The name is Bond - James Bond

The alarm goes off at 07:30.

I jump out of bed and greet the morning, jumping into the shower, singing my little heart out, although not so loud as to wake the rest of the sleeping house.

But hang on a minute – there is something very wrong with this picture.

It’s 07:30 in the morning and I am awake but more than that - I am actually happy to be awake.

Even more than that – it is my vacation in France, my opportunity to unwind and relax and yet, still I am awake at 07:30 in the morning, just a few short hours after having gone to bed and here I am still greeting the day with the energy and enthusiasm that only the criminally insane or the religious fanatic seem to be capable of maintaining.

So what is it that has me in this state of euphoria at such an ungodly hour?

(Auch Dear Reader, of course I could tell you now but sure where would the fun be in that? So please bear with me for a few more short minutes as I continue with the story…)

As I dress I hear movement from the room across the corridor from me. I am not the only one awake at this time. I smile to myself as I wonder if that person is as excited as I am at the prospect of today’s planned events.

In fact three of us in various parts of our villa are getting ready for the day, whilst the rest of the villa sleeps (apart from those crazy people that for getting up at this time on vacation is the norm – and you know who you are).

Once ready, I proceed to the main part of the villa to grab my ‘breakfast’ of a strong cup of coffee and a cigarette and to join my two companions for today’s trip, the first leg of which is the 1 hour drive to St. Tropez.

Having thought that my previous experience in St. Tropez was never to be bettered, certainly at least not during this family vacation, I was PUMPED to be setting off on this, my next once in a lifetime experience, just two short days later.

And so it came to pass that at 08:30 on a warm, midsummer Wednesday morning in the south of France I got into a car with two of the people I was vacationing with, mothers of players from the kids’ football team (and two fantastic people in their own right of course) as we made the scenic trip through the mountains of Provence to St. Tropez.

Our destination was a luxurious hotel for a 10:00 am pool-side breakfast rendezvous with our friend from the diamond business – and part-time arranger of once in a lifetime experiences – along with his lovely wife and kids.

After a wonderful breakfast, our handsome chauffeur arrived to take us to our next port of call – a heliport on the outskirts of St. Tropez, where our private helicopter was waiting for us.

Where our private helicopter was waiting for us.

Yes folks, hot on the heels of the speedboat trip around the French Riviera, here I was on my way to experience something even more ridiculously outrageous – a helicopter ride to Monte Carlo where we were going to spend the afternoon, before returning to St. Tropez a few hours later.

If you think I had a daft grin on my face when I wrote about the boat trip, then you should see the grin now.

The French Riviera, speedboats, fast cars, luxury hotels, the beautiful villa nestled in Provence, all fantastic in their own right and now here we were going to our very own (if only for the afternoon) private helicopter to join THE jetset.

Forget the ‘Slums’ of St. Tropez; this time we were going to Monte Carlo, Monaco, where decadence and displays of wealth are taken to a whole other extra-terrestrial level.

Hotel du Paris, Casino Monte Carlo, The Monaco Royal Family, Grace Kelly, the Formula 1 Grand Prix, the really, really luxurious apartments and yachts, and of course, the ridiculously over-priced alcohol.

This was the stuff of fantasy. This was the stuff of James Bond.

And I was living it.

So just how the hell did I wangle this one, then?

Well, to use an expression from back home, I have never been backward in coming forward and in the past this may have got me into lots of compromising positions but in this case, I’m glad to report that my “embarrassment switch” failed to work once again and for once it actually worked in my favour:

After the speedboat trip a couple of days earlier, we returned to the small café terrace to have a couple of post-adrenalin rush Stella Artois’s (just how do you write the plural of Stella Artois?)

As the animated conversation continued our friend announced that he was going to have to go to Monte Carlo for a meeting in a couple of days’ time with his boss, who had recently moved to the millionaire’s paradise – and he was to travel there by private helicopter.

Somewhat gobsmacked by this blasé contribution to the conversation, my embarrassment switch failed me as I rather cheekily asked “Jesus - I don’t suppose there would be any seats free in that helicopter?”

“Well actually there will be. Why? Would you like to go along for the ride?”

That’s what he said – “Go along for the ride” - as if he was offering me a lift up the street to the pub.

“Would I? I’d abso-fucking-lutely love to come along for the ride!” I replied rather too quickly, my embarrassment switch kicking in just as the words had left my mouth. I was suddenly aware that all the others were sat around the table listening to the conversation and was sure that some of them would love to do it as well but in the words of that most imminent of philosophers, Only Fools and Horses’ Derek Trotter, “he who dares Rodney, he who dares…”

“I’m not sure if the meeting will go ahead just yet but I’ll let you know if we’re on for it and if so you can come along.”

