Hello folks,
There was a competition in that highest quality of publications, The Liverpool Echo, to subject your "Memories of Istanbul".
The idea was that to commemorate the anniversary of that special evening, almost a year ago, you subjected your memories of that night and the winning selections would get published in a special edition.
Having been published in the Belfast Telegraph, I figured what the hell and started writing.
Once I was happy with it, I went to submit it and then realised that you had to have BEEN IN ISTANBUL to qualify and I also found out that my entry was about 6 times too long.
So all that work for nothing. Except, not quite - there's always this corner of cyberspace to dump the crap that spills out of my head an onto my keyboard (not a pretty sight I can tell you).
Anyway, my football (and non-football) supporting chums, in the absence of a much coveted publication in the Liverpool Echo, I give you "Istanbul - The Anniversary (Lest we forget)"
I watched THAT cup final on the terrace of an Irish pub in the "Grote Markt" in the centre of Antwerp, Belgium.
I was surrounded by friends, some Liverpool supporting, some not. There were neutrals of mixed nationalities and there was an impressive contingent of Milan supporters mingling about the old, historic square as well. It made for a colourful sight.
It was a beautiful summer's evening and because the weather was so nice, the pub had organised a big screen outside facing out onto the pub terrace. A few of the other bars and restaurants had decided to do the same.
The atmosphere - and the crowd - was gradually building up, as we gathered, waiting expectantly for the big kick off.
I had already indulged in a couple of coma-inducing strength Belgian beers to calm the nerves having already been on a post-work first date with a really hot Belgian Babe, who shall remain nameless. After the drinks, I convinced her to come and watch the match with me - the old romantic fool that I am. What a first date!
33 years old and 33 years a Liverpool supporter (thanks to my equally Liverpool passionate father) I originally hail from Northern Ireland. We got over to see as many games as we could until I moved over to Liverpool. I met a girl at a Liverpool match and moved over there nearly immediately. She owned a pub 20 minutes from Coliseum Anfield - I was in heaven!
My job has since taken me to Belgium where I am a member of the Belgian Liverpool Supporters Club and still get to see the mighty Reds a few times a season.
Like every Liverpool supporter, I have been sick to the back teeth and green with envy at the success our "nearest and dearest" up the East Lancs Road have been enjoying over the past 15 years. It's annoyed me to see all these ManYoo supporters out there who don't seem to realise that football started before the age of Sky television.
But I digress.
I felt sure that night that the tables were turning. The Rafa-lution was in full effect. It was our destiny. Stevie Gerrard was going to lift “Old Big Ears” that night and I was ready to join in the celebrations.
I tried to explain all of this to a rather non-plussed Belgian Babe and I think she managed to get caught up in the excitement of it all, looking pretty and sporting a spare Liverpool scarf I had brought her for the occasion. It didn't go with her designer clothes, and it was a hot summer's evening but bless her - she wore it anyway.
I was a twitching, nervous wreck, almost to the point of nauseous but I loved every minute of it.
I swelled with pride as I surveyed the hundreds of people all around that square, trying to catch a glimpse of the game.
This was MY team playing in THE biggest club match in the world.
And then - the moment arrived.
20:45, 25th May, 2005.
Our biggest match for 20 years had kicked off.
The first half, as we all know was an absolute disaster.
The Milan supporters all around me were rejoicing, the neutrals were shocked; the anti-Liverpool (read Manchester United) supporters were having a field day at my expense.
I put my head in my hands.
The Belgian Babe politely made her excuses and left, citing "meeting up with a friend" as some form of flimsy excuse, to exit stage left.
At least she kept her scarf on.
We arranged to meet up after the game. I figured I would be in need of some consolation and a sweet-smelling rounded shoulder of a beautiful female - all be it one who could desert us in our hour of need - to cry on was most definitely better than none.
I phoned home and spoke to my brother - another fully paid-up Liverpool fanatic.
"I can't believe it. I just can't believe it. I've waited 20 years for this moment and we are getting hammered! It’s embarrassing!" I complained down the phone to him.
My brother's response in his thick Northern Irish parlance reverberated in my head:
"Catch yerself on! We've scored 3 goals in one half before - we'll do it again! Now get behind the team. We're all in this together!!"*
[* - Conversation might be slightly edited so as to be safe for public consumption!]
I returned to my seat contemplating just how many beers my brother had had and wondered how many more Belgian beers I would need to make me as delusional as he so obviously was.
And then it happened.
Towards the end of half-time, those Liverpool supporters lucky enough to have been there on that magical night, started singing that most special of football anthems - indeed the ONLY football anthem - "You'll Never Walk Alone"
On the screen, the camera panned around the sea of red in that big open stadium in Turkey and we saw – no – more importantly we HEARD every Liverpool supporter singing Our Anthem with all their might.
Maybe. Just Maybe.
The rest, as they say is history.
After our second goal went in – a cracker from Smicer of all people - I got a text from my brother that simply read "I TOLD YA!!!" I hadn't even begun to think up a reply, when we got the penalty and Alonso - at the second time of asking - put the ball in the old onion bag.
I was delirious. I was hysterical. I was kissing, and hugging and groping everyone (well - the attractive girls at least) in my nearest vicinity. We had done it!
The Italians around me had lost all their earlier air of machismo. Surely now at 3-3, the game was ours for the taking.
Of course I should have known better.
It had been an extraordinary cup run to get to that very moment – so of course there were to be a few final twists.
The agony of extra-time, Carragher defending like a rock - even when suffering from cramp and of course THAT incredible double save from Jerzy Dudek.
And then the horror of the penalty shoot-out.
I saw Jamie speak to Jerzy just before the shoot-out and I lip-read the word "Grobbelaar".
I knew exactly what he was saying. "He's gonna do a Grobbelaar!" I shouted out to nobody in particular.
He did and we won.
We were Champions of Europe for a fifth time. “Old Big Ears” was coming back to Anfield for keeps.
The Belgian Babe had returned and the celebrations went on late into the night and it was with the sweetest hangover I've ever had that I walked tall and proud into the office the next day.
After all, we were CHAMPIONS OF EUROPE!!
Thanks lads, for giving me one of the best nights of my life. Later, I tried my best to give the Belgian Babe the best night of her life as well but I'm not quite sure that I was up to the task. We split up shortly afterwards but my spirits would not be dampened for all in all it was the Best Night of My Life.
The moral of the story?
Girlfriends, no matter how pretty, come and go. Liverpool stays forever.
YNWA
Friday, May 05, 2006
Saturday, April 29, 2006
Mayday! Mayday!
Good afternoon People,
Is there anything finer than the sun shining on a Friday afternoon of a bank holiday weekend?
Well, yes actually there is…..
The sun shining ALL Bank Holiday weekend – for example but this is Belgium and there are two hopes of that happening - no hope and Bob Hope.
Still, we make do with what we can. So what have we all planned for the upcoming days? Anything exciting to get you foaming at the mouth, nervously watching the clock roll maddeningly slowly to going home time?
As this is more or less a one way street of communication (you really are quite shy aren't you?) I'll have to share my plans with you.
Having lived the life of a monk for the best part of….oh….4 days, I'm back and raring to go.
Off to Belgium's own little piece of Ireland, Geel, tonight to party with the simple folk.
For those not in the know:
(taken from Wikipedia)
Geel (English: Gheel) is a municipality located in the Belgian province of Antwerp. The municipality comprises only the city of Gheel proper. On January 1, 2005 Gheel had a total population of 34,758. The total area is 109.85 km² which gives a population density of 316.41 inhabitants per km². Gheel is also associated with the Irish Saint Dymphna and a colony for the mentally ill.
There was a rise of asylums during the Renaissance period. Across Europe religious shrines were popping up and being devoted to the humane and loving treatment of people with mental disorders. The best known of these shrines was established centuries earlier at Gheel. Beginning in the fifteenth century, people came to it from all over the world for psychic healing. Local residents welcomed these pilgrims into their homes, and many stayed on to form the world's first "colony" of mental patients. Gheel was the forerunner of today's community mental health programs and it continues to demonstrate that people with psychological disorders can respond to loving care and respectful, moral treatment. Today patients are still welcome to live in foster homes in this town, interacting with other residents, until they recover.
Yes quite...
Depending on if I get lucky tonight, I'll spend the night, in which case I suppose I'll probably be coming back this evening....
The rest of the weekend is dominated by beer and football. What else?
I'm a lovely fella, with a lovely personality, but the woman that makes me her husband will have to understand that I have a wee passion for my football.
Nothing wrong with that - I've got plenty of passion is this body to share around.
Hehe
Have a good long weekend folks!
Is there anything finer than the sun shining on a Friday afternoon of a bank holiday weekend?
Well, yes actually there is…..
The sun shining ALL Bank Holiday weekend – for example but this is Belgium and there are two hopes of that happening - no hope and Bob Hope.
Still, we make do with what we can. So what have we all planned for the upcoming days? Anything exciting to get you foaming at the mouth, nervously watching the clock roll maddeningly slowly to going home time?
As this is more or less a one way street of communication (you really are quite shy aren't you?) I'll have to share my plans with you.
Having lived the life of a monk for the best part of….oh….4 days, I'm back and raring to go.
Off to Belgium's own little piece of Ireland, Geel, tonight to party with the simple folk.
