Royal Bloody Antwerp!

Well folks,

This little blog - or blogette if you please - finds me pissed and more than a wee bit pissed off (if you’re American and reading this – yes there is a difference).

The reason for my angst? Royal Antwerp “Football” Club. The more observant amongst you out there will have noticed the quotes on the word “Football”. Believe me, based on what I witnessed this evening, the quotes are bloody well deserved.

The night started off in high spirits, a few of us meeting at the “stadium” (and yes – these quotes are deserved as well) an hour before kick off to indulge in a few pre-game beers. With hindsight, I would have been better asking for crack cocaine.

The match was against FC Roselare and was a Belgian second division playoff. The winner of the playoffs gaining promotion to the Belgian first - and therefore premier – division. The playoffs operate as a mini-league four teams, with each team playing each other twice.

Having already played the first match at the weekend against Roselare, and losing 1-0, this provided Antwerp an immediate chance for revenge and in order to keep the dream of promotion alive, a win was very much required.

I have re-read the past two paragraphs and think in no more than half a dozen lines, I have managed to convey the situation in an informative and succinct manner. I wish somebody had done the same to the Antwerp players.

Jesus – they were terrible!

They couldn’t pass wind, never mind a ball, they couldn’t tackle a fish supper, each player to a man seemed to possess the first touch of a baby elephant, they couldn’t cross themselves, never mind the ball and don’t even get me started on the shooting. It looked like they were kicking a plastic bag full of wet towels around the pitch.

And to cap it all off, their bald eagle of a centre half looked like he had a head shaped like a 50 pence coin, such was the control he had over where the ball went once he headed it.

I was not impressed.

But the thing that galled most was the complete lack of effort from the team. Apart from the first 20 minutes of the second half, there was nothing from them – in this – what was basically a “do or die” match

It’s not the first time that I’ve seen them, in fact I go several times a season but I would seriously consider going back. It’s hard to get wisdom teeth extracted every other week, but if that’s what it takes to avoid the sheer torture that I experienced last night, then it will be worth it.

Belgium is Boring? Royal Bloody Antwerp is Mind-Numbing!

The night we went to Staffy's

Nestled in the hills a couple of country miles above my home town of Ballyclare, in Northern Ireland, lies a small village called Ballyeaston – or “Bal’ Easton” as the locals pronounce it.

Very much a farming community, the village boasts a couple of churches, a village shop and a bar as its main social scene.

The bar, Staffy Carmichael’s, is named after its elderly proprietor, who, despite being in his late 70’s / early 80’s (hard to tell which) still works the bar on his own, although his wife has been known to make an appearance from time to time, usually when it’s time to give the patrons the hint that it’s time to go home.

Indeed the bar itself is more like an extension of their living room, with the rest of their home making up the bulk of the tiny building on the hill of Ballyeaston’s main street.

The thing is – despite having grown up less than 3 miles from the bar, I had never, ever set foot in the place. I had, however, heard plenty of the stories.

“Staffy’s” as the pub is known for miles around and beyond, is a pub from a bygone era. Indeed, the clientele themselves could perhaps be accused of being the same with many of them - how should I say it – of an elderly persuasion themselves.

Mostly farmers, the clientele were renowned for being, for the most part, of the “bottle of Guinness and Bushmills whiskey chaser” brigade.

I also knew that the pub did not serve any draft beer, only bottled beer and even then, that the bottled beer was served directly from shelves in the bar. No need for fancy refrigerators, with Staffy relying on the cool air in his storage room to provide the only chill that the bottles received before being deemed fit for human consumption.

And then there were the “toilet facilities”.

The toilets. Well – the toilets of Staffy’s were legend in Ballyclare folklore and if I was ever to ask anyone about them, the response – usually accompanied with a sly grin – was “ah sure ye’ll have to see them for yoursel’”

Well – a few days ago in the spring of 2005, the opportunity to do just that presented itself in the form of the night before my father’s wedding to his fiancé, Adele. Where better place for three sons to take their father – a man daft enough to kiss goodbye to his bachelor status for the second time in his life?

Staffy’s was the obvious choice.

The night before the wedding shouldn’t be a raucous affair. Long gone are the days when the stag night used to be the night before the big day. Far too often had grooms gone AWOL, turning up gagged and bound in far flung places, such as the ferry terminal in Stranraer, naked and tied to the lamppost outside Ballyclare’s Town Hall, or lying howling at the moon in a ditch.

A father and his three sons having a few quiet drinks in a small, friendly, country pub seemed like the perfect way to prepare the groom for the big day.