For the rest of the day, I tried to contain my excitement, already preparing myself for the disappointment and consoling myself with the fact that the speedboat had already been beyond my wildest dreams, feeling guilty and annoyed at myself for being so greedy.

But…

Just what if?

A day later, as I was just finishing my blog entry about the speedboat, I received the confirmation from my friend and the good news was not only were we most definitely on and that two others could go along as well.

“There she is waiting to take us”

I looked out the car window at the sight in front of me, drinking in every small detail lest I should ever forget or miss anything from the whole experience.

Our helicopter was a rather resplendent looking turquoise beast (sorry – I have absolutely no idea about the make or model – I guess I wasn’t drinking in every detail). Our female pilot approached us and greeted us, looking cool in her uniform, long blonde hair tied back and pulled through flight cap whilst sporting Ray Bans (of course) and chewing on gum. She looked every inch the private helicopter pilot.

After posing for the obligatory photographs, which once again belied the air of nonchalance I was hoping to carry off, we climbed into the helicopter and strapped ourselves in and placed our headsets on which, it was explained to us, would drown out the aircraft’s noise and allow us to talk to each other during the 25-minute flight, by way of the small microphones attached to each headset.

A couple of minutes later, our pilot started the engines, the noise of which increased as she fired the helicopter up for take off.

The previous evening, we had spent the night at a Theme Park on the outskirts of St. Tropez, going on every vomit-inducing, teeth-rattling ride that it offered us but I have to say that nothing matched the sensation I felt as we departed St. Tropez heliport.

It. Was. Fantastic.

We rolled upwards and away from the heliport and set off on our short journey, leaving the picturesque harbour of St. Tropez behind and heading out along the French Riviera in the direction of Monaco.

At least I supposed that’s the direction we were headed but to be honest, I couldn’t make head nor tail of all the dials on the dashboard (but was hopeful that our pilot could) and anyway, I was too busy giggling like a little schoolgirl as I looked out around me at the dozens of yachts and speed boats splashing around in the Mediterranean below, thinking “been there, done that”.

During our short trip along the French Riviera, we flew past St. Raphael, Cannes and Nice on our way to our destination ‘Heliport de Monaco’ at a rate of 120 knots and at a height of 500 feet. (I was getting the hang of reading the dials)

All too soon, after 25 minutes, our trip came to an end but not before our friend pointed out a high rise luxury apartment building during our descent into Monte Carlo, informing us that his boss’s apartment was the entire top floor and included the terrace covering the whole of the roof - a mere 1700 sq. metre penthouse apartment in the middle of Monte Carlo, with fantastic views over the harbour, the F1 circuit and the Royal Palace. Lord only knows just how much that set him back, although I guess if you can afford that, then you’re not exactly going to be as concerned with this detail as I was.

“Does your boss have any single daughters?” I should have perhaps asked but on this occasion my embarrassment switch was overridden by the sight that I saw as I surveyed Monte Carlo from a couple of hundred feet in the air.

I could see the stylish apartments; the glorious villas nestled in the steep cliff face, the Royal Palace, the harbour with its luxury yachts and the tunnel made famous by the Monaco Grand Prix. Yes – I was definitely here in Monte Carlo!

As we disembarked, any air of nonchalance that we may have been trying to exude soon disappeared into the balmy Mediterranean air as one of our co-passengers (who shall remain nameless) descended elegantly into the helping hand of a member of the waiting ground staff … and promptly nearly throttled herself, forgetting she was still wearing her headset which was connected by cable to the ceiling of the cockpit.

Having quickly (and failingly) tried to rectify the situation, we figured what the hell and posed for some more holiday photos and then bid our friend goodbye as we wished him well in his meeting, before our chauffeur(!!) drove us to the epicentre of Monte Carlo’s decadence, Place du Casino, the gorgeous square that is home to the grand Hotel du Paris and of course Casino de Monte Carlo, where we disembarked into a world of extreme wealth, the like of which I haven’t seen since, well, since EVER.

I looked around me in wide-eyed wonder.

Folks, I’ve always been a bit of a petrol head and love cars. This stretches back to when I was a toddler (yes – quite some time ago) standing on the back seat of my father’s car identifying oncoming cars by their headlights in the dark and since then I have always displayed a passion for cars.