For those not in the know:
(taken from Wikipedia)
Geel (English: Gheel) is a municipality located in the Belgian province of Antwerp. The municipality comprises only the city of Gheel proper. On January 1, 2005 Gheel had a total population of 34,758. The total area is 109.85 km² which gives a population density of 316.41 inhabitants per km². Gheel is also associated with the Irish Saint Dymphna and a colony for the mentally ill.
There was a rise of asylums during the Renaissance period. Across Europe religious shrines were popping up and being devoted to the humane and loving treatment of people with mental disorders. The best known of these shrines was established centuries earlier at Gheel. Beginning in the fifteenth century, people came to it from all over the world for psychic healing. Local residents welcomed these pilgrims into their homes, and many stayed on to form the world's first "colony" of mental patients. Gheel was the forerunner of today's community mental health programs and it continues to demonstrate that people with psychological disorders can respond to loving care and respectful, moral treatment. Today patients are still welcome to live in foster homes in this town, interacting with other residents, until they recover.
Yes quite...
Depending on if I get lucky tonight, I'll spend the night, in which case I suppose I'll probably be coming back this evening....
The rest of the weekend is dominated by beer and football. What else?
I'm a lovely fella, with a lovely personality, but the woman that makes me her husband will have to understand that I have a wee passion for my football.
Nothing wrong with that - I've got plenty of passion is this body to share around.
Hehe
Have a good long weekend folks!
Wednesday, April 26, 2006
Toe Job
Hello my friends,
It’s been a while.
Again.
I’m not apologising this time. Each time I write, it seems that I take so long to add something to this little corner of cyberspace and I apologise every time for neglecting it - but this time, this time, I make no excuse….
Why?
You’re an intimidating bunch of people to write for.
A collective bunch of family, friends, friends of friends, girlfriends, ex-girlfriends and of course, My Mum.
Initially it was for me.
All this venting my spleen onto a computer screen. I am a frustrated writer, wishing all my life on That Great Novel that must surely be just around the corner in the dark recesses of my mind.
I know it’s there.
It must be.
In the meantime (and that’s positive thinking for you), this is the vehicle from which I joyride and explore the creative side of my mind that I hope is there. If it’s not there I’ll hunt it out like the dirty, skulking dog that it must be.
Now there are more of you, I feel under pressure to write something that not only I would be happy with but something that you would be equally content with.
Do I achieve that? Probably not. But I shall persevere to entertain you, to fill a coffee break, to take you away from the tedium of a day in the office or for a few short minutes from your hectic lifestyle, a little detour from your day to day existence – something to take your mind off That Terrible Thing That Needs Doing.
So here I go…
I AM IN AGONY!
But before you call for “those lovely men in their lovely white coats” (or whoever it was that my father used to sing to us about), I mean physical agony – not some form of mental torment that has me howling at the moon and sucking my thumb in the fetal position….
I MEAN PHYSICAL AGONY!
As you know, I love football. Probably more than is healthy for me.
I say “probably” as in “probably” in the knowledge of the fact that in the past football has been wholly responsible for me meeting friends, losing friends, meeting girlfriends, losing girlfriends, missing days at work, bragging rights with friends, eating humble pie with the same ‘friends’, losing sleep over upcoming matches, losing days after the game.
Spain 0 – Northern Ireland 1
AC Milan 3 – Liverpool 3 (Liverpool winning on THAT penalty shoot-out)
Northern Ireland 1 – 0 England
They are to name just a few of the games that stick in the mind.
I could go on about Liverpool’s other 4 European Championship victories, the reason why we get to Keep The Trophy, but I fear I may switch you off from that ‘drivel’ (as my mother refers to it) so I shall move (not so swiftly) onto my point.
I broke two toes playing football.
There. I’ve said it.
Yes - I broke bones in my body in my pursuit of The Beautiful Game, the Perfect Body or at the very least chasing the dream of a life without the not so perfect BBB (Belgian Beer Belly).
But did I break down and cry?
Did I roll around like a salmon out of water?
Did I Hell.
Unlike those highly paid prima-donnas that make up the collective bunch of people known as “professional footballers”, I did not role about in agony; I did not complain and whine, like a four year old who has been told that he can’t have that packet of sugary sweets at the checkout.
I’m not even sure how or when it happened in the game. Yes, I noticed a bit of pain but I merely played on, not wishing to let my team-mates down. Granted, it certainly wasn’t the cleverest of thing to do and as we sat in the bar afterwards, I started suffering from pain as the toes started to swell up.
I limped home after a few glasses of painkillers, went to bed, figuring it was nothing more than badly bruised.
Until that was, when I jumped out of bed to greet the morning (like I always do) and put my weight on my foot and promptly crashed to the floor, a bolt of pain shooting up my leg.
I hobbled in agony over to the hospital across the street - always a handy pre-requisite of any living location for me – compared with the usual requirements of shops, public transport, public amenities and after a lot of humming and aaaahhhing, and a few X-Ray photographs – I discovered my fate.
So – this tale of woe is being type up on my laptop as I sit in my apartment with the foot taped, bandaged and raised up (to stop the swelling).
Outside, the weather is quite pleasant but after hobbling up the 63 stairs (I just counted them) to get to my third floor apartment, I don’t think I’ll be venturing out today.
FOOTNOTE: (Pun Intended)
This was typed up a couple of weeks ago. You will all be pleased to know that I am well on my way to a full recovery, although it might be a few weeks until I’m kicking a ball - or fellow players – I’m still not sure how the injury occurred.
It’s been a while.
Again.
I’m not apologising this time. Each time I write, it seems that I take so long to add something to this little corner of cyberspace and I apologise every time for neglecting it - but this time, this time, I make no excuse….
Why?
You’re an intimidating bunch of people to write for.
A collective bunch of family, friends, friends of friends, girlfriends, ex-girlfriends and of course, My Mum.
Initially it was for me.
All this venting my spleen onto a computer screen. I am a frustrated writer, wishing all my life on That Great Novel that must surely be just around the corner in the dark recesses of my mind.
I know it’s there.
It must be.
In the meantime (and that’s positive thinking for you), this is the vehicle from which I joyride and explore the creative side of my mind that I hope is there. If it’s not there I’ll hunt it out like the dirty, skulking dog that it must be.
Now there are more of you, I feel under pressure to write something that not only I would be happy with but something that you would be equally content with.
Do I achieve that? Probably not. But I shall persevere to entertain you, to fill a coffee break, to take you away from the tedium of a day in the office or for a few short minutes from your hectic lifestyle, a little detour from your day to day existence – something to take your mind off That Terrible Thing That Needs Doing.
So here I go…
I AM IN AGONY!
But before you call for “those lovely men in their lovely white coats” (or whoever it was that my father used to sing to us about), I mean physical agony – not some form of mental torment that has me howling at the moon and sucking my thumb in the fetal position….
I MEAN PHYSICAL AGONY!
As you know, I love football. Probably more than is healthy for me.
I say “probably” as in “probably” in the knowledge of the fact that in the past football has been wholly responsible for me meeting friends, losing friends, meeting girlfriends, losing girlfriends, missing days at work, bragging rights with friends, eating humble pie with the same ‘friends’, losing sleep over upcoming matches, losing days after the game.
Spain 0 – Northern Ireland 1
AC Milan 3 – Liverpool 3 (Liverpool winning on THAT penalty shoot-out)
Northern Ireland 1 – 0 England
They are to name just a few of the games that stick in the mind.
I could go on about Liverpool’s other 4 European Championship victories, the reason why we get to Keep The Trophy, but I fear I may switch you off from that ‘drivel’ (as my mother refers to it) so I shall move (not so swiftly) onto my point.
I broke two toes playing football.
There. I’ve said it.
Yes - I broke bones in my body in my pursuit of The Beautiful Game, the Perfect Body or at the very least chasing the dream of a life without the not so perfect BBB (Belgian Beer Belly).
But did I break down and cry?
Did I roll around like a salmon out of water?
Did I Hell.
Unlike those highly paid prima-donnas that make up the collective bunch of people known as “professional footballers”, I did not role about in agony; I did not complain and whine, like a four year old who has been told that he can’t have that packet of sugary sweets at the checkout.
I’m not even sure how or when it happened in the game. Yes, I noticed a bit of pain but I merely played on, not wishing to let my team-mates down. Granted, it certainly wasn’t the cleverest of thing to do and as we sat in the bar afterwards, I started suffering from pain as the toes started to swell up.
I limped home after a few glasses of painkillers, went to bed, figuring it was nothing more than badly bruised.
Until that was, when I jumped out of bed to greet the morning (like I always do) and put my weight on my foot and promptly crashed to the floor, a bolt of pain shooting up my leg.
I hobbled in agony over to the hospital across the street - always a handy pre-requisite of any living location for me – compared with the usual requirements of shops, public transport, public amenities and after a lot of humming and aaaahhhing, and a few X-Ray photographs – I discovered my fate.
So – this tale of woe is being type up on my laptop as I sit in my apartment with the foot taped, bandaged and raised up (to stop the swelling).
Outside, the weather is quite pleasant but after hobbling up the 63 stairs (I just counted them) to get to my third floor apartment, I don’t think I’ll be venturing out today.
FOOTNOTE: (Pun Intended)
This was typed up a couple of weeks ago. You will all be pleased to know that I am well on my way to a full recovery, although it might be a few weeks until I’m kicking a ball - or fellow players – I’m still not sure how the injury occurred.