And so it proved to be.

But then of course, why would I feel compelled to share this story with you, Dear Reader, if it were not for the fact that there’s more to the story than this, “The Night We Went to Staffy’s”?

The plan was simple.
Friday night 20:30, and Darren my youngest brother, was due to arrive by taxi from his adopted home town of Carrickfergus – yes the one made famous by the song – at my mum’s where I was staying for the duration of my visit. The taxi would then take us the short drive up to my Dad’s where he and my younger brother Ady, would be waiting for the taxi ride up to Bal’ easton and the welcoming arms of Staffy Carmichael’s.

Darren, of course was his obligatory 20 minutes late, but we usually account for that where he’s concerned – he takes Irish time to a whole new dimension – and by the time he did arrive I was stood at the end of my mum’s driveway enjoying the nice spring evening.

As the taxi came to a halt, I jumped into the back seat. I was eager to get this show on the road. Having just returned from Belgium, this was to be the first time that I’d see my dad and because of the fact that I had missed the stag night from the previous week (it in itself a crime, considering I was the best man) this was to be my chance to join in the celebration of the big event – in moderation of course, considering the big event was to be the following day.

Darren, sporting what can only be described as a frighteningly luminous pink T-shirt; having been to Staffy’s the previous week as part of my father’s stag night – started describing the bar to the taxi driver, a “blow-in” from Scotland who’d been living in Northern Ireland for 18 years and was yet to lose the thick accent.

It seemed that I had missed a helluva night the week before, my Dad apparently running around town with fake breasts and an inflatable sheep, not to mention a “Stag” medallion.
I would have been so proud.

Up at my dad’s house we picked up the other half of the team, Ady and Dad walking down the driveway towards the taxi with a confident swagger (they had the swagger – not the taxi).

Suitably reunited, we set off to the scene of this tale, as well as its main character, Staffy Carmichael’s bar, arriving outside its unimpressive exterior a few short minutes later, a little after nine pm.

Walking into the pub, my senses went into overload. First of all – it was even smaller than I had expected – a small rectangular room about 7 metres by 5, with almost 50 percent of the space taken up by the U-shaped bar which was located to our right.
As we went through the door we nearly split up two farmers chatting at the bar. They turned to say hello (it actually came out as “’right byes” and then they returned to their conversation.
The only other people in the bar was a man stood at the far side of the bar drinking from a bottle of Guinness with a whiskey chaser sitting in front of him and an elderly man behind the bar who had to be the man himself, Staffy Carmichael, who upon recognising my father and brothers he said “Ach fellas – is the party still going strong?”

“Aye Staffy – the party’s still going strong and we’re back for some more” replied Ady walking the short distance to the bar to shake hands with the owner of the pub.

We all said our hellos and I was left to take in everything as my dad ordered the first round of the night – 4 bottles of Harp lager. Sure enough, Staffy brought them off the old wooden shelves, opened the bottles and set them on top of the worn bar. “Is it OK if ye take them in the bottle lads? I’ve ran out of glasses” Looking at the other three customers, I wondered how the hell he’d managed to do that.

“Sure Staffy – no problem.” It’s that kind of pub.

I picked mine up and tasted it, expecting the worst.

But do you know something? It wasn’t actually that bad. Granted, there were no drops of condensation forming on the bottle’s surface but at the same time - it wasn’t that warm either. I guess Ballyeaston can be a windy place when it wants to be, with God providing his own cooling system for Staffy.

Facing the bar, I looked around me, taking everything in. Behind me there were three small tables along a bench with a sparse looking collection of seats. Enough room to seat 12 – at a push.

Looking to my left, there was an old fireplace, filled with coal but not lit. Above the fireplace in the mirror there was an eclectic mix of decoration. An old black and white photograph of the now defunct Ballyeaston flute band, newspaper clippings, business cards and a book-mark proclaiming, “I love Staffies”, referring to the hairy, four-legged variety instead of the pub it was obviously bought with in mind.

And then I spied a familiar sight.

In amongst the business cards that had been jammed into the mirror’s frame, there was a black and white business card proclaiming “Black’s Magic”.
It was Ady’s “make a wish” business card. Ady, a budding magician has a business card which doubles up as a trick in his routine, a genie in the back of the card appearing out of a lamp, as if by magic.

It seemed that Ady had brought his routine out here to the “mountain men”. Lord knows what they had made of it. I grinned to myself as I pictured him doing his routine on these elderly farmers, providing them with an unexpected but I’m sure altogether welcome distraction to their usual talk of turf and sheep.

