in air and inflate – much to the envy of my fellow campers who were furiously pumping up their air mattresses in the hot sun.

OK – so mine inflated to a thickness of barely 2cm, making it look pretty useless but at almost 05:00 in the morning after the evening’s festivities, it was like the finest hand-crafted 4-poster bed. I was asleep in seconds, dreaming, no doubt, of singing on a stage in front of 80000 sweaty revelers.

And of course – Superman.

TO BE CONTINUED

The Rock Werchter 2006 Report – Part 2

OK folks – let’s get to the meat of this story – let’s stop all this dilly dallying around and get to the crunch – the sex, the drugs, the rock and roll.

Oh shit – I forgot my mum reads this.

What I really meant to say was The Rock And The Roll.

Suffice to say, that after some verbal Flemish wrestling with the foreman of the building site where my car had been parked and establishing that - yes indeed my car had been towed away and that yes - I would have to go to the police station to sort everything out and yes – I would have to go to Hoboken on the outskirts of town to rescue the damn thing.

I must say that he was very apologetic but of course there was nothing he could do – the car was parked in a very stupid place.

Unlike, it has to be said, the member of Antwerp’s Finest, who I then had to do more verbal wrestling with to get the necessary documentation sorted out so that I could retrieve the car. Rude and arrogant beyond belief, he made me feel like something that crawled from under a rock.

Granted, 5 days later I did look like something that crawled from under a rock, or at the very least, from out of my tent but still – there was no need for him to treat me the way he did.

Anyway, my very good and patient mate gave me a lift out to the pirates that were disguised as the towing company and after paying 125 euros, my trusty steed was back in my possession. This unexpected dent in my budget meant that I’d have to ignore the lure of the official merchandise stalls and make do with the T-shirts that I’d brought with me - but more about those later.

At last the weekend could begin!

Joining the rest of the gang for a trusty fry-up, courtesy of the English pub (I really do spend too much time in that place!), 6 of us set off to rock Werchter. We were to be joined by the rest of the group later on that day as they still had to work.

Initially I felt sorry for those guys but all thoughts of pity soon left me as we sat in a 4-hour traffic jam and then had to lug all our (and their) camping gear from the cars and then find a space and then set up all the tents - and all this in searing heat. I was beginning to think that they were the clever ones.

But this feeling was only temporary – having finally made our base for the weekend it then came to pass, that at around 18:00, we walked down the road, ignoring the beer and food tents that lined the route to the festival site (we would no doubt be there after the show finished) and entered Rock Werchter.

WE WERE FINALLY THERE!

Folks – you have no idea the buzz that I feel when I enter into something like this.

The only way I can describe it is to say that it is a wonderful sense of belonging - surrounded by tens of thousands of other people who have gone through exactly the same hassle and torture as you have and are there for exactly the same reason as you are – to chill the fuck out and have a bloody fantastic time.

I get the same rush when I walk into a packed sports stadium joining the throngs to take part in something that is just a little bit special - a collective gathering of like-minded people doing the thing that they love most. The collective passion is enough to give a eunuch a hard on, for crying out loud!

I realise that there are people out there for who the very idea of spending 5 days in a field with 80,000 sweaty people of all shapes and sizes has them out in a cold sweat as an acute case of ***phobia sets in but believe me – if I could find a way of bottling that feeling and selling it to the masses, I’d be the biggest drugs pusher on the planet.

First stop was to purchase the beer and food tokens. 50 euros per head was placed in the kitty (not for the last time that weekend) and off we went to get the supplies.

At the start of the festival, if you purchase 9 drinks, you get a very handy inflatable tray sponsored by my favourite Belgian girlfriend – Stella Artois.

However thanks to the most organised of the bunch (no – not me) and an absolute Godsend when it comes to these sort of things, we already had two from the previous year.

We got another one, just to be on the safe side.

Being the creatures of habit that we are, we then headed off to our Werchter Base Camp – a spot just to the left of a big set of speakers to the left hand side of the Main Stage as you look at it.

Now don’t get me wrong – we’re actually nowhere near the stage. At a distance of about 200 metres, we are far enough away from the stage to be able to spread out and lie down in the sun, but close enough to get our freak on when the notion takes us, only venturing into the masses when somebody special is performing.

Or until we’ve all had enough of the dancing juice inside us.

We leave all the moshing and bouncing around to the Real Rockers instead of us pretend ones. I guess I must be getting old, but when I see those kids bouncing around in the heat I get tired just looking at them but fair play to them – for without those guys – there is no festival.

Actually – it has to be said that we use this spot for another more important reason. The tower of speakers acts as a very useful landmark to guide the waifs and strays of the group who are in various states of drunkenness back to the others with the minimum of fuss and drama.

At least that’s the theory anyway.

There have been occasions were I have been that waif and that stray and in all states of drunkenness wandering around trying to find everyone.