Thursday, April 20, 2006
Easter in Northern Ireland
OK folks,
I've been working on some new stuff but it's taking me a while to get around to completing it. Sorry for abandoning you for so long.
As a little filler (but by no means written with any less effort) and seeing as it is Easter time, I thought it appropriate to put something up from my archives - the writing that I did before I started this website.
It's a story close to my heart and I wrote it at a time when I was trying to deal with a few things from back home.
I hope you don't mind the indulgence and are all keeping well.
Easter 2002
=========
Ever since I was a young kid, much, much younger than I am now - in fact so young, I wasn't even born, and that's as young as you can get really, isn't it? I was but a twinkle in my fathers eye, or at the very least an uncomfortable itch in his pants.
Anyway, I think you get the idea...
Several years ago, my father's family started a wonderful tradition at Easter to ensure that this time of year is just as an important occasion for my family as Christmas is for most other families.
That is not to say that Christmas is not a special time for our family, on the contrary, but Easter has always played a special role in my family's calendar and I pray to God that it shall always be so.
This tradition has been repeated every year for a long time and is sometimes the only time in the whole year that my father's side ever get to see each other.
To illustrate just how big a deal it is for the family, let me digress slightly with a true story.Last year, a few weeks after Christmas, my fathers mother, the originally named 'Gran' was rushed to hospital and the whole family was informed that she was on her way to meet her maker. She was in her 80's and had been plagued with back problems for nearly as long as I could remember, becoming more and more stooped with age. Despite her obvious physical problems however, she was always as sharp as a tack. She spoke quietly but when she spoke – everyone listened and she had a great sense of humour, cutting down any "smart Alec" comment (normally from - it has to be said - my father) with one of her own.
Upon hearing this, the whole family rushed to be by her hospital bedside in a hospital just outside Belfast, Northern Ireland.
Actually out of 8 children, Lord knows how many grand children and a sprinkling of great grand children, the only people that had to travel any distance of note were my aunt and uncle who both lived in London and err, me travelling over from Liverpool .
Not big travellers my family, I think it's safe to say - but I think you understand – we all wanted to be there to spend a few last precious moments with her.
So there we were - all at the hospital pacing nervously around the waiting room, speaking in hushed tones. There were so many of us in the hospital, that we were sent to see Gran in shifts. Soon it was our turn.
My father, my two brothers and myself, nervous and as quiet as little mice as we went to see our Gran for one last time. At the time we never spoke to each other about it, but before we turned into the ward, I could see we were all thinking the same thought – "This is not going to be a sad moment - let's give her a bit of a laugh, like we always do!".
My father has a great sense of humour and it has rubbed off on all three of us. In fact, to be honest, we are sort of the comedy act of the family, taking part in banter and gentle ribbing of ourselves and other members of the family at every opportune moment.
So it was with a certain steely resolve we entered the room, the smell of death mixed with disinfectant hanging heavy in the air.
The room had 6 beds - 4 of which were occupied. The bed beside Gran's and Gran's bed itself were empty but not because she had already said goodbye to this world but because she was sat in a chair beside the bed. She was sitting up, which was good, but she looked so pale and frail, which was most definitely bad.
We shuffled around next to her, and made small talk, but to be honest, the sight of Gran had knocked the wind out of our sails. Everyone was at a loss what to say until my wee brother asked "So what are the neighbours like?" referring to the other patients. "They're not too bad, but that one talks in her sleep" she whispered to us, nodding towards the woman in the middle bed across from us.We had a quiet snigger amongst ourselves at that and we relaxed a bit.
"And what about this bed here beside you? It must be nice that there's no-one there to annoy you," he continued.
"The man that was there died in his sleep last night" she replied, her voice barely audible.
A shot of panic registered in all of our faces. This was a subject that we did not want to talk about. But unperturbed and without breaking his stride, my brother moved towards Gran, held her by the hand, looked her in the eye and said, in his broad accent: "Auch, Gran – how're ye supposed to get better in a place like this? You need to be out and about with your family back home – and if you don't watch out you're going to miss Easter Monday at Tullymore Forest Park!".
I could have hugged him there and then as I watched a look of determination appear in her face. Dim, but it was there for all of us to see.
"Aye, you're right" came the hushed response.
We talked for a while longer, not wanting to leave but also aware of the backlog of visitors that we were creating.
I travelled back to Liverpool the following day a troubled man. Of course I had been to funerals before, it's a lucky person at 29 years of age that hasn't, but to say goodbye to somebody that was about to die was something entirely different. I kicked myself for some of the things I said and kicked myself for other things that I didn't say.
But as it turned out, I did not have to return until the Easter weekend over three months later. There was no funeral, and of course who made an appearance that Easter Monday? - none other than the great woman herself!
In a wheelchair and unable to walk for any great length without assistance but she had made it to that great family tradition – Tullymore Forest Park on Easter Monday.
So what is this great place of wonder that inspired Gran to quite literally get off her death bed to be with her family?
Well - it is an absolutely gorgeous part of Irish scenery, that my words would never do justice to, but I'll try anyway: Steeped in the group of mountains in Northern Ireland, known as The Mountains of Mourne (or to the locals 'the egg-basket'), this Forest Park is one of the largest in Ireland and it provides the visitor with varied walks along bubbling brooks, rapid rivers, flowing waterfalls, all set in a backdrop that no painter could ever imagine.
As I write these words, in my minds eye, I see it in all its glorious detail and it fills me with a wonderful feeling as it brings back such lovely memories.The family have headed there in a convoy of cars for decades. Sometimes the numbers swell and dwindle but the destination always remains the same - Tullymore Forest Park, in the mountains of Mourne, Co. Down.
When there, we have a picnic, play football, get beat-up by our stick-wielding little cousins, scrape dog shit off our shoes, walk till we can go no further - apart from Gran – we leave her locked in the car to look after all our belongings.
OK, so she wasn't left on her own and the car wasn't locked, a couple of great-aunts keeping her company until we returned from our walk.
We continue walking well beyond our capabilities until we arrive at the beautiful duck pond. It's more of a small lake, but it never goes beyond a couple of feet in depth and upon arrival, it signals the start of that other great family tradition - the "throwing-the-family-members-that-you-don't-like-into-the-pond-to-see-if-they-can-swim-with-the-ducks" game.
A game that has since somehow mutated into "Let's all get ME and throw him in".
OK they may only be four and five years of age, but what they lack in age they make up in gritty determination and a wonderful ability to score a direct hit on my private parts every time.
Cold and exhausted we then climb up the biggest hill I have seen (or so it always seems when you are shattered and wearing dripping wet clothes in the freezing cold) back up to the car park. But before we go up and rescue Gran (actually no that's not true, we do send someone up to go get her); we then engage in the next tradition, namely the "let's-throw-painted-hard-boiled-eggs-at-each-other's-heads-as-fast-as-we-can-to-see-if-they-break" tradition.
(The eggs, not the heads – whaddya think we are? hooligans??).
It stems from the safer, but oh so much more boring tradition of painting the eggs, rolling them down the hill, and then when they eventually break, eating them. Tame stuff and not enough action for us lot.
I have told people about this tradition and not many have taken part or even heard of it, but I believe it has to do with the resurrection when the stone to Jesus' grave was rolled away.
Perhaps I’m wrong but it seems somehow familiar.
Afterwards we eat whatever stale sandwiches are left, play some football and rounders (a similar idea to baseball) and then take ourselves off home, wrecked from exhaustion, swearing to never do it again, or at least in my case, to remember to bring a change of clothes…
***
Summer 2004
==========
Two years further on, please allow me the indulgence of a brief but important addition to this story. Two years is not that long in the grand scheme of things, but for my father's family it has been quite traumatic times.
In the brief interlude since writing my initial "Easter Tale", the family has sadly had to say goodbye to two of its members. My uncle who lived in London died at the age of 51 years young.
It was a shock to us all and he is dearly missed, not by just our family but by anyone that came into contact with him. He was just one of those guys. He had a wonderful presence about him and was known by what seemed everyone in our home town Ballyclare – and this is a man who, very reluctantly, moved to London for work reasons 12 years ago.
Even though he left Ballyclare, Ballyclare never left him. Every day's vacation he ever earned for the 12 years he was over there, were used to return to "The Centre of the Universe" as he would refer to it.
He never referred to London as home and was very quick to point this out to anyone who enquired as to when he was returning home, meaning London.
"Sure - this is my home!!" He would always reply.
It seemed he knew more about what was going on in Ballyclare than those that were still living there, so close where the ties he kept.
And the town of Ballyclare paid their respects in the best way that they could – unveiling a new banner for our orange lodge with his portrait on it. The joke was that the banner was awkward enough to carry without his big lump of a frame on it…
Had I made it back home for the Easter get-together in 2002, that prompted this writing in the first place, it would have been the last time I would have seen my uncle – as it was I have to make do with the back bar at our local pub in Ballyclare, The Ballyboe at Christmas 2001 – where, like me, he was most at home – telling his stories, laughing with all the enthusiasm and energy of a schoolboy, so pleased was he to be back home, surrounded by the people he loved and that loved him.
In The Centre of the Universe.
***
Less than nine months after his death, his elder sister, who also lived in London (perhaps I should get back to Northern Ireland asap?!) died aged only 53.
Plagued by illness for the last few years of her life, and as a deeply religious person and member of the Salvation Army - Iris ignored her own problems to ensure that other people who she deemed needier received the help they required.