I surveyed the rest of the pub. It seemed that the eclectic theme was carried out throughout but unlike the God-awful Irish-themed “plastic Paddy” pubs that sprout up all over the world today, this was very much the real deal.

Surprisingly, I saw there was an international theme as well, as I spied a shelf high up on the wall behind the bar displaying ten or so bottles that there from “around the world.” I spied a bottle that I thought familiar with its distinctive, white and light blue label complete with pink elephants. Yep – there was no mistaking it – it was a bottle of “Delerium Tremens”, a potent 9% strength Belgian beer, which probably does exactly what it says on the label.

Excitedly, I pointed it out to my family.

“Sure that’s nothing” replied Ady, “look there’s a bottle of Duvel”. He pointed to another shelf behind me above the small collection of tables and chairs and sure enough, there was a bottle of the Belgian beer, Duvel - a tasty 8.5 percent concoction which is actually very nice served chilled in an iced glass, but I reckoned there wasn’t much chance of that happening in this particular establishment.

What a strange place this was.

“Have you ever seen a bottle of Belfast beer?” enquired Ady.

“Belfast Beer? What do you mean?”

“Staffy, can you show this man here the Belfast beer?”

With a smile on his face, Staffy grabbed a dust-covered bottle that had been sitting on the shelf behind him. Indeed it looked as if it had been sitting there behind him for a few decades.
It probably had been.

“Belfast Irish style Ale” the label pronounced.

Reading the rest of the label I took the strange characters of the text to be Czech, but I was wrong as Staffy was to inform me.
“It’s from Poland”
Lord only knows if there’s a Polish brewer out there still making this 8.5% strength stuff but after having done a “quick google” (and it wasn’t that long ago you’d have been arrested for saying such a thing) I did find a reference to a certain “Belfast Bay Lobster Ale”, an American beer from Belfast, Maine. Perhaps you can do better than me?

Next in Staffy’s list of party pieces was a dusty bottle of tequila that he handed to my father. As my dad read the label, Darren and I could see what it was that made this one special. Turning the bottle in his hands, Dad soon did as well – for blow me down, if there wasn’t a 6-inch lizard in the bottom of the liquid.

Ady, who had been distracted by one of his many local history chats with Staffy and a couple of customers – the bar was starting to fill up now with perhaps 15 of us in the place – came over to see what all the fuss was about. Dad showed him.

“Uuuuuggghhh!” squealed my brother who had suddenly turned into the 30 year old sister that I’d never had. Thankfully dad was still holding it, for Ady would surely have dropped it. The big girl’s blouse.

However, special mention with regards to the eclectic décor must go to the bloody great big glass case behind the bar inhabited by a giant, stuffed, white hare.
I kid you not.
Apparently, obviously a rarity, it had been caught in a nearby field, stuffed and kept for prosperity as decoration in the pub. Indeed in its death, the hare had become a bit of a celebrity around those parts, with the local rugby team adopting it as their mascot. Staffy even proudly showed off a 30 year old newspaper article about the bloody thing.

Very bizarre indeed.

But all of this was to pale into insignificance when compared to what happened to me next when, making my excuses, I went to the toilet.

I was directed out a door located to the left-hand side of the bar. I say “out a door” because the toilets of Staffy’s are outdoor toilets. Although this came as no surprise to me – I had heard this as part of the Staffy’s legend before – I still wasn’t prepared for the experience that was to befall me.

Walking into the property’s back yard, I was unsure where to go. There was no obvious place to ‘do the business’ and there were certainly no signs telling me where to go. To my right there was a shed with a dull light shining, so I figured that this was the place, but was still unsure. I walked into the shed, which turned out to be more of a low-ceilinged barn. There was a strong, but not overpowering smell of disinfectant.

Stacked up in the corner of the barn I noticed several crates of empty bottles but the thing that held my eye was what is locally known as a “sheough” (pronounced “shuck”).
This was basically a hole about 4 inches deep and a foot wide in the middle of the floor which ran the length of the building. I assumed – but was not entirely convinced – that this was the “toilet”.
Self-consciously opening my fly, I started about my business when a few conflicting thoughts started racing in my mind:

The relief of an emptying bladder
The worry of where I going to wash my hands?
The fear of how was I supposed to do a number 2, if the urge so caught me?
The wonder of where the ladies facilities were?
The panic that I was pissing in the wrong place and that Staffy’s wife would come out with some empty bottles and see me pissing in their store room, collapse and die with the shock of it all

I was suddenly startled from my reverie by the flapping of wings just above my head – indeed it was all I could do not to piss all over my jeans and shoes, such was my startled state. My eyes following the noise, I was sure that I was going to see a bat circling above my head but instead saw a little swallow that had just flown out of a previously unnoticed birds nest located above the single, solitary light bulb that was shining its dull glow over proceedings.