This has gotten me into trouble in the past, having squandered silly money on even sillier (but oh so much fun) sports cars, being on the receiving of more speeding fines than most, having gone on rally driving courses under the influence and not to mention pissing a female racing driver off seconds before she hurtled me around Silverstone racing track at breakneck speeds in a Caterham race car to the point of almost vomiting thanks to the G-Forces. Yes, suffice to say, cars have gotten me into a bit of trouble.

Yet here I was in amongst some of the finest cars ever created by mankind and they weren’t just sitting looking fantastic in showrooms. They were actually being driven, from A to B.

Just as you or I would in our own humble transport, so were these people in their Rolls Royce’s, Bentleys, top of the range Mercedes, Lamborghinis, Porsches and of course Ferraris. Lots and lots of Ferraris.

Extravagant cars were being parked outside the hotel or the casino and driven away to be parked by uniformed valet parkers. Others were driving slowly past as we peered inside to get a look at the passengers.

We picked a table at one of the fancy cafés which provided us with a good vantage point and ordered three expensive beers (Heineken! – just how the hell have these guys cornered the lager market in foreign lands??) and surveyed the scene in front of us.

How silly of me was I to think that The Goddess That Is Angelina Jolie would be waiting for me on a terrace in St. Tropez?! This is where she was going to be!

Spirits suitably lifted, we clinked glasses in a toast and started scouring the faces for the aforementioned Goddess That Is Angelina Jolie.

I have to say that I was not overly impressed with the people that passed compared with the cars, most people looking pretty regular and nothing at all like movie or music stars. Even the ones that obviously had money (easily spotted by the collagen and botox) reminded me of mutton dressed up as … well dressed up us mutton. Just goes to show that just because you have money, doesn’t mean that you have class. Some of them looked a right state.

Perhaps The Goddess That Is Angelina Jolie would be in the casino? Of course that’s where she would be. We ordered the bill from the waiter and braced ourselves. 16.50 Euros for three Heinekens. Not too extravagantly priced I suppose but we are talking Heineken here.

As the indifferent waiter accepted our payment (we had decided to make a kitty), I got wondering just where the hell do all the normal people of Monte Carlo live? The waiters, the bin men, the taxi drivers? Just where does one find cheap accommodation in Monte Carlo? Looking in the window of a couple of estate agents later that afternoon it would seem the answer to this question would be on the street - unless they are paid extremely well in Monaco. There’s only so much you can benefit from tax free salaries.

Having said this, the streets of Monte Carlo are extremely well looked after, spotless even. So sleeping on them wouldn’t be too much of an inconvenience - especially compared with my shoebox of a place back in Belgium. The weather is certainly a lot nicer.

We even walked through a subway and bracing myself for the smell of stale piss and glue that I would normally associate with these environments, I was pleasantly surprised to see that this too was in perfect well tended order. I’m not sure if the smell of lavender was something that I conjured up in my imagination or not.

In Casino de Monte Carlo we performed our usual act of nonchalance – opting not to pay for the entrance fee and instead posing for more holiday photos, before noticing several huge signs informing us that this was actually prohibited.

Moving quickly on, for fear of being arrested in my first and quite possibly last visit (as they don’t take too kindly to criminal records in Monaco), we walked along the harbour as I looked for my fellow countryman Eddie Irvine, perhaps lounging on the deck of one of the luxury yachts reading yesterday’s edition of the Belfast Telegraph. No such luck. Fuck it, I would have even have settled for David ‘DC’ Coulthard or Michael Schumacher but just my luck, they were nowhere to be seen.

I guess they were probably having a lads pizza and beer afternoon playing Gran Turismo on the Playstation at one of their bachelor pads.

Still, I used the opportunity to pose with my Northern Ireland flag from a vantage point overlooking the harbour. (God – I really am determined to get on www.ourweecountry.co.uk, aren’t I?)

Afterwards, we headed up the steep, winding path to take a look at the Royal Palace and its surroundings. I have to say that the view on the way up to the top was quite breathtaking – as much to do with the climb as anything else. I wondered aloud what the population of Monte Carlo was but no answer was forthcoming, the passers by opting to give me a wide berth as they dealt with their own struggles on the climb.

When we arrived at the top I was pleasantly surprised to see that there was more to this part of Monaco than just the Royal Palace, although it in itself was pretty impressive, complete with the changing of the guard at 14:00 which was taking place just as we arrived.

The palace is located in a beautifully quaint old part of the city with narrow cobbled streets containing several gorgeous wee cafes and unfortunately far less attractive souvenir shops selling the same cheap tourist tack that blights many other tourist spots, where I could have treated myself or my loved ones to Monte Carlo fridge magnets, tea towels or Michael Schumacher baseball caps.