A Protestant married to a Catholic, her and her husband, decided to make a new life for themselves in London at the start of the Troubles in Northern Ireland.
Again they were reluctant movers (I told you we weren't big travellers!).
Perversely, the last time I saw her alive was when we went back to Ballyclare for the unveiling of my uncle’s banner. Stood next to me she was looking very pale, which unfortunately was nothing new for her by that time. As the banner was unveiled by my wheelchair-bound Gran, I thought my aunt was about to collapse so overcome from grief was she. As I held her in my arms, consoling her I noticed how thin she had become. Her bony shoulders and thin arms shaking as she mourned the loss of her wee brother.
Little did I know then, that the next time I would be reunited with my family, it would be in London for her funeral.
I said we weren't big travellers but everyone was there in London – even Gran in her wheelchair as she said goodbye within the space of a few short months to the second child of hers that she had outlived.
And this, the woman who was on her death bed four years ago! Testimony to the kindness and impact my aunt had on people was the huge turnout of people at her funeral – people from every walk of life and every creed – people whose lives she had touched in some way.
Her husband's brother, who also lived in London, had been fighting cancer for a long time but despite her own problems, my aunt Iris visited him in hospital EVERY day. The day after he was told she had died, he passed away as well.
I don't think it was any coincidence.
As I said my goodbyes and condolences to my uncle to return to Belgium that evening, I saw a weary old man, who knew he was only half way there.
He was after all, burying his brother the very next day.
***
In loving memory of my uncle JB – with your infectious stories and your daft grin and the saint that was auntie Iris – with more love and caring in one person than anyone would have ever thought humanly possible.
R.I.P.
And of course dedicated to one of the strongest women I have ever met. The irrepressible Gran, who as I edit this tale for my little corner of the internet, Easter 2006, is still going strong.
Whatever she's made of – I want some of that!
I've been working on some new stuff but it's taking me a while to get around to completing it. Sorry for abandoning you for so long.
As a little filler (but by no means written with any less effort) and seeing as it is Easter time, I thought it appropriate to put something up from my archives - the writing that I did before I started this website.
It's a story close to my heart and I wrote it at a time when I was trying to deal with a few things from back home.
I hope you don't mind the indulgence and are all keeping well.
Easter 2002
=========
Ever since I was a young kid, much, much younger than I am now - in fact so young, I wasn't even born, and that's as young as you can get really, isn't it? I was but a twinkle in my fathers eye, or at the very least an uncomfortable itch in his pants.
Anyway, I think you get the idea...
Several years ago, my father's family started a wonderful tradition at Easter to ensure that this time of year is just as an important occasion for my family as Christmas is for most other families.
That is not to say that Christmas is not a special time for our family, on the contrary, but Easter has always played a special role in my family's calendar and I pray to God that it shall always be so.
This tradition has been repeated every year for a long time and is sometimes the only time in the whole year that my father's side ever get to see each other.
To illustrate just how big a deal it is for the family, let me digress slightly with a true story.Last year, a few weeks after Christmas, my fathers mother, the originally named 'Gran' was rushed to hospital and the whole family was informed that she was on her way to meet her maker. She was in her 80's and had been plagued with back problems for nearly as long as I could remember, becoming more and more stooped with age. Despite her obvious physical problems however, she was always as sharp as a tack. She spoke quietly but when she spoke – everyone listened and she had a great sense of humour, cutting down any "smart Alec" comment (normally from - it has to be said - my father) with one of her own.
Upon hearing this, the whole family rushed to be by her hospital bedside in a hospital just outside Belfast, Northern Ireland.
Actually out of 8 children, Lord knows how many grand children and a sprinkling of great grand children, the only people that had to travel any distance of note were my aunt and uncle who both lived in London and err, me travelling over from Liverpool .
Not big travellers my family, I think it's safe to say - but I think you understand – we all wanted to be there to spend a few last precious moments with her.
So there we were - all at the hospital pacing nervously around the waiting room, speaking in hushed tones. There were so many of us in the hospital, that we were sent to see Gran in shifts. Soon it was our turn.
My father, my two brothers and myself, nervous and as quiet as little mice as we went to see our Gran for one last time. At the time we never spoke to each other about it, but before we turned into the ward, I could see we were all thinking the same thought – "This is not going to be a sad moment - let's give her a bit of a laugh, like we always do!".
My father has a great sense of humour and it has rubbed off on all three of us. In fact, to be honest, we are sort of the comedy act of the family, taking part in banter and gentle ribbing of ourselves and other members of the family at every opportune moment.
So it was with a certain steely resolve we entered the room, the smell of death mixed with disinfectant hanging heavy in the air.
The room had 6 beds - 4 of which were occupied. The bed beside Gran's and Gran's bed itself were empty but not because she had already said goodbye to this world but because she was sat in a chair beside the bed. She was sitting up, which was good, but she looked so pale and frail, which was most definitely bad.
We shuffled around next to her, and made small talk, but to be honest, the sight of Gran had knocked the wind out of our sails. Everyone was at a loss what to say until my wee brother asked "So what are the neighbours like?" referring to the other patients. "They're not too bad, but that one talks in her sleep" she whispered to us, nodding towards the woman in the middle bed across from us.We had a quiet snigger amongst ourselves at that and we relaxed a bit.
"And what about this bed here beside you? It must be nice that there's no-one there to annoy you," he continued.
"The man that was there died in his sleep last night" she replied, her voice barely audible.
A shot of panic registered in all of our faces. This was a subject that we did not want to talk about. But unperturbed and without breaking his stride, my brother moved towards Gran, held her by the hand, looked her in the eye and said, in his broad accent: "Auch, Gran – how're ye supposed to get better in a place like this? You need to be out and about with your family back home – and if you don't watch out you're going to miss Easter Monday at Tullymore Forest Park!".
I could have hugged him there and then as I watched a look of determination appear in her face. Dim, but it was there for all of us to see.
"Aye, you're right" came the hushed response.
We talked for a while longer, not wanting to leave but also aware of the backlog of visitors that we were creating.
I travelled back to Liverpool the following day a troubled man. Of course I had been to funerals before, it's a lucky person at 29 years of age that hasn't, but to say goodbye to somebody that was about to die was something entirely different. I kicked myself for some of the things I said and kicked myself for other things that I didn't say.
But as it turned out, I did not have to return until the Easter weekend over three months later. There was no funeral, and of course who made an appearance that Easter Monday? - none other than the great woman herself!
In a wheelchair and unable to walk for any great length without assistance but she had made it to that great family tradition – Tullymore Forest Park on Easter Monday.
So what is this great place of wonder that inspired Gran to quite literally get off her death bed to be with her family?
Well - it is an absolutely gorgeous part of Irish scenery, that my words would never do justice to, but I'll try anyway: Steeped in the group of mountains in Northern Ireland, known as The Mountains of Mourne (or to the locals 'the egg-basket'), this Forest Park is one of the largest in Ireland and it provides the visitor with varied walks along bubbling brooks, rapid rivers, flowing waterfalls, all set in a backdrop that no painter could ever imagine.
As I write these words, in my minds eye, I see it in all its glorious detail and it fills me with a wonderful feeling as it brings back such lovely memories.The family have headed there in a convoy of cars for decades. Sometimes the numbers swell and dwindle but the destination always remains the same - Tullymore Forest Park, in the mountains of Mourne, Co. Down.
When there, we have a picnic, play football, get beat-up by our stick-wielding little cousins, scrape dog shit off our shoes, walk till we can go no further - apart from Gran – we leave her locked in the car to look after all our belongings.
OK, so she wasn't left on her own and the car wasn't locked, a couple of great-aunts keeping her company until we returned from our walk.
We continue walking well beyond our capabilities until we arrive at the beautiful duck pond. It's more of a small lake, but it never goes beyond a couple of feet in depth and upon arrival, it signals the start of that other great family tradition - the "throwing-the-family-members-that-you-don't-like-into-the-pond-to-see-if-they-can-swim-with-the-ducks" game.
A game that has since somehow mutated into "Let's all get ME and throw him in".
OK they may only be four and five years of age, but what they lack in age they make up in gritty determination and a wonderful ability to score a direct hit on my private parts every time.
Cold and exhausted we then climb up the biggest hill I have seen (or so it always seems when you are shattered and wearing dripping wet clothes in the freezing cold) back up to the car park. But before we go up and rescue Gran (actually no that's not true, we do send someone up to go get her); we then engage in the next tradition, namely the "let's-throw-painted-hard-boiled-eggs-at-each-other's-heads-as-fast-as-we-can-to-see-if-they-break" tradition.
(The eggs, not the heads – whaddya think we are? hooligans??).
It stems from the safer, but oh so much more boring tradition of painting the eggs, rolling them down the hill, and then when they eventually break, eating them. Tame stuff and not enough action for us lot.
I have told people about this tradition and not many have taken part or even heard of it, but I believe it has to do with the resurrection when the stone to Jesus' grave was rolled away.
Perhaps I’m wrong but it seems somehow familiar.
Afterwards we eat whatever stale sandwiches are left, play some football and rounders (a similar idea to baseball) and then take ourselves off home, wrecked from exhaustion, swearing to never do it again, or at least in my case, to remember to bring a change of clothes…
***
Summer 2004
==========
Two years further on, please allow me the indulgence of a brief but important addition to this story. Two years is not that long in the grand scheme of things, but for my father's family it has been quite traumatic times.