The location of the nest was no doubt to provide heat for eggs located within and this was the mother out having a look to make sure that the family wasn’t under attack. I decided to make my retreat back into the bar, not wishing to disturb her any further.

Ashen-faced, I rejoined the bar much to the amusement of my family.

“They’re some toilet facilities!!” I said somewhat incredulously.
“Aye – you should see the state of things when you have to take a shite” said Darren.
I hoped he was joking.

Anyway, the night rolled on as these nights tend to do and we had a very enjoyable time, the four of us chatting away at the bar, gentle banter, story telling and Ady grilling the old timers on local history. He can be a difficult one to shut up at times – and yes – this is coming from me.
The beer flowed – and then it was onto the “half ones” as our quiet night gently ambled into something verging on a big night out. Still it was only just after 11 pm. We’d all be tucked up in our beds at a reasonable hour.

At around this point, I noticed how the customers kept paying Staffy in bank-notes and marvelled at how he counted everything up in his head and dealt out the change out of a battered wooden drawer, without once complaining that we were taking all his change from him.

I also noticed that dad had his shoes off and was standing at the bar in his sock soles, which I thought inadvisable considering some of the muck the farmers had on their boots but no doubt made him feel more comfortable. Like I said - it’s that kind of pub.

There was no call for last orders, but it seemed that there was an in-built mechanism in the clientele that ensured that people didn’t overstay their welcome and even if a few did, Staffy’s wife appeared and made sure that people got the hint, without actually saying anything.

Ourselves included.

Wedding or no wedding.

“Any chance of a last one, Staffy?”
“Do you not think it’s late enough?” came the curt reply.
End of discussion.

We suddenly realised that we hadn’t ordered a taxi. I suppose this probably fell under the best man’s remit, but I had failed to organise one. We phoned around frantically trying to get someone to pick us up. The best any taxi company was able to offer was in half an hour.

We ordered it and hoped that we could stay, in the hope that some of the other regulars stayed to take the bad look off us. As if by magic, they all vanished, leaving us as the only people left in the pub apart from Staffy.

We (read Ady and Staffy) chatted somewhat about some of the characters from my Dad’s side of the family but we soon realised that we’d soon have to set off on foot and hope that the taxi picked us up en route. The sooner the better. But you couldn’t be too sure…

“We’re gonna have to walk to Ballyclare, Staffy – is there any chance you could set us up 8 bottles for the walk into town?”
“8 bottles? Do you want them opened?”
“Aye please”

I wondered how else Staffy thought we were going to manage to open them - in the pitch black darkness of the country road from Ballyeaston to Ballyclare. To be honest I was a wee bit worried about the walk to Ballyclare. The roads are windy and there are no street lights. I supposed we could always put Darren and his luminous pink T-shirt at the front.

Then, just as Staffy opened the last of the 8 bottles, the door of the pub opened.
“Taxi for Black?”
Our ‘black taxi’ had arrived.

“Err, Staffy – could you put he tops back on those bottles again please, we’ll have to take them in the taxi.”

Without saying a word, Staffy placed tops back on the bottles. I could just hear him thinking to himself, “bloody ‘townies’”

Still – as we left the bar, we all shook hands with this living legend and he was gracious enough to wish us a good day “the marra” and we bade him goodnight as we headed off into the darkness.

We got into the taxi.

“So that was Staffy’s then…” I said to no-one in particular.
“Aye – some place, eh?”
“It’s like the pub that time forgot”
“Aye – but isn’t it cool?”
“It’s definitely cool – although I didn’t think much of the female talent on display”

The taxi dropped us off at the town hall in the centre of Ballyclare.

The time had gone past midnight and it was now decision time. Do we finish and make sure that everyone is home at a reasonable hour and in a reasonable state or do we keep going and run the risk of an AWOL groom sleeping off his hangover in the morning?

This was obviously a decision for the best man.

“I say we go to the Ballyboe” (our local pub) “for a couple more” I suggested, providing further evidence that I was most definitely not the best man for the job.
“Do you think we’ll get in?”
Despite the fact that the pub is our local and has a late license, they are quick to close the doors of the pub after 11pm, to stop the waifs and strays coming in from other pubs that have already closed at 11.