I wasn’t tempted but I wanted to get a postcard for my Nana, so I ventured into one.

Having picked a suitably picturesque postcard, I stood in queue and looking at the cigarettes, I was reminded that my blossoming nicotine addiction needed to be fed, so I thought I’d treat myself to a packet or two, plumping for ‘Marlboro Wides’ having never heard of them, never mind seen them or tried one before.

We followed this up by going to one of the cafés for a beer and a spot of lunch.

Oh how terribly chic of me I thought to myself as I sipped on my beer (another bloody Heineken) and puffed on my Marlboro Wide. How wonderfully I blended in with the rich and the beautiful of Monaco!

And then I ordered some spag bol.

It seemed the kitchen treated this order with the contempt it deserved, the food tasting terrible as I eyed my companions vegetarian pizzas with envious eyes. And its not often I could be accused of that.

During lunch I spied a teenager wearing a Republic of Ireland football shirt and debated with myself whether or not I should go to the toilet and change into my Northern Ireland shirt. (Yes I had it with me, packed in the gay bag in case of emergency.) But I decided against stooping to this childish level of football (and political) rivalry - we were, after all, in Monte Carlo. That sort of thing is Just Not Done.

After lunch, we went shopping for some ‘guilt-trip’ presents for the children who had to miss out on the trip and in one of the shops I once again spied the young Republic of Ireland supporter and opted for the much more adult way of dealing with this affront to my eyes by whispering “Go on Northern Ireland” to him as he walked past.

Feeling better with myself I spied a tourist book on Monaco and decided that this would answer my question about the population of the principality. And sure enough it did – reliably informing me that at the last census, the population was 32,020.

About the same size as Carrickfergus* then.

(* = Carrickfergus, the town made famous by the song, is a coastal town in Northern Ireland, located a 10 minute drive from The Centre of the Universe That Is Ballyclare)

And then it dawned on me.

Monte Carlo and Carrickfergus had so much in common. Roughly the same size and population, both located on the coast and both boasting marinas. I shared my thoughts with my companions.

At this observation, a man who was obviously my Republic of Ireland supporting friend’s father joined in with this conversation.

“Yeah sure – who knows - with a bit of imagination and investment, Carrickfergus could be the Monte Carlo of Ireland!”

We had a giggle at this but at the same time I thought how weird this situation was.

Not the fact that here I was, stood in Monte Carlo having a chat with someone from the Emerald Isle about Carrickfergus being the Monte Carlo of Ireland. Oh no – something much more disturbing than that. He had a Northern Ireland accent (county Tyrone, quite possibly Cookstown if you’re interested) and yet his son was proudly walking around Monte Carlo wearing a Republic of Ireland shirt.

I kicked myself for having decided against the change of shirts and looked around me for the nearest toilet (or telephone box) to perform my change into ‘SuperProd’. Indeed I was seconds away from stripping there and then, when he stopped me in my tracks with his next comment:

“Are you from Lisburn?”

Jesus. Now he thinks I’m a towny.

“Ballyclare” my friend informed him (herself from County Wicklow and therefore a real Republic of Ireland supporter.)

This proved to be the end of the conversation. I’m not sure why this revelation of my home town should have this affect but there you go. As they walked out of the shop I wondered to myself (not for the first time that afternoon) “What would James Bond do?”

Obviously ordering a Dry Martini “shaken not stirred” was out of my price league, especially in Monte Carlo and having been approached by a distinct lack of sexy women with alluring names such as Pussy Galore, Dr. Holly Goodhead or Honey Ryder, I had to make do with walking outside and answering my ringing phone in what I hope was a secret-agent-type manner.

It was our friend informing us that his meeting was finished and he had ordered the helicopter for 17:30.

I looked at my watch (sans secret agent gadgets). 16:30.

“Where are you?” he asked. (my friend – not the watch – like I say this is no secret agent watch but instead a much more impressive ‘Being Champions of Europe 5 times watch’)

“We’re at the Royal Palace”

“I can see the palace from here, I’m stood on the terrace of my boss’s apartment. Go to the edge and wave.”

I did as was instructed but he couldn’t see me. Turns out I was on the wrong side waving like a wannabe escapee from Alcatraz. Monte Carlo is tiny and yet I still got this wrong. God my orientation is terrible at times.

Presents bought; there was still time to pose with the flag outside the palace. (If I don’t get on that bloody website, it won’t be for the want of trying). I surveyed the scene one more time before we left and noticed that of the two flags flying atop the palace, only one was flying at full height. What did that mean? That the Royal Family were sunbathing in the garden?