In the brief interlude since writing my initial "Easter Tale", the family has sadly had to say goodbye to two of its members. My uncle who lived in London died at the age of 51 years young.
It was a shock to us all and he is dearly missed, not by just our family but by anyone that came into contact with him. He was just one of those guys. He had a wonderful presence about him and was known by what seemed everyone in our home town Ballyclare – and this is a man who, very reluctantly, moved to London for work reasons 12 years ago.
Even though he left Ballyclare, Ballyclare never left him. Every day's vacation he ever earned for the 12 years he was over there, were used to return to "The Centre of the Universe" as he would refer to it.
He never referred to London as home and was very quick to point this out to anyone who enquired as to when he was returning home, meaning London.
"Sure - this is my home!!" He would always reply.
It seemed he knew more about what was going on in Ballyclare than those that were still living there, so close where the ties he kept.
And the town of Ballyclare paid their respects in the best way that they could – unveiling a new banner for our orange lodge with his portrait on it. The joke was that the banner was awkward enough to carry without his big lump of a frame on it…
Had I made it back home for the Easter get-together in 2002, that prompted this writing in the first place, it would have been the last time I would have seen my uncle – as it was I have to make do with the back bar at our local pub in Ballyclare, The Ballyboe at Christmas 2001 – where, like me, he was most at home – telling his stories, laughing with all the enthusiasm and energy of a schoolboy, so pleased was he to be back home, surrounded by the people he loved and that loved him.
In The Centre of the Universe.
***
Less than nine months after his death, his elder sister, who also lived in London (perhaps I should get back to Northern Ireland asap?!) died aged only 53.
Plagued by illness for the last few years of her life, and as a deeply religious person and member of the Salvation Army - Iris ignored her own problems to ensure that other people who she deemed needier received the help they required.
A Protestant married to a Catholic, her and her husband, decided to make a new life for themselves in London at the start of the Troubles in Northern Ireland.
Again they were reluctant movers (I told you we weren't big travellers!).
Perversely, the last time I saw her alive was when we went back to Ballyclare for the unveiling of my uncle’s banner. Stood next to me she was looking very pale, which unfortunately was nothing new for her by that time. As the banner was unveiled by my wheelchair-bound Gran, I thought my aunt was about to collapse so overcome from grief was she. As I held her in my arms, consoling her I noticed how thin she had become. Her bony shoulders and thin arms shaking as she mourned the loss of her wee brother.
Little did I know then, that the next time I would be reunited with my family, it would be in London for her funeral.
I said we weren't big travellers but everyone was there in London – even Gran in her wheelchair as she said goodbye within the space of a few short months to the second child of hers that she had outlived.
And this, the woman who was on her death bed four years ago! Testimony to the kindness and impact my aunt had on people was the huge turnout of people at her funeral – people from every walk of life and every creed – people whose lives she had touched in some way.
Her husband's brother, who also lived in London, had been fighting cancer for a long time but despite her own problems, my aunt Iris visited him in hospital EVERY day. The day after he was told she had died, he passed away as well.
I don't think it was any coincidence.
As I said my goodbyes and condolences to my uncle to return to Belgium that evening, I saw a weary old man, who knew he was only half way there.
He was after all, burying his brother the very next day.
***
In loving memory of my uncle JB – with your infectious stories and your daft grin and the saint that was auntie Iris – with more love and caring in one person than anyone would have ever thought humanly possible.
R.I.P.
And of course dedicated to one of the strongest women I have ever met. The irrepressible Gran, who as I edit this tale for my little corner of the internet, Easter 2006, is still going strong.
Whatever she's made of – I want some of that!
Friday, March 24, 2006
Quiz Time!!
Hello folks!
OK - so it's been a while and yes, this is most definitely a cop-out but it's the most I've written in a while, so I thought I'd throw it up on the website.
I organised a pub quiz last night and here are the questions. Frankly I think it's a piece of piss. How well would you have done?
Question Round 1
1. General Knowledge: Name the multi-national corporation founded in Albuquerque, New Mexico in 1975 by Bill Gates
Music: Who was the front man of 90’s grunge rock band, Nirvana?
3. What newspaper feature, now used in newspapers throughout the world, first appeared in the "New York World" - in 1896?
4. Current Affairs: Paul Gatt, currently in a Vietnam prison for allegedly having sex with under age girls, is better known with what stage name?
Pop Music: Name the fit and horny all-girl band that recently had a chart success with the song “Don’t cha wish your girlfriend was hot like me”?
6. Musicals: Andrew Lloyd Webber's 1978 musical ‘Evita’ was based on the life of which famous Argentinean?
Belgium: Outside us here in Antwerp’s beautiful Grote Mark, we have a fantastic fountain of flowing fluid, depicting a brave young hero throwing the hand that he cut off the evil giant Antigoon into the River Schelde. Name him.
8. The surname of Frank & Jesse - the infamous Wild West bank robbers - what was it?
9. Hitler’s book was called "Mein Kamp". But what is the English translation of the title?
10. Current Affairs: Name the footballing legend, originally from Belfast, who died last year after losing his battle against alcoholism.
Question Round 2
1. Belgium: Which musical instrument, first demonstrated in 1841 was invented by a Belgian? 2. Entertainment: Name the TV family that has a dog called Santa’s Little Helper.
3. General Knowledge: If someone has scurvy, which vitamin are they lacking in?
4. Antwerp: What is the height in metres of the taller of the two spires on Antwerp’s cathedral – 113m, 123m or 133m.
5. Serial Killers: Between 1962 and 1964, Albert Desalvo killed at least eleven women in the US, how is he better known as?
6.Holland: Which of the following is a Dutch invention? [long-life milk, the compact disc, beer, walking around Antwerp shouting at the top of their voices on a Friday night]
7.Music: What was the only No 1 hit in the UK that was originally sung in German but translated into English for the English market?
8.Animals & Nature: To which hemisphere do Penguins belong - the Northern Hemisphere or the Southern Hemisphere?
9. Geography: What is the capital city of Canada called?
10. Football: Which football team are the current champions of Europe? [Liverpool – and don’t you forget it]
Question Round 3
1. Rugby: Which country won the Triple Crown by defeating England on Saturday evening? 2. Tennis: Which female tennis star, ranked 134 in March of last year, finished last season ranked 2nd in the world?
In Snow white and The 7 dwarves, which dwarf wore GLASSES?
4. General Knowledge: What was the first word spoken on the moon?
5. WHAT ARE THE ONLY SURVIVORS OF THE SEVEN WONDERS OF THE WORLD?
6. WHO PLAYED THE BLIND MUSIC SHOP OWNER IN THE Movie The BLUES BROTHERS?
7. Literature: Name the famous American author who wrote books such as The Grapes of Wrath, Of Mice and Men and Cannery Row
8.IN WHICH COUNTRY would you find the city of MAASTRICHT?
9. Football: Which country qualified for this year’s world cup by defeating Uruguay in a penalty shoot-out?
Mythology: Which A (A=apple) was the Greek goddess of love?
Question Round 4
1. History: On the 23 February 1836, the army of which country, laid siege to the Alamo in San Antonio, Texas?
2. Current Affairs: Name the person who recently became the first female to become the Chancellor of Germany
3. Showbiz: Name the TV series currently being broadcast on VT4, telling the story of survivors of a plane crash who end up on a remote desert island in the Pacific Ocean
4. Geography: In which country would you find the city Timbuktu?
5. Pop Music: DJ dance meister Fatboy Slim, has the real name of what?
6. Current Affairs: Dating 2500 years old, the world’s oldest what? Was discovered last year by a Belgian archeologist?
7. Entertainment: Name the movie, that starts off in Antwerp and stars Brad Pitt as a gypsy bare knuckled boxer
8. Literature: Name the author, who after being inspired by reading The Lord of The Rings, wrote a 7 book epic series himself, known as The Dark Tower series?
9. Music: Which solo artist announced two concerts in Brussels next June with both of them selling out this week?
10. WHO DIRECTED THE cult movie 'CLOCKWORK ORANGE'?
Question Round 5
1. The Belgian judiciary recently accused which airline of forgery and fiscal fraud?
2. Current Affairs: Which terrorist organization yesterday announced a permanent ceasefire
3. FILMS. WHAT WAS THE 1986 SEQUEL TO THE HUSTLER, starring Paul Newman and Tom Cruise?
4. TRUE OR FALSE? BRAILLE, the system enabling blind people to read, was named after it’s inventor LOUIS BRAILLE but was he BLIND?