But not this weekend I would like to stress - an achievement of which I can be very, very proud.

Settling into our favourite spot, we proceeded to get into the mood with the first band of our weekend - the mightily impressive rockers, Tool - definitely not music to play when your grandmother comes around to visit but most definitely music to kick the weekend of debauchery off with a bang.

WERCHTER HAD BEGUN!

As the night proceeded and the day got just a little cooler, we slowly approached our first major dilemma. A dilemma which I am happy to say we are faced with on several occasions, thanks to the fantastic line-ups that the organizers provide us with.

That dilemma being – Which Band Do We Watch?

For you see Rock Werchter has two stages – the Main Stage – located in field where upwards of 60000 people can join in the fun and where the bigger acts perform – and then the Marquee – a stage located within a huge open-sided marquee where around 6000 can fit inside with the rest of the revelers located outside watching proceedings from the outside on the big screen.

The choice that we were faced with was a tough one.

The Streets v The Red Hot Chili Peppers.

Two of my top bands and both playing at the same time. What a nice problem to have on my birthday!

Both were bands that I have had the pleasure of watching in the past and both put on a great performance.

Most of us opted for The Streets with one die-hard amongst us remaining for RHCP.

With hindsight, I think we chose the best one. The Streets were fantastic. The great thing about watching bands perform live is that they try stuff that they wouldn’t normally do and I’m pleased to report that The Streets took this to another level. The songs were just recognizable with Mike Skinner being ably assisted on vocals by a huge black fella as the two of them dueled on stage.

They even threw snippets from The Red Hot Chili Peppers in for good measure, just in case some people were facing their own dilemma.

At this point I would just like to state for the record that I Can’t Dance. And no – I am not being modest.

However, when I am in the mood there is no stopping me and these guys most definitely got me in the mood. I bounced and swayed in the heat of the Marquee and sang along with all their classics. The grin on my face from ear to ear is permanent – like the grinning Cheshire Cat after he’s double dropped a couple of disco biscuits.

Little was I to know at the time that it was to be the highlight of my weekend but that’s just because they were so Fan-Fucking-Tastic.

Just when I thought the show could not get any better, they then took crowd participation to another whole level - a really simple idea but also an effective one.

“OK Werchter – on the count of three – I want every last one of you to get on the ground” Skinner instructed.

“And then when I say ‘JUMP’ – I want you all to jump up in the air and bounce”

Perhaps it was had to be there kind of moments but it worked for me. Cool as!

After they finished we had another dilemma – Black Eyed Peas v DJ Sanchez and I am glad to say we opted for the latter.

The Marquee – still on a high from The Streets (quite literally judging by the looks of some of them) continued to bounce and we partied with the masses until long after the show finished and they kicked us out of the festival and sent us back to our tents – but not before the obligatory stop in our favourite beer tent on the way home.

And that was were things REALLY started!

TO BE CONTINUED!

The Rock Werchter 2006 Report – Part 1

Well folks – it’s that time of the year again – the time when I forgo all the wonderful facilities that my compact but bijou apartment affords me such as a bed, a toilet, a settee and – well that’s about it really, for a 5-day stint in the wilderness of a field in the middle of nowhere in rural Belgium surrounded by 79,999 like-minded sweaty individuals.

It’s hard to believe that 12 months have already passed by since I regaled you of the horrors of last year’s festival, when I rather stupidly decided to indulge in the 5-day rock festival experience that is Rock Werchter, just a few days after having had my hand operated on.

The rest as they say was a bloody mess.

(For those not in the know, I refer you to the July 2005 postings elsewhere in this blog titled “Blood, Sweat and Tears, The Werchter experience”), perhaps you can read that before continuing with this one.

It’s ok – I’ll wait. Off you go….

Ho hum…

OK then - everyone on the same page now?

Good – it makes it all so much easier if we’re all in this together right from the start.

So, on with the show!

This year’s Werchter once again fell on the same weekend and so once again coincided with my birthday celebrations. It really is sooo kind of the people of Belgium to put on such an extravaganza for little old me and it makes it really special for me that 79,999 others make the effort and come and join in the fun.

And believe me, it can be quite the effort and have even me questioning my own sanity as I sit in the traffic jams, walk for miles carrying my camping gear in the searing heat and wrestle with my tent and…

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

Let’s just start at the beginning shall we? The evening before – Wednesday 28^th June 2006 – to be precise.

Having finished work, and taking the short 10 minute commute back my apartment to the centre of Antwerp, I was filled with the sort of happy feeling that only the prospect of sharing a long sun-drenched weekend in a field with 80,000 sweaty revellers can generate.