We then rushed down to the heliport to catch our flight back to St. Tropez, quite possibly my last helicopter ride ever, and it was all over all too soon.

Our friend tried to persuade the pilot to circle over the hotel where his family were lounging by the pool so that we could wave hello but apparently this was taking the piss. Even private helicopters have to adhere to a flight plan.

We did however fly different location to the one that we had departed from, so that the waiting chauffeur could avoid the early evening traffic going into St. Tropez.

How cool is that?!

“Oh, there’s a bit of gridlock on the roads, so we’re gonna land some place else to avoid the worst of it”. I wanted to ask why the hotel didn’t have its own landing pad but I figured that this would probably have been a little bit churlish under the circumstances.

So there we were, like a drug deal scene from many a movie, landing in a small piece of ground, dust rising up into the air, just by the sea on the French Riviera, where our sunglasses wearing chauffeur was waiting to whisk us off to the hotel for some drinks. All this before we headed back to the ‘normality’ of our villa and rejoined everyone for the rest of our family vacation, suitably happy with our lot in life and more than satisfied with another once in a lifetime experience.

I’m a lucky, lucky person. I realise that. Never in my wildest dreams would I have ever thought that I would have got a chance to visit St. Tropez or Monte Carlo, never mind do the things that I did once there.

You have probably realised by now that I try to keep this blog as anonymous as possible. I don’t want to embarrass anyone in this corner of cyberspace, except for myself on occasion.

But I have to take this opportunity to thank the guy that made all this possible and without so much as a shrug of his shoulders. Cheers for everything. I hope you realise just how much this simple fella from the country appreciates what you did for him. To use the parlance of the Irish – “Thanks a million!!”

And of course, thanks to my friends for having a son, who likes his football and plays in a team called the ‘Duiveltjes’ (little devils) which, thanks to my love of them (and of course football) presented me with an opportunity to meet such lovely people to share these experiences with.

In fact, while I’m at it, just where should I stop?

The only reason I am in Belgium is that my job took me here originally, the only reason that I got the job in the first place was because I went to university, the only reason I went to university was because my parents encouraged and helped me through it, the only reason I was on this planet to get to university, to get the job, to get to Belgium, to experience all these wonderful things, is the fact that they met and my mum got pregnant.

So I guess what I’m saying is…Thanks Mum and Dad (and their new partners who have helped me out in many ways beyond the call of duty of step-parents) I love you all.

God Bless.

Xxx

Incidentally, during the drinks in the hotel bar at the end of the day our friend took a phone call. Afterwards he rejoined us at the bar.

‘You’re going to hate me my friend”

“Why?” Thinking nothing could be further from the truth.

“That was my boss on the phone, he has some tickets for tomorrow’s Euro Supercup final between Barcelona and Sevilla and he asked if we were interested in joining him but I told him no, we have to get back to Belgium in the morning”

Another private helicopter ride to Monaco to be a VIP at one of Europe’s most glamorous football matches? Surely too much to ask for, right?

*ahem*

In a word - yes! Haha

Thanks for listening to me (Belgian) waffle on once again folks. Of course there is another blog on its way about the rest of the vacation but I couldn’t wait to share these stories with you first.

Speak to you soon.

The day I lived like a millionaire...

I check my wallet.

55 Euros.

I check my surroundings.

I am not supposed to be here.

Another rummage in my wallet, in the vain hope that laying there, in amongst the receipts, the business cards, the scraps of paper and the FBI card (now that’s another story) should be a nice tight wad of 100 Euro notes tucked away in a corner. The fact that there isn’t merely confirms this fact.

Yep. I do not belong here.

I look around at my surroundings.

I look at all the beautiful people dressed in even more beautiful, stylish clothes, nonchalantly parading past me looking like they most definitely do belong here.

I look at the expensive cars, slowly driving along the promenade, all built for speeds of much, much faster than the 10km/hour that they are currently being asked to perform by their incredibly handsome and beautiful inhabitants as they growl past (the cars, not the passengers).

I look at the perfect picture-postcard scenery of the harbour with luxury yacht after luxury yacht idly bobbing in the water. Big yachts with even bigger price-tags glinting in the glorious midday sunshine, dazzling the passers-by - had the passers-by not been wearing expensive sunglasses or even acknowledged their presence.

I. Do not. Belong Here.

I look at the humble attire that I am ‘sporting’, feeling more and more conscious about the fact that I am an impostor. What was I thinking when I got dressed this morning?