5. The setting for many a mafia story, what is the CAPITAL OF SICILY?
6. Sport: How many players are there in a netball team?
7. IN WHICH YEAR WAS THE ORIGINAL LIVE AID CONCERT?
8. WITH WHICH ATHLETIC EVENT WOULD YOU ASSOCIATE SERGEY BUBKA?
9. WHICH FAMOUS BAND WAS ONCE CALLED THE QUARRYMEN?
10. Which word is both the state capital city of New Hampshire in the US and a type of plane?
Question Round 6
1. TRUE OR FALSE.CHERIE BLAIR IS BLIND IN 1 EYE?
2. HOW MANY PIECES DOES EACH PERSON HAVE AT THE START OF A GAME OF DRAUGHTS?
3. The shortest sea crossing between England and mainland Europe is between Calais and which English Port? Folkestone or Dover
4. ON WHICH Spanish ISLAND IS THE VOLCANO 'TIEDE PEAK'?
5. IF YOU WERE BORN ON 24TH MAY WHICH STARSIGN WOULD YOU BE?
6. WHO'S FILMS INCLUDE BANANAS, SLEEPER AND LOVE AND DEATH?
7. MT RUSHMORE IN AMERICA HAS 4 PRESIDENTS HEADS CARVED INTO IT. NAME THEM
8. IN THE RAMBO FILMS WHAT WAS RAMBO'S FIRST NAME?
9. Which Rock band had hits with such titles as Run to the Hills, The Number of the Beast and BRING YOUR DAUGHTER TO THE SLAUGHTER
10. WHAT WAS THE NAME OF THE PROSTITUTE CAUGHT WITH HUGH GRANT?
Question Round 7
1. Adam West and Burt Ward played which crime-fighting duo in the 60'S TV SERIES?
2. WHICH CHARACTER DID MR T PLAY IN THE A-TEAM?
3. FLEMISH GIANT, COTTONTAIL AND HAVANA ARE TYPES OF WHICH CREATURE?
4. HOW MANY VON TRAPP CHILDREN WERE THERE IN THE SOUND OF MUSIC?
5. HOW IS LYSERGIC ACID DIETHYLAMIDE BETTER KNOWN?
6. FROM WHICH CREATURE IS EDAM CHEESE DERIVED?
7. IF YOU SAW A CAR WITH THE LETTERS CH ON IT WHICH COUNTRY WOULD IT COME FROM?
8. DOES A GIRRAFFE HAVE A TAIL?
9. WHAT IS THE CAPITAL CITY OF LEBANON?
10. Mathematics: if i drink 3 pintjes, a half litre of Guinness, 2 bottles of corona and 5 bollekes, how many centilitres will I have drunk?
STING IN THE TALE
Clue 1
I was born on June 1, 1926
Clue 2
I spent most of my childhood and teen years in foster homes or an orphanage because my father abandoned me and my mum was in a mental hospital
Clue 3
In 1942 I married an aircraft factory worker and when he went to sea with the merchant marines I went to work in a target airplane factory.
Clue 4
During this time, I was asked to model in Yank magazine and decided to become a full time model.
Clue 5
In 1946, after divorcing my husband I went to Hollywood to try and become an actress.
I was signed by Twentieth-Century Fox, and changed my name, but for the next few years I had only minor roles in several movies; during one period of unemployment I posed nude for a pin-up calendar that would later become a collector's item.
Clue 6
It was not until my small roles in two 1950 movies--The Asphalt Jungle and All About Eve--did my career take off, and, promoted as a slightly ditzy blonde exuding a breathless sexuality, I became a star and celebrity.
Clue 7
Determined to shed my image as a sex symbol, I began to study at Lee and Paula Strasberg's Actors Studio in New York City. During this time I gave two of my more sophisticated performances--in Bus Stop (1956) and Some Like It Hot (1959)
Clue 8
In 1956 I married the playwright Arthur Miller (Death of a Salesman) and starred in a movie he wrote for me, The Misfits (1961).
Clue 9
On August 5, 1962, I was was found dead of an overdose of barbiturates in my home in Los Angeles.
Clue 10
My name begins with M and ends in arilyn Monroe.
OK - so it's been a while and yes, this is most definitely a cop-out but it's the most I've written in a while, so I thought I'd throw it up on the website.
I organised a pub quiz last night and here are the questions. Frankly I think it's a piece of piss. How well would you have done?
Question Round 1
1. General Knowledge: Name the multi-national corporation founded in Albuquerque, New Mexico in 1975 by Bill Gates
Music: Who was the front man of 90’s grunge rock band, Nirvana?
3. What newspaper feature, now used in newspapers throughout the world, first appeared in the "New York World" - in 1896?
4. Current Affairs: Paul Gatt, currently in a Vietnam prison for allegedly having sex with under age girls, is better known with what stage name?
Pop Music: Name the fit and horny all-girl band that recently had a chart success with the song “Don’t cha wish your girlfriend was hot like me”?
6. Musicals: Andrew Lloyd Webber's 1978 musical ‘Evita’ was based on the life of which famous Argentinean?
Belgium: Outside us here in Antwerp’s beautiful Grote Mark, we have a fantastic fountain of flowing fluid, depicting a brave young hero throwing the hand that he cut off the evil giant Antigoon into the River Schelde. Name him.
8. The surname of Frank & Jesse - the infamous Wild West bank robbers - what was it?
9. Hitler’s book was called "Mein Kamp". But what is the English translation of the title?
10. Current Affairs: Name the footballing legend, originally from Belfast, who died last year after losing his battle against alcoholism.
Question Round 2
1. Belgium: Which musical instrument, first demonstrated in 1841 was invented by a Belgian? 2. Entertainment: Name the TV family that has a dog called Santa’s Little Helper.
3. General Knowledge: If someone has scurvy, which vitamin are they lacking in?
4. Antwerp: What is the height in metres of the taller of the two spires on Antwerp’s cathedral – 113m, 123m or 133m.
5. Serial Killers: Between 1962 and 1964, Albert Desalvo killed at least eleven women in the US, how is he better known as?
6.Holland: Which of the following is a Dutch invention? [long-life milk, the compact disc, beer, walking around Antwerp shouting at the top of their voices on a Friday night]
7.Music: What was the only No 1 hit in the UK that was originally sung in German but translated into English for the English market?
8.Animals & Nature: To which hemisphere do Penguins belong - the Northern Hemisphere or the Southern Hemisphere?
9. Geography: What is the capital city of Canada called?
10. Football: Which football team are the current champions of Europe? [Liverpool – and don’t you forget it]
Question Round 3
1. Rugby: Which country won the Triple Crown by defeating England on Saturday evening? 2. Tennis: Which female tennis star, ranked 134 in March of last year, finished last season ranked 2nd in the world?
In Snow white and The 7 dwarves, which dwarf wore GLASSES?
4. General Knowledge: What was the first word spoken on the moon?
5. WHAT ARE THE ONLY SURVIVORS OF THE SEVEN WONDERS OF THE WORLD?
6. WHO PLAYED THE BLIND MUSIC SHOP OWNER IN THE Movie The BLUES BROTHERS?
7. Literature: Name the famous American author who wrote books such as The Grapes of Wrath, Of Mice and Men and Cannery Row
8.IN WHICH COUNTRY would you find the city of MAASTRICHT?
9. Football: Which country qualified for this year’s world cup by defeating Uruguay in a penalty shoot-out?
Mythology: Which A (A=apple) was the Greek goddess of love?
Question Round 4
1. History: On the 23 February 1836, the army of which country, laid siege to the Alamo in San Antonio, Texas?
2. Current Affairs: Name the person who recently became the first female to become the Chancellor of Germany
3. Showbiz: Name the TV series currently being broadcast on VT4, telling the story of survivors of a plane crash who end up on a remote desert island in the Pacific Ocean
4. Geography: In which country would you find the city Timbuktu?
5. Pop Music: DJ dance meister Fatboy Slim, has the real name of what?
6. Current Affairs: Dating 2500 years old, the world’s oldest what? Was discovered last year by a Belgian archeologist?
7. Entertainment: Name the movie, that starts off in Antwerp and stars Brad Pitt as a gypsy bare knuckled boxer
8. Literature: Name the author, who after being inspired by reading The Lord of The Rings, wrote a 7 book epic series himself, known as The Dark Tower series?
9. Music: Which solo artist announced two concerts in Brussels next June with both of them selling out this week?
10. WHO DIRECTED THE cult movie 'CLOCKWORK ORANGE'?
Question Round 5
1. The Belgian judiciary recently accused which airline of forgery and fiscal fraud?
2. Current Affairs: Which terrorist organization yesterday announced a permanent ceasefire
3. FILMS. WHAT WAS THE 1986 SEQUEL TO THE HUSTLER, starring Paul Newman and Tom Cruise?
4. TRUE OR FALSE? BRAILLE, the system enabling blind people to read, was named after it’s inventor LOUIS BRAILLE but was he BLIND?