Tonight, and not for the first time, we were those waifs and strays.

“Aye, we’ll get in no problem,” Ady assured us.
“But what the hell are we going to do with all these beers?” asked Darren, obviously the brains in the operation.
“Sure that’s no problem – I’m a magician - I’ve got pockets everywhere! Give them to me”

And so it came to pass that at just after midnight on the eve of the big day, My father and his three sons walked up to the front door of the Ballyboe to plead our case to the doormen. (Well Ady didn’t walk, so much as clink). As expected, the door was closed. We knocked and waited expectantly.
Stevie, the Doorman was his usual welcoming self.
“Ach for fuck sake lads – every fucking time it’s the same ones”

Which I thought was a bit harsh, considering it had been a couple of months since I had last been at home. Although looking back, it had been a similar scene then.

“I’m getting married in the morning!!”
“Fuckin’ hell – the excuses are getting worse every time!”
“He is!!” protested the sons.
Stevie looked disbelievingly at us but after a couple of seconds succumbed to our earnest pleading.

Sighing, he let us in. “Enjoy your last night of freedom”

Taking our usual spot at the back bar, we ordered 4 pints and proceeded to top them up with our smuggled bottles of Harp, feeling very naughty with ourselves until we realised that they didn’t sell bottles of Harp in the Ballyboe.

“Err, not sure where they came from but they’re not ours” I said unconvincingly when questioned by the barmaid about the empties sitting in front of us.

After an hour and a half, with the pub almost emptied, we were kicked out into the streets (not literally of course) and made our way home.
Saying goodbye to Darren, whose fiancé Leanne in the meantime had arranged to come pick him up, we jumped in a taxi to take us up the road, first of all to drop off dad and Ady and then me down at my mum’s.

“OK then Ady – he’s in your capable hands now. Make sure he gets to bed on time! See you tomorrow morning.” I said as we arrived at dads.

“Good night Best Man and don’t worry about the speech, just a few sheets of A4 should cover it,” my dad advised.

Ah yes, the speech. I had forgotten about that. I had started it but was getting worked up into a right old state about it. I’d better do some more work on that.

I gave the two of them a hug and got back into the taxi feeling content with myself if a little nervous about the following day would turn out.
One thing was for sure though - it had been a good night, the night we went to Staffy’s…

May 2005

Sobriety - It's the new Rock and Roll!

Hello there Dear Reader,

Things are calm in my life at the moment - calm enough, that is, to add a little blog - a blogette if you will - to this ever increasingly neglected corner of cyberspace.

So where do I start?

Well, over the past couple of weeks, I've been on my travels - going over to The Good Ol' U S of A. California to be more precise. San Francisco to be even more precise. And Las Vegas. I went over to spend some time with Katie, a good friend of mine.

A great time was had and I'm sure I'll go into it in more detail at a later date but one thing I want to bang on about for a moment is "Dining in America".

Dining in America, as we all know, is a different experience from dining elsewhere – big portions, fast service, even faster dining, thank-you and please come again. But it’s not all ‘wham, bam, thank-you ma’am’ – indeed compared with Belgium and it’s 3 hour meals served by indifferent staff, it can make a refreshing change.

The large portions certainly take a helluva getting used to and I don’t think I acclimatised particularly well in that department but the whole time I was there, I don’t recall having a bad dining experience. Perhaps Katie was only taking me to the ones that were OK – but I didn’t get that impression. Most of the restaurants weren’t high-class affairs in the way that so many are in Antwerp – they were just honest businesses trying to make a living.

Iced water is served constantly to diners at no cost – yes of course it’s tap-water, but it’s certainly very drinkable. Waiters and waitresses, whilst initially a little bit overbearing with their “Good evening folks and how are you today? My name is Tiffany and I’ll be your waitress for this evening” chit chat, are generally very attentive but I suppose that’s a by-product of the tipping culture that they have. Something else which can take a bit of getting used to.

I suppose what I’m saying is that there are positives to be taken from both the Belgian and the American dining experiences. I love eating out. I love the restaurant experience – but sometimes I don’t want it to last 3 weeks from start to finish a la Belgique. A simple ‘get there, get stuck in, get out’ experience is ok too.

OK - that's all I have to say about this particular topic!

Thoughts from an airport bar

Here I am again – same situation, different location.

Another airport bar killing time but at the same time trying everything I can to make time an irrelevant concept, to make the passage of time easier. A ridiculous concept to try and describe, let alone execute, especially considering my surroundings.