Excitement, tinged with expectancy, mixed with anticipation, tempered with a little nervousness as to what the weekend would bring all bubbled under my usually calm exterior. (No laughing at the back)

Arriving home, I came to the neighbourhood where I currently reside – an apartment on a square near the centre of town which, as it just so happened, was also hosting a festival for the weekend. A festival right on my own doorstep and yet I was destined to leave it all for The Daddy of all Belgian festivals – Rock Werchter.

Actually, I should take this point to compliment Belgium on all it’s festivals during the summer. Every weekend, for a period of about 3 months, you could be going to some (not so) far flung corner of Belgium and indulging in various festivals of varying sizes, catering all types of musical tastes, and that’s not to mention all the concerts that are on the way as well.

A brief look at my agenda, shows that over the next few weeks I am hoping to go see Madness and The Charlatans, Jamiroquoi, Daan*, Flogging Molly and my home town rockers Therapy?, the 3-day Antaliannse festival with its south American and Caribbean music, Bodycount and the Streets, with only the last one actually being indoors. Let’s hope the good weather lasts.

* = For those of you that have not heard of the Belgian dance artist Daan, I would recommend you should go out there pronto and acquaint yourself with his music. After you finish reading this blog of course. I would especially recommend him if you like your dance music with a heavy bass line. Tracks to look out for include the unofficial Belgian Anthem “Swedish Designer Drugs” and the extremely bass-heavy “Houswife.” Brilliant.

Incidentally, Daan is playing an outdoor concert in the main square of a Flemish town called Turnhout, about 30 minutes east of Antwerp on Friday July 21st. It is one of many organised every Friday during the summer, and is an example of just how good at Belgium is for these sorts of things. They are expecting between 15000 and 20000 people and you know what – it’s absolutely free!

Bring it on.

But back to the matter in hand…

So having parked the car illegally, (due to a lack of parking spaces because of the upcoming festival in the neighbourhood), I rushed up the stairs to my “penthouse shoebox” that is my home and packed for the weekend. Having looked at the weather forecast for the weekend I knew that that the average daytime temperatures were going to be around 30+ degrees and that the evenings were going to be hot as well. Instead of last years sweaters, jackets and jeans, the packing was relatively simple – shorts, T-shirts, underwear, toiletries (including sunscreen), tent, sleeping bag, torch, cigarettes and booze.

Of course I had to include a couple of long sleeve numbers and a pair of jeans. Just in case. I guess you can take the boy out of Ireland but you can’t take the boy out of Ireland, eh?

The point is, within a matter of a few minutes my packing was complete. Putting my dinner in the microwave, I jumped into the shower – timing my shower to perfection to coincide with the ‘DING’ that announced dinner was served.

Having polished that off, pronto style, I went and joined a few friends in the local pub - an English pub, 3 minutes walk from my home where I had arranged to meet a few of the guys that were going and a few of the ones that weren’t going, to join in the celebrations / commiserations of the upcoming Werchter weekend and also the fact that the following day, I was to become a year older.

The party went on a little later than it should have and it was around 04:00 in the morning when I eventually got myself into bed. Not exactly the wisest preparation for a weekend where sleep would be at a premium but sure, I wouldn’t expect anything less of myself…

Next morning, well 4 hours later, my alarm went off and I set about getting in the mood by playing music from some of the bands that would be playing that weekend – The Streets, Red Hot Chili Peppers, Led Zeppelin, The Who, The Eels, all came out of my stereo system that morning, whether my neighbours wanted to hear it or not.

It’s amazing how easily I can get out of my bed for this sort of thing and yet struggle for my work. Why is that, I wonder?

Showered, dressed and a bit of a boogie in my apartment all complete, I went downstairs with my hold-all and then rescued my Canadian friends’ camping gear along with my own from my cellar, putting everything in the hallway waiting for them to arrive.

I looked at my watch – 10:25 and I was supposed to meet them at 10:30. I was ready before them. This sort of thing never happened!

I can remember sitting on the cooler on the footpath outside the apartment building waiting for them to arrive, the glorious early morning sun beating down on my face, a little hung-over, but happy with my lot in life.

I lit a cigarette and enjoyed the smoke whilst probably looking like some Irish version of a Mexican bandit sitting in the sun to the passers by going about their daily business.

My friends arrived and we loaded their car and then arranged to meet them with all the others in the local for breakfast, as I walked around the corner to where I had left my car.

Except there was no car.

There was a space where my car should have been but definitely no car.

Across the narrow street I saw the reason why - a cement truck, parked up dumping its load into the foundations of a building site.

Shit!

I had forgotten about that. I had parked illegally the evening before in my haste to get ready for the weekend and in my haste to start the party I had forgotten to move it.

And now it had been towed away to make way for the building site traffic.

SHIT!

4 people were travelling in my car – not to mention all their camping gear. What the hell was I supposed to do now? Was the Werchter Weekend that I had been looking forward to going to turn into a big washout after all – in spite of the heat wave that was predicted?

TO BE CONTINUED…