A short-sleeved shirt (wrinkled) from Next. Swim-shorts courtesy of that most chic of designer shops C&A and a pair of scruffy, rather dirty, Lonsdale trainers. I had even forgotten to bring my Ray Ban (fake) sunglasses with me.

God – what the hell am I doing here? I stick out like the proverbial sore thumb. I am that fly in the ointment, the thorn amongst roses. The uninvited party guest.

In the past (and no doubt in the future) I have waxed lyrical about my home town of Ballyclare and rightly so. It’s a grand wee place, nestled in the Six Mile Water Valley of county Antrim.

But at running the risk of coming across as a pretentious wanker – and God how I hate those kinds of people - Ballyclare certainly ain’t no St. Tropez.

Yes folks – I am in St. Tropez.

Fuck me – even just writing these words gives me such a rush and puts a big, dumb smile on my face.

Please let me make myself clear here, lest there be a misunderstanding. I am talking about THE St. Tropez. The small seaside town in the south of France made famous by Brigitte Bardot and home to some of the world’s wealthiest people; the St. Tropez that serves as a playground for the playboys and playgirls and occasionally the Goddess that is Angelina Jolie.

Yes folks – THAT St. Tropez.

Now you’ll understand why I feel like I do not belong.

As I’ve mentioned elsewhere on this blog I hail from a modest background from small-town Ireland. Nothing wrong with that in itself and indeed I am fiercely proud of it, probably even more so since leaving all those years ago.

But let’s face it – despite as much as I give Ballyclare “The Big Sell”, Ballyclare ain’t no St. Tropez.

So just how did this wee fella from rural Northern Ireland end up in this place, walking in the footsteps of his fellow country man – ex-formula 1 driver, Eddie Irvine? By private jet perhaps? Helicopter? Luxury limousine even?

Err, no – not quite. I hitched a ride with friends.

You may have read elsewhere on this blog that for the duration of the winter, practically every Saturday morning, I spent my time in the wind, rain and snow cheering on my friends’ son play football. Now this wasn’t some act of loyalty or even duty – ok, perhaps the first time it was – but it fast became an important and very enjoyable addition to my social calendar.

It’s a lot of fun cheering on those 7 year olds through victory after victory – they lost one match all season and I wasn’t there (draw your on conclusions).

Of course there is the fact that I love football. You all know that. If there are kids playing in the park, I slow the car down as I pass to watch some of the action. (It is only as I write these words that I realise just how paedophilic I must look when I’m doing so)

But it was more than the football. It was a Social Event. The proud parents all took me under their collective wing and very soon I became one of the gang.

And me without a 7 year old son.

At least not that I know of.

(Sorry - too obvious a joke to ignore, although I wish I had done. Perhaps I’ll remove it from the final version of this tale. After all – my mum has been known to read these words and I don’t want to frighten the life out of her.)

In fact so much have I been taken under their wing that I was invited to their annual holiday in a villa in the south of France.

And so it came to pass that last Friday evening after work I set off with a few of the guys on the 13 hour drive to Lorgues, a small picturesque town located just a short drive from Cannes, Nice, Marseille and of course the aforementioned St. Tropez.

But we’re not here in St. Tropez to merely gawk and stare at all the various displays of decadence that attacks our every sense. Or even to hopefully catch a glimpse of The Goddess that is Angelina Jolie and perhaps convince her to dump that minger Brad Pitt and run off with a rather average looking IT nerd from Northern Ireland. (OK – perhaps I may just have harboured that ulterior motive a little) Oh no – we are here to become part of the jet-set scene. All be it for only a few short hours.

Let me explain.

One of the proud parents works in Antwerp’s thriving diamond industry and as you would expect with someone with such a glamorous job, he has many glamorous contacts and associates. Including a colleague who has a boat in St. Tropez. Sorry – three boats in St. Tropez.

Rather kindly he convinced his colleague to VERY kindly give us all a trip around the French Riviera in one of his boats. A fantastic luxury speedboat.

So there I was, after having excitedly consumed a few over-priced beers on a small café terrace (Stella Artois of course), actually boarding one of those hugely expensive yachts that moments earlier I had been surveying with wide-eyed wonder. As I did so, I hoped the whole world was watching as I tried for all the life of me to behave like it was the most natural thing in the world for me to do.

Upon reflection, I’m not sure that I carried it off. Perhaps it was the fact that I was giggling like a little school girl as I boarded. Or perhaps it was the fact that I immediately went below deck to change into my Northern Ireland football strip, grab my Northern Ireland flag and pose for a photo, grinning like a lunatic, hoping that my picture will be published in the website http://www.ourweecountry.co.uk/.