After all – an airport functions purely on the principle of time. ‘Estimated Time of Arrival’, ‘Estimated Time of Departure’, ‘delays’, ‘early arrivals’, ‘latest check-in-time’, ‘boarding time’ – time is everywhere - and San Francisco International Airport is no different.

So here I am, attempting to walk the fine line between ignoring time’s slow passage, whilst at the same time keeping an eye out to make sure that I don’t end up having to make a mad dash for my flight, arriving at the gate heaving and sweating like a bull in Pamplona at the San Fermin fiesta.

I check my watch, nonchalantly like. I’ve been here before. Four hours to kill in an airport is not an easy task for even the most creative of minds, let alone this humble scribe; and so it is – with an obvious lack of creativity – that I find myself in “The Firewood Café”, sipping on this, my fourth Corona.

At least this imported beer is given a certain air of authenticity by the bartender who serves it to me – an amicable chap in his mid-twenties of obvious Mexican origin. His features and accent are the obvious give away – but this is also one mean looking ‘hombre’. Not particularly tall but heavy set, with shoulders that look about 5 feet wide and hands that look like shovels.

I like this guy.

He commands the bar with a quiet, unspoken, confident air of authority and he serves everyone with a knowing smile that makes me think that he knows something that I don’t. I wish I knew what it was, because he’s had his fair share of obnoxious assholes to deal with, even in the short space of time that I’ve been here.

To my left I have a group of barely incomprehensible English people who mumble their orders and then take the piss out of him for not understanding them – although obviously not to his face. I know I would want this guy in my team. And still he keeps smiling.

His supervisor is an interesting character as well, of Latino origin herself, she struts the bar like mutton dressed as – well…..ahm…..mutton, occasionally shouting out the food order numbers when the pizzas arrive from the kitchen and even less accasionally, shock, horror – actually serving people. She cuts a fairly intimidating presence behind the bar – way too much make-up, way too big earrings, shocking pink lipstick, long hair pulled severely off her face.

And then an interesting thing happens.

Sat here as I am, at the corner of the bar, I am privy to all that unfurls before me.

“SIXTEEN!”,
The supervisor shouts out the pizza order number, her voice threatening to break glass.
“SIXTEEN!!”
Her voice raised more and still no one comes forth to claim their pizza.
“SIXTEEN!!!”
Exasperated, she cries out one more time. She is stood six feet from me. I already fear for the poor fool that’s been ignoring her.

Just then, from behind my right shoulder, a guy appears. English, in his 50’s and judging from his posh, clipped accent and his attire - he was wearing a white suit with a fedora, making him look like the man from Del Monte for Christ’s sake – he was obviously not from a background where he would be used to coming and collecting his own food order.

I had already noticed this guy when he came in and had him and his mate already pegged as people that were somewhat out of their depth when they ordered corona and asked what they were supposed to do with the lime.

“Did you say sixteen?”, came the crisp, Home Counties accent – the accent, I am ashamed to admit, that always manages to get my back up. This is the accent of “The Obnoxious English Gentleman” (TOEG). Perhaps it’s a throwback to my days of working in Belfast International airport. The amount of rude business men that I met never ceased to amaze me. Do they teach that at business school? And it always seemed like the southern English were worse. I apologise for my prejudice – the accent just has that affect on me.

Anyway I think this TOEG had met his match on this particular occasion.

The supervisor just stared at him blankly, like he had crawled from under a rock.

“Is this sixteen?” he persisted, lifting the box and looking at the receipt attached to it, which I am sure had ‘16’ emblazoned across it.

“So this is sixteen?”

She just simply gave the man a withering look and as he walked off with his “SIXTEEN!!” she then glanced at me, no doubt aware that I had been witnessing the whole scene play out in front of me. Rolling her eyes, she gave me a look that seemed to say “Can you believe that eejit?” although I’m sure it would have been something more rude.

And in Spanish.

It was only then, that I realised just how piercing blue her eyes were. They shone like diamonds, no doubt further accentuated by the make up that she was wearing. I felt weak at the knees when she looked at me. I shrugged my shoulders and gave her my best “Watchya gonna do” kind of smile.

She winked at me. I liked this lady. She scared the life out of me but I liked her. I don’t mean fancy her – God knows she was no oil painting but still – there was something about her that I liked.

I was asked by somebody on this trip to the US if “men liked their women to be a bitch.” I had to think about the response and ended up giving a totally non committal “In certain circumstances, I suppose so, yes”.

I am supposing this was one of those circumstances.