5. The setting for many a mafia story, what is the CAPITAL OF SICILY?
6. Sport: How many players are there in a netball team?
7. IN WHICH YEAR WAS THE ORIGINAL LIVE AID CONCERT?
8. WITH WHICH ATHLETIC EVENT WOULD YOU ASSOCIATE SERGEY BUBKA?
9. WHICH FAMOUS BAND WAS ONCE CALLED THE QUARRYMEN?
10. Which word is both the state capital city of New Hampshire in the US and a type of plane?
Question Round 6
1. TRUE OR FALSE.CHERIE BLAIR IS BLIND IN 1 EYE?
2. HOW MANY PIECES DOES EACH PERSON HAVE AT THE START OF A GAME OF DRAUGHTS?
3. The shortest sea crossing between England and mainland Europe is between Calais and which English Port? Folkestone or Dover
4. ON WHICH Spanish ISLAND IS THE VOLCANO 'TIEDE PEAK'?
5. IF YOU WERE BORN ON 24TH MAY WHICH STARSIGN WOULD YOU BE?
6. WHO'S FILMS INCLUDE BANANAS, SLEEPER AND LOVE AND DEATH?
7. MT RUSHMORE IN AMERICA HAS 4 PRESIDENTS HEADS CARVED INTO IT. NAME THEM
8. IN THE RAMBO FILMS WHAT WAS RAMBO'S FIRST NAME?
9. Which Rock band had hits with such titles as Run to the Hills, The Number of the Beast and BRING YOUR DAUGHTER TO THE SLAUGHTER
10. WHAT WAS THE NAME OF THE PROSTITUTE CAUGHT WITH HUGH GRANT?
Question Round 7
1. Adam West and Burt Ward played which crime-fighting duo in the 60'S TV SERIES?
2. WHICH CHARACTER DID MR T PLAY IN THE A-TEAM?
3. FLEMISH GIANT, COTTONTAIL AND HAVANA ARE TYPES OF WHICH CREATURE?
4. HOW MANY VON TRAPP CHILDREN WERE THERE IN THE SOUND OF MUSIC?
5. HOW IS LYSERGIC ACID DIETHYLAMIDE BETTER KNOWN?
6. FROM WHICH CREATURE IS EDAM CHEESE DERIVED?
7. IF YOU SAW A CAR WITH THE LETTERS CH ON IT WHICH COUNTRY WOULD IT COME FROM?
8. DOES A GIRRAFFE HAVE A TAIL?
9. WHAT IS THE CAPITAL CITY OF LEBANON?
10. Mathematics: if i drink 3 pintjes, a half litre of Guinness, 2 bottles of corona and 5 bollekes, how many centilitres will I have drunk?
STING IN THE TALE
Clue 1
I was born on June 1, 1926
Clue 2
I spent most of my childhood and teen years in foster homes or an orphanage because my father abandoned me and my mum was in a mental hospital
Clue 3
In 1942 I married an aircraft factory worker and when he went to sea with the merchant marines I went to work in a target airplane factory.
Clue 4
During this time, I was asked to model in Yank magazine and decided to become a full time model.
Clue 5
In 1946, after divorcing my husband I went to Hollywood to try and become an actress.
I was signed by Twentieth-Century Fox, and changed my name, but for the next few years I had only minor roles in several movies; during one period of unemployment I posed nude for a pin-up calendar that would later become a collector's item.
Clue 6
It was not until my small roles in two 1950 movies--The Asphalt Jungle and All About Eve--did my career take off, and, promoted as a slightly ditzy blonde exuding a breathless sexuality, I became a star and celebrity.
Clue 7
Determined to shed my image as a sex symbol, I began to study at Lee and Paula Strasberg's Actors Studio in New York City. During this time I gave two of my more sophisticated performances--in Bus Stop (1956) and Some Like It Hot (1959)
Clue 8
In 1956 I married the playwright Arthur Miller (Death of a Salesman) and starred in a movie he wrote for me, The Misfits (1961).
Clue 9
On August 5, 1962, I was was found dead of an overdose of barbiturates in my home in Los Angeles.
Clue 10
My name begins with M and ends in arilyn Monroe.
Saturday, February 25, 2006
I’m sure the ex-pats out there amongst you reading this will understand what I mean when I say there are occasions during moments of my exile - an exile which is sometimes self-imposed, sometimes not - from my homeland that I crave something from back home.
For some it may be family and friends, certain types food or drink, for others a walk amongst familiar scenery, for others again it might just be the ability to converse in your own language with everyone.
For me it’s a combination of all of these things.
Of course I miss family and friends. It goes without saying. But, in reality, 5-6 hours door to door and I’ll be in my mum’s kitchen drinking wine, telling stories and listening to theirs, or I’ll be in the local with my dad and mates talking crap about football, politics, or whatever the topic of the day is. So that doesn’t get me down too much, too often.
Then there are the slightly different tastes in food. Now don’t get me wrong – dining out in Belgium is a wonderful experience and more often than not, the restaurants are far superior to most of what’s on offer back home; but there’s nothing like living abroad to start hitherto unnoticed cravings for such culinary delights as Tayto cheese & onion crisps, Ribena, Heinz Baked Beans, Lucozade, real sausages, real bacon, potato bread, soda bread, Fray Bentos pies, cheesecake, angel delight, fish and chips, and of course THE granddaddy of them all – HP sauce.
This is by no means a definitive list and probably not too healthy either* but rather an indication of the plethora of foodstuffs taken so much for granted back home that suddenly become such much-needed delicacies that you would offer your soul to the devil to get your hands on some.
(* Mother – in case you’re reading - I can get all the fresh fruit and vegetables and all the other healthy foodstuffs I need over here, it’s just the more “traditional” stuff that I’m missing in my diet!)
Yes, I realise that some of these might be available in some specialist shops or tucked away in the deepest, darkest corner of some GB supermarkets under the title ‘international cuisine’ but where are the Asdas and Tescos? The great consumer temples that are the mainstay of any shopping experience back home?
Another far more subtle thing that I miss from being back home was brought to my attention recently. I mean, I always knew it was there, but I can’t remember longing for it to any great extent.
Basically, it’s the mentality that I miss, if that makes any sense at all.
I have given seven years of my life to Belgium and along the way I have made several Flemish friends, many of who are lovely people but (of course there was a but coming) I know that I have been guilty of spending more of my social time with other ex-pats during my time in this country.
One reason of course, is the language difficulty but I think my knowledge of Flemish is good enough now to certainly be able to follow a conversation - if not exactly set it alight with my own witty 'Flenglish' repartee.
But the reason is more deep-rooted than that. It’s because – by and large – we’re all on the same wavelength.
There is a lot more that unites the Irish (north and south), the Scottish, the Welsh and the English than divides us. The North Americans, the South Africans, the Australians and the Kiwis that I have come into contact are (by and large) just the same as well
But of course there is a double-edged sword to this kind of existence.
Without fully integrating into Belgian society I will forever be on the periphery. Like the 7 dwarves stood at the back of a crowd at a concert trying to see some of the action. I’ll have the craic with my mates listening to the music and drinking but I’ll never get to see the full show.
During my time in Belgium I have met a lot of people - many of whom I consider to be good friends. However, there is a certain inevitability in meeting nice people whilst living abroad.
The inevitability that people will always move on.
I am big enough and ugly enough to appreciate that nothing lasts forever and perhaps I’m guilty of holding on to things that should be let go of but the fact remains that since leaving home at the age of 19, in the 14 years that have passed, a lot of nice people have come into and out of my life. Of course there have been the occasional twats, but by and large they’ve been a pretty good bunch.
But of those people, just how many do I actually keep in contact with?
If I’m honest, no more than a handful, but I suppose I’m not alone in this. I just think that living abroad just seems to create an environment where this can happen more often than not.
The people that I have kept in contact with are obviously very dear to me and last weekend I had the opportunity to go spend some time in the London area with two friends of mine - a 22 year old mate from the Wirral who used to live in Antwerp and his sister, who I met when she was visiting her brother in Antwerp.
There are things that I love about countries and there are things that I hate. I have never been anywhere that I would say was perfect, or even came close. I’ve high hopes for Australia though. If I ever get there.
So in order to find happiness with your situation you need to weigh the pros and the cons of where you are.
For example:
Thursday night, I arrived in England at 21:30 after a 5 hour drive from Belgium. We were in the country pub for 22:00 and we were kicked out by a 15 year old barman by 23:05.
That is most definitely crap.
His equally pre-pubescent colleague had refused to accept my Northern Bank notes when I first tried to buy a drink.
I was not impressed. The feel good factor of being back in the UK was fast fading.
But drinks back at the house, guitar out and a good old singsong and spirits were raised again.
Next morning was the trip into London for the sight-seeing. Less than an hour later, we were stood on the banks of the river Thames, looking out at the city’s famous skyline.
“There’s the Oxo tower, St. Paul’s cathedral, the national museum, Blackfriars Bridge, the London Eye and just around the corner out of sight, is the Houses of Parliament. Anyone fancy a pint in the pub?”
I didn’t need asked twice. Hair of the dog sounded like a good plan.
This was most definitely good.
Pints, pubs and craic are enough to keep this simple man happy but it’s also the Brits and the Irish ability to laugh at themselves that I love so much about the people.
Nobody takes themselves too seriously. I’m not saying Belgians as a race do, I’m just saying that we, most defintely, don't.
Saturday, my mate and I were dropped off at the pub at midday by the sister to watch Liverpool beat ManYoo. We were picked up 6 hours later after having spent the afternoon drinking several pints of Guinness and Cheeky Vimto cocktails, singing along to the juke box, chatting with the friendly locals and playing pool. A simple afternoon but for me, most definitely a good afternoon.
So what does all this mean? What's my point, exactly.
Weeeellll, to be honest I'm not sure.
I certainly never thought I’d see the day where I’d actually consider living in England again. It’s not that I have anything against the English, it’s just that I always thought ‘been there, done that’ but now with the attraction of Belgium fast fading, I’ve decided that I’m going the way of so many people before me...
On to the next step.
It’s time.
But not before one last swansong.
I’ve got enough work here until the end of the year. Belgium please make it a good one for me!
For some it may be family and friends, certain types food or drink, for others a walk amongst familiar scenery, for others again it might just be the ability to converse in your own language with everyone.
For me it’s a combination of all of these things.
Of course I miss family and friends. It goes without saying. But, in reality, 5-6 hours door to door and I’ll be in my mum’s kitchen drinking wine, telling stories and listening to theirs, or I’ll be in the local with my dad and mates talking crap about football, politics, or whatever the topic of the day is. So that doesn’t get me down too much, too often.