And this before we’d even set off.

Yes, the air of nonchalance that I had so hoped to exude from every pore deserted me the moment I stepped on the boat. The fantastic, luxurious speedboat that spends its life moored at St. Tropez harbour.

And then when our captain gunned the engine as we left the safety of the harbour and headed out to the open sea I thought I was going to spontaneously combust out of sheer delight and pleasure at the whole experience.

The wind blowing furiously in my hair as we skipped and bounced along the sea’s surface, tasting the saltwater as it sprayed up around us, the glorious sun beating down on us from above, surrounded by other excessively luxurious yachts, overlooked by even more excessively luxurious properties dotted around the scenic coastline is a memory I will take to my grave.

It truly was a magical moment.

Just because I like to write does not make me a good writer and I’m having trouble finding the words to describe exactly how I felt yesterday afternoon on that boat. But believe me, I have rarely felt happier with my lot in life. It was quite simply one of the most amazing things I have ever had the very, very, extremely good fortune to experience.

I write these words not to show off or boast and I certainly hope that I don’t sound like that pretentious wanker that I so hate but folks it was a once in a lifetime experience that I just had to share with you all.

Thanks for listening.

A not-so-frustrated writer writes...

Hello again Readers,

Some good news I would like to share because without you lot, there would be none to share and for that I thank you all. Each and everyone of you beautiful people. THANKS!

GOOD NEWS ITEM 1
The Belgium Is Boring Blog is discussed on national radio!!

On a recent trip home, I discovered that this, My Little Corner of Cyberspace, was discussed on a recent phone-in on national radio back in Northern Ireland.

According to a friend, the discussion revolved around my home town of Ballyclare and more specifically, the week-long Mayfair festival that takes place there every year, a topic that I wrote about on a previous blog:

http://belgiumisboring.blogspot.com/2006/05/at-great-mayfair-in-ballyclare.html

It seems some woman was on the radio and was being asked about the festival and what exactly the people of Ballyclare got up to during the festivities. At one point in the conversation, she said (and I’m paraphrasing here) “If you want to know some more about Ballyclare, there is some nutcase living in Belgium who writes about Belgium and Ballyclare all the time on his website”

Ladies and Gentlemen, that “nutcase” (and seemingly that was the word she used) is none other than I, your Humble Scribe.

Now, I imagine that being referred to as a nutcase on national radio may not be everyone’s cup of tea but I can assure that I have rarely been so happy. Like it or hate it, I do spend a lot of my free time on writing on this website. Yes I know, I should cut down on the (Belgian) waffling and it is something that I’m trying to do. An editor would go through my writing and take out whole paragraphs of writing and I would still get the point across. So, thanks folks for persevering with me as I try and reduce the amount of waffle on the blog.

GOOD NEWS ITEM 2
No more football-related writing on this blog!! Probably.

A few days ago, I applied for something akin to a dream job for me and guess what folks? I got it!

The job in question? Writing for a Liverpool FC-related website!!

I’ll be adding articles on a regular basis and based on the popularity of it, the more work I can hope to be doing for them, so feel free to check out my musings at:

http://www.footballingworld.com/1/diaries/liverpool/

Your support would be appreciated!

GOOD NEWS ITEM 3
The Belgium Is Boring blog continues to increase in popularity!

Recently I installed a site meter report on this website – just to see if anyone out there actually reads the damn thing – and I’m glad to report that you do!! Site visits are on the increase, as is blog membership and the geographical location from where you guys are logging on never ceases to amaze me.

Thanks for all your support and for providing me with the motivation that I need to continue with this nonsense.

I hope you think it all as worthwhile as I do.

Give yourselves a big hug and wet, sloppy kiss from me.

Cheers.

Wacky Races - Belgium Style

I knew it.

I’ve been enjoying Belgium too much of late.

I should have known that it couldn’t last forever. I had to be off my tits to think that everything in Belgium was fine. I mean - I most probably was off my tits – but that is neither here nor there.

So why the recent crash back down to earth?

Why is it all of a sudden that the Belgium, that only yesterday offered so much hope and promise for me, is now today a Belgium that I want to flush through the U-Bend of Life??

Well Readers – the reason for my newly reborn anger and rage towards this country, this little insignificant part of the world, this little chip on the shoulder of Europe – is quite simple….

BLOODY BELGIUM TRAFFIC JAMS!!