And now – with the my “ETD” 1 hour away and a bladder fit to burst, I feel that it is perhaps a good opportunity to leave this anecdotal tale. You see, for it has served its purpose for me – it passed the time of day – and I hope that it has done the same for you.

The fact that the Corona stocks are finished and the only other option is “Bud Lite” has got absolutely nothing to do with it…

April 2005

Nothing that a good dose of Therapy? can't fix

....live like a fucker, die like a motherfucker....

A fine sentiment, I'm sure you'd agree and a sentiment coined by those popular Northern Irish rock beat combo merchants, Therapy? Who just so happened to play a gig tonight in Antwerp, ably assisted by the Belgian band Waldorf.

In the interest of providing you, The Discerning Reader, with a blow by blow account, here is my concert review. Sort of. (for I know you're all soooo interested in such things)...

Therapy? rocked last night.
The support band, a band from Ghent called Waldorf were pretty good as well.

So pumped by the concert was I, thatI got home at 04:30 this morning. Not very sensible, but do you wantto know my secret?....The "power nap".

I went to bed yesterday evening at 18:30 and got up at 20:45. More than enough time to recharge the batteries for the debauchery that followed. Not for the first time this week, Colin and myself had my Northern Ireland flag raised high and proud above our heads. At every opportune moment when it was quiet enough (and believe me there weren't too manyof those) we would burst into song, singing the name of my - and Therapy?'s lead singer, Andy Cairns - home town, Ballyclare - except it was more like:
"Balllllllllleeeeeeeeeeeeeclaaaaaaaaaaaare!"
"Balllllllllleeeeeeeeeeeeeclaaaaaaaaaaaare!"
"Balllllllllleeeeeeeeeeeeeclaaaaaaaaaaaare!"
*ahem* - I think you get the idea.

Anyway, after a few attempts to get his attention, we eventually succeeded and I'm pleased to report the follwing discourse took place:

Colin + Jonny: Balllllllllleeeeeeeeeeeeeclaaaaaaaaaaaare!
Colin + Jonny: Balllllllllleeeeeeeeeeeeeclaaaaaaaaaaaare!
Colin + Jonny: Balllllllllleeeeeeeeeeeeeclaaaaaaaaaaaare!
Colin + Jonny: Balllllllllleeeeeeeeeeeeeclaaaaaaaaaaaare!
Colin + Jonny: Balllllllllleeeeeeeeeeeeeclaaaaaaaaaaaare!
Colin + Jonny: Balllllllllleeeeeeeeeeeeeclaaaaaaaaaaaare!
Colin + Jonny: Balllllllllleeeeeeeeeeeeeclaaaaaaaaaaaare!
Colin + Jonny: Balllllllllleeeeeeeeeeeeeclaaaaaaaaaaaare!

Andy Cairns: You're shîtting me!

Colin + Jonny: Balllllllllleeeeeeeeeeeeeclaaaaaaaaaaaare!
Colin + Jonny: Balllllllllleeeeeeeeeeeeeclaaaaaaaaaaaare!
Colin + Jonny: Balllllllllleeeeeeeeeeeeeclaaaaaaaaaaaare!

Andy Cairns: Is there REALLY a Ballyclare contingent here tonight?

Colin + Jonny: Balllllllllleeeeeeeeeeeeeclaaaaaaaaaaaare!YEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!!!!

Andy Cairns: OK ladies and gentlemen of Antwerp - time for anexplanation. Ballyclare is my home town.

Jonny: And mine! And mine!
Colin: And his! And his!

Andy Cairns: Do you know the way some towns are twinned with others,like I dunno - Nice is twinned with fucking Stoke-on-Trent. Well, Ballyclare is in a suicide pact with fucking Amsterdam, you knowwhat I'm saying??!!

Colin + Jonny: HELLLLLL YEEEEEEEAAAAAAAHHHHHH!!!! whilst high fiving.

All very high brow stuff, I'm sure you would agree - but it made our night!

The rock party afterwards was a blast and then of course we had to goto The Dubliner for the one post-show drink (Alas Andy Cairns didn't join us). Hence the lateness of the night...Now I'm gonna have to sit in the office here until long after everyone else has gone to make up my hours.

tsk tsk

Colin and Jonny's Roadtrip to Nowhere

Happy Easter one and all!

I hope whatever you did proved enjoyable.

Mine....well mine was, let's just say a wee bit different.....

As you may, or may not be aware, England took on my home country, Northern Ireland on Saturday in a world cup qualifier. And, as luck would have it, I managed to get 4 tickets. So it was deicded that the PopTart and I would head off to Castle Greyskull, The Theatre of Nightmares, home of that pub team Manchester United, to watch the game.