Then there are the slightly different tastes in food. Now don’t get me wrong – dining out in Belgium is a wonderful experience and more often than not, the restaurants are far superior to most of what’s on offer back home; but there’s nothing like living abroad to start hitherto unnoticed cravings for such culinary delights as Tayto cheese & onion crisps, Ribena, Heinz Baked Beans, Lucozade, real sausages, real bacon, potato bread, soda bread, Fray Bentos pies, cheesecake, angel delight, fish and chips, and of course THE granddaddy of them all – HP sauce.
This is by no means a definitive list and probably not too healthy either* but rather an indication of the plethora of foodstuffs taken so much for granted back home that suddenly become such much-needed delicacies that you would offer your soul to the devil to get your hands on some.
(* Mother – in case you’re reading - I can get all the fresh fruit and vegetables and all the other healthy foodstuffs I need over here, it’s just the more “traditional” stuff that I’m missing in my diet!)
Yes, I realise that some of these might be available in some specialist shops or tucked away in the deepest, darkest corner of some GB supermarkets under the title ‘international cuisine’ but where are the Asdas and Tescos? The great consumer temples that are the mainstay of any shopping experience back home?
Another far more subtle thing that I miss from being back home was brought to my attention recently. I mean, I always knew it was there, but I can’t remember longing for it to any great extent.
Basically, it’s the mentality that I miss, if that makes any sense at all.
I have given seven years of my life to Belgium and along the way I have made several Flemish friends, many of who are lovely people but (of course there was a but coming) I know that I have been guilty of spending more of my social time with other ex-pats during my time in this country.
One reason of course, is the language difficulty but I think my knowledge of Flemish is good enough now to certainly be able to follow a conversation - if not exactly set it alight with my own witty 'Flenglish' repartee.
But the reason is more deep-rooted than that. It’s because – by and large – we’re all on the same wavelength.
There is a lot more that unites the Irish (north and south), the Scottish, the Welsh and the English than divides us. The North Americans, the South Africans, the Australians and the Kiwis that I have come into contact are (by and large) just the same as well
But of course there is a double-edged sword to this kind of existence.
Without fully integrating into Belgian society I will forever be on the periphery. Like the 7 dwarves stood at the back of a crowd at a concert trying to see some of the action. I’ll have the craic with my mates listening to the music and drinking but I’ll never get to see the full show.
During my time in Belgium I have met a lot of people - many of whom I consider to be good friends. However, there is a certain inevitability in meeting nice people whilst living abroad.
The inevitability that people will always move on.
I am big enough and ugly enough to appreciate that nothing lasts forever and perhaps I’m guilty of holding on to things that should be let go of but the fact remains that since leaving home at the age of 19, in the 14 years that have passed, a lot of nice people have come into and out of my life. Of course there have been the occasional twats, but by and large they’ve been a pretty good bunch.
But of those people, just how many do I actually keep in contact with?
If I’m honest, no more than a handful, but I suppose I’m not alone in this. I just think that living abroad just seems to create an environment where this can happen more often than not.
The people that I have kept in contact with are obviously very dear to me and last weekend I had the opportunity to go spend some time in the London area with two friends of mine - a 22 year old mate from the Wirral who used to live in Antwerp and his sister, who I met when she was visiting her brother in Antwerp.
There are things that I love about countries and there are things that I hate. I have never been anywhere that I would say was perfect, or even came close. I’ve high hopes for Australia though. If I ever get there.
So in order to find happiness with your situation you need to weigh the pros and the cons of where you are.
For example:
Thursday night, I arrived in England at 21:30 after a 5 hour drive from Belgium. We were in the country pub for 22:00 and we were kicked out by a 15 year old barman by 23:05.
That is most definitely crap.
His equally pre-pubescent colleague had refused to accept my Northern Bank notes when I first tried to buy a drink.
I was not impressed. The feel good factor of being back in the UK was fast fading.
But drinks back at the house, guitar out and a good old singsong and spirits were raised again.
Next morning was the trip into London for the sight-seeing. Less than an hour later, we were stood on the banks of the river Thames, looking out at the city’s famous skyline.
“There’s the Oxo tower, St. Paul’s cathedral, the national museum, Blackfriars Bridge, the London Eye and just around the corner out of sight, is the Houses of Parliament. Anyone fancy a pint in the pub?”
I didn’t need asked twice. Hair of the dog sounded like a good plan.
This was most definitely good.
Pints, pubs and craic are enough to keep this simple man happy but it’s also the Brits and the Irish ability to laugh at themselves that I love so much about the people.
Nobody takes themselves too seriously. I’m not saying Belgians as a race do, I’m just saying that we, most defintely, don't.
Saturday, my mate and I were dropped off at the pub at midday by the sister to watch Liverpool beat ManYoo. We were picked up 6 hours later after having spent the afternoon drinking several pints of Guinness and Cheeky Vimto cocktails, singing along to the juke box, chatting with the friendly locals and playing pool. A simple afternoon but for me, most definitely a good afternoon.
So what does all this mean? What's my point, exactly.
Weeeellll, to be honest I'm not sure.
I certainly never thought I’d see the day where I’d actually consider living in England again. It’s not that I have anything against the English, it’s just that I always thought ‘been there, done that’ but now with the attraction of Belgium fast fading, I’ve decided that I’m going the way of so many people before me...
On to the next step.
It’s time.
But not before one last swansong.
I’ve got enough work here until the end of the year. Belgium please make it a good one for me!
Friday, February 24, 2006
I can't get no sleep!
Well folks,
It’s been a while and for that I can only apologise. I seem to recall that “I must write more and I must write shorter blogs” being one of my more noble New Year’s resolutions, less than two short months ago.
It would now seem that it can be tossed in the battered and overflowing dustbin labelled “My Well-Meaning Intentions” with all the others.
*sigh*
So what’s been going on in Belgium then, eh? Bribery and corruption in the football, some dubious Euthanasia cases, hunger strikes, protests over cartoons, bird flu on it’s way, all with the wonderful bitter cold, wet back drop that February in Belgium affords us.
Not for the first time I think to myself – "why oh why couldn’t I have taken a job in sunnier climes?" Dear God it makes you wanna just stay in bed all day.
Which I would if I could.
I do believe I could sleep for Northern Ireland and be captain of the team. If sleeping was an Olympic sport I’d be the Sir Steven Redgrave of it, if I could earn money by sleeping I’d be a million….anyway, I think you get the picture.
Although, here’s a thing - a paradox if you will.
Much as I enjoy my talent of sleeping, I’m not doing so good at it of late. Indeed, I’ve been letting my talent go to waste. For me, during the last few weeks, sleep has been a precious commodity indeed.
So what is it that is keeping me from the castle, the stronghold that is my bed and the glorious safe haven of sleep that it promises these days?
A hectic social calendar?
Numerous sex-crazed nymphomaniacs all begging for me to pleasure them?
All night hedonistic rock and roll parties?
Err, no – not quite.
The reason, in fact, is a lot tamer and not very rock and roll at all.
It’s because, for the past few months, I have been embroiled in an epic tale of good versus evil, strong characters and scenarios that scream out of the pages, ensuring total immersion in a world full of gunslingers, wayward priests, robots, vampires, magic, mystery, battles.
When I come to think of it, there is little that Stephen King’s The Dark Tower Series doesn’t have in its storyline.
A good-old fashioned rip-roaring read.
And no, I’m not on any commission.
It’s been a while and for that I can only apologise. I seem to recall that “I must write more and I must write shorter blogs” being one of my more noble New Year’s resolutions, less than two short months ago.
It would now seem that it can be tossed in the battered and overflowing dustbin labelled “My Well-Meaning Intentions” with all the others.
*sigh*
So what’s been going on in Belgium then, eh? Bribery and corruption in the football, some dubious Euthanasia cases, hunger strikes, protests over cartoons, bird flu on it’s way, all with the wonderful bitter cold, wet back drop that February in Belgium affords us.
Not for the first time I think to myself – "why oh why couldn’t I have taken a job in sunnier climes?" Dear God it makes you wanna just stay in bed all day.
Which I would if I could.
I do believe I could sleep for Northern Ireland and be captain of the team. If sleeping was an Olympic sport I’d be the Sir Steven Redgrave of it, if I could earn money by sleeping I’d be a million….anyway, I think you get the picture.
Although, here’s a thing - a paradox if you will.
Much as I enjoy my talent of sleeping, I’m not doing so good at it of late. Indeed, I’ve been letting my talent go to waste. For me, during the last few weeks, sleep has been a precious commodity indeed.
So what is it that is keeping me from the castle, the stronghold that is my bed and the glorious safe haven of sleep that it promises these days?
A hectic social calendar?
Numerous sex-crazed nymphomaniacs all begging for me to pleasure them?
All night hedonistic rock and roll parties?
Err, no – not quite.
The reason, in fact, is a lot tamer and not very rock and roll at all.
It’s because, for the past few months, I have been embroiled in an epic tale of good versus evil, strong characters and scenarios that scream out of the pages, ensuring total immersion in a world full of gunslingers, wayward priests, robots, vampires, magic, mystery, battles.
When I come to think of it, there is little that Stephen King’s The Dark Tower Series doesn’t have in its storyline.
A good-old fashioned rip-roaring read.
And no, I’m not on any commission.
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