Now I realise that Belgium is not unique in suffering with this problem, Lord knows I used to travel the car park that is London’s ring road, on a daily basis. Otherwise known as the M25, or as Chris Rea famously referred to in music as “The Road to Hell”.

Well Mr. Rea, whilst I admire your ability to pen a moving, emotional song whilst sat in a traffic jam on the self-titled ‘Road to Hell,’ I have to say that anything you experienced must surely pale into comparison with this morning’s antics on the E314.

Heading to the office, I wanted to join the E314 to take me the relatively short 25 minute commute to the office. Approaching the slip road, I noticed a build up of traffic stood at a standstill. This did not look good.

Deciding against joining the traffic jam, I drove past with the intention of perhaps joining the highway in the opposite direction away from my intended destination and then deftly take the next exit and … well … take it from there.

OK, granted - as master plans go this was a decidedly uninspiring one but it was first thing in the morning and my head was still fuzzy from a night out with an ex-colleague of mine. Not a long, late or even particularly heavy night but one that had taken its toll on me nonetheless. My head felt a little ‘cobwebby’ - certainly not prepared for sitting in a frustrating, mind-numbing traffic jam.

Perhaps it’s because I cut back ever so slightly on alcohol consumption over the past few days. Could it be that I’d already lost the ability, that God-given talent as a fully blooded Irishman (all be it with a British passport) for drinking copious amounts of alcohol, without relative impact the morning after?

I’d heard people (usually older people) say things all the time to me like – “Auch sure when I was your age, I used to be able to drink 25 pints of Guinness, down 12 Bushmills whiskey, snog a kebab on the way home for breakfast, have a shave and a shower and then go straight out to work. Not a problem.”

Yeah, well Da – guess what? I can’t!

Anyway, as I drove over the highway, I looked to see what the problem was. There, wrapped around a lamp-post, blocking the whole slip road onto the highway was a jack-knifed lorry. As far as the eye could see, traffic was at a standstill in the direction of Antwerp.

I looked at my watch. It was 08:30. This was messy.

I decided there was nothing else to do but rejoin the traffic jam waiting to get onto the highway – granted not another wonderful brainwave – but then as I approached it, the police arrived in a cacophony of noise and flashing lights and promptly proceeded to block all traffic from joining the motorway; without giving any indication where we were supposed to go as an alternative.

Complete pandemonium and mayhem ensued as cars started doing 3-point turns, reversing, signalling, U-turns, just generally trying to Get The Fuck Out of Dodge.

I followed a particularly determined looking woman in her 30’s who seemed to know what she was doing, cutting down one country road after another for about 10 minutes before realising that she had given up and was returning home.

Thankfully I realised this just before she turned up the driveway of her house.

Driving quickly back in the direction from whence I came, for the third time that morning my razor-sharp mind and wits deserted me as I made the decision to take the highway in the opposite direction and look for the next exit, 5 km further along in the opposite direction from my intended destination, before rejoining the highway in the correct direction… slap, bang in the middle of the huge traffic jam that the accident was causing.

Just at that moment, the traffic report came on Studio Brussel and the DJ happily informed me of my predicament – I was sitting on the E314, in the direction of Antwerp in a 15 km “file” (Dutch for traffic jam).

No shit Sherlock.

Sighing, I did the only thing you can do in these situations – I phoned the office to explain my predicament, turned the ignition off, lit a cigarette and turned the music up, trying to relieve the mounting headache / hangover with some music from back home in the form of those Northern Irish rockers, Snow Patrol.

(Incidentally, their latest album, Eyes Open, is fantastic, with songs Chasing Cars and Set the Fire to the Third Bar great traffic-jam stress relieving tunes.)

And so that was how I spent my morning – taking 1hr 30 minutes to do a journey that should take no more than a third of that.

As an interesting footnote to this tale of woe on the Belgian highways, about 10 minutes from the office, another traffic jam appeared almost immediately. One second we’re all happily driving along at 125 km an hour, the next we’re jumping on the brakes, trying not to turn the car in front into a hood ornament.

The reason for this? “File-kijkers” (dutch for “rubber-neckers”) who had slowed down to look at another jack-knifed truck on the opposite side of the highway which was blocking all traffic going in that direction.

As I spent the next 10 minutes driving past a traffic jam facing the opposite direction but going nowhere fast, I realised that there’s a lot to be said for working and living in the same city.

Anyone got any SAP logistics contracts going in Antwerp? I’ll buy a bike!

And there you have it folks – an unfortunately all too familiar episode in Belgium’s Wacky Races.