By car.

We would go via Stansted airport to pick up my brother Darren and his mate, before embarking on a trip to Manchester to join in the fun.

So it came to pass, that we set off from Turnhout in the middle of nowhere in Belgium at 03:30 CET Saturday morning and embarked on our journey of epic proportions.

The match itself was one of the best I've ever been to. Our support was incredible.

The fact that we were beaten 4-0 (with 4 lucky goals) did not matter one jot. For when it came down to the crunch the Northern Ireland supporters were not left wanting when it came to the party stakes.

Despite being outnumbered 10 to 1, we outsung them before, during and after the match. We might be ranked 114th in the world but our fans are number one!

I can honestly say it was one of the best games of football I have ever been to.

And for anyone who questions my sanity in driving a 1600 km, 18 hour round trip, surviving on less than anhours sleep over a 50-odd hour period, to watch a game of football that we lost 4-0 and for me to say it was one of the best games of football I have ever been to -you only have to look at this short clip to see why it was all so worthwhile...

http://www.putfile.com/media.php?n=great-escape

Last Orders? You're having a laugh!

Belgium, well certainly the fair city of Antwerp which I now call my home, is a wondrous place with many delights, the wonderful architecture, the grand history, the beautiful museums, are all reason enough to come for a visit.

But I'm not here to tell you about any of that - there are plenty of websites out there to cater for that kind of insight into Antwerp and beyond. Instead, I would like to concentrate on that most wondrous of Belgian innovations.
24 hour drinking.

For yes, while the UK procrastinates (there's that word again) on the evil that would be unleashed if 24 hour drinking was to become a possibility, Belgium just merely gives a continental shrug of the shoulders and gets on with the matter in hand.

And here's the thing - you very rarely see drunk people, fights, or any of the other sins that would surely be unleashed in the UK an dIreland if the folks back home where to embrace such a thing.

And this is one of the reasons why I love this place.

Not merely the fact that I can get absolutely shitfaced all night long and carry it on into the next day if I so wished (and on occasion have been known to do so) but it is the nonchalant manner in which the Belgians accept this as a way of life. The average Belgian does not go out on their night out until after 11pm. 11pm!! In so many pubs up and down the land in the UK and Ireland, this is when that wonderful tradition of being “asked” to leave the premises by a couple of Neanderthals kicks off.

Premises that had once seemed so welcoming just a few rounds ago are now more like rugby scrums.

Compare this with the Belgian attitude of "drink less volume, drink stronger, drink longer, go home when you feel like it" and you soon see that the two attitudes are worlds apart. Don't get me wrong - it must be a real bitch if you work in the horeca (hotel restaurant cafe) trade, the hours must be horrendous, but it's great if you're on the other side of the bar and in no rush to go home.

However, the average night out in Belgium is fraught with danger and this is the main reason for this "bloglet". So if you're thinking about coming over from the UK and Ireland or further afield were drinking is regulated with some form of closing, please read this little print off and keep guide to having a night out Belgian style.

1. The most important rule - if you remember one thing, remember this - "It's a marathon - not a sprint!" Like I said, 24 hour drinking ensures that there is more than enough time.
2. There are several hundred different Belgian beers, most of them are over 5% alcoholic strength. Some even go as high as 12%
3. A standard beer or pils, such as Stella or Juplier, weighs in at 5.5%. They are called "pintjes" (pronounced "pinch-yas"). And are only 250 ml, less than half the volume of a normal pint back from home. It is not a dent to your macho but oh so fragile male pride to drink these small glasses. It's a marathon - not a sprint!
4. Once the beer gets to be too much, you can go onto spirits, but it should be worth noting that these are bloody expensive as I've found out all too late after a session on the Irish whiskeys. But hey - the lure of a Black Bush proves too great for your humble scribe.
5. Jenvers are another drink to be found in abundance in Belgium. It is a juniper berry based liquor and there are several hundreds of these to be sampled as well. Most notably at de Vagant, very close to the impressive cathedral in Antwerp's old town. (http://www.worldsbestbars.com/city/antwerp/de-vagant-antwerp.htm) My own particular weapon of choice being a Cristal pintje with a Vieux D'Anvers jenever. Many a trip into oblivion taken with this lethal combination
6. And remember, no last orders - so no panic buying, no speed drinking, no.....ah fuck it - why do I bother?... if you see me on a night out, don’t but me drink – I’ll have had enough already – just put me back upright on my barstool!