AN OPEN LETTER TO THE WONDERFUL PEOPLE OF BELGIUM

AN OPEN LETTER TO THE WONDERFUL PEOPLE OF BELGIUM

I have seen the Noel Gallagher comments on the city of Brussels and how boring it is and I have a few words to say on the topic.

If you haven't heard it already, here's the story in all its "Morning Glory"

 http://stubru.be/siska/noelgallagherbrusselsisfuckingboring

I'm very sure that Noel Gallagher "doesn't give a fuck" about what I have to say - let's face it - "doesn't give a fuck" is an image that he and his brother have lived off the back of for the past 20 years and more, so why should he start now?

Before I go any further, I LOVE Oasis. I'm 42 years of age - we practically grew up together. I've been lucky enough to watch them live 4 times (twice in Brussels, ironically) and still love to listen to their music, on occasion. Their music will live on through the ages, although not in the same way as The Beatles which, as we all know, will always be something that will stick in their throats.

What relevance does Noel Gallagher have in the world, these days? Apparently only in his own head - and, sadly, in some caricature version of his former self, it seems.

First off - in their pomp, the Gallagher brothers were the very epitome of arrogant rock stars. It's what they did when they were 'great.' Their arrogance was part of the image and it was something that - I have to admit - I bought into. How I would have loved to have been part of that band! The swagger, the epic tunes, the rock-star lifestyle, the "couldn't give a fuck" lifestyle. What's not to love?

But now, now that they're not so great and with no music to back them up, we're reduced to a middle-aged cliched version of themselves - the typical Arrogant Islander.

As an Irish man that spent more 7 very happy years living in Antwerp, I guess my opinion (for what it's worth) come from an Arrogant Islander too but, please let me explain...

Let's face it - us Arrogant Islanders, being Island Nations on the cusp of Europe have this misconception about Europe being "over there," never mind our opinion about Belgium and its 'Boringness'

Multiply both Gallaghers' arrogance with our own ingrained opinions about Europe - and Belgium in particular - and this is the kind of crap that you read from REALLY Arrogant Islanders.

It is only when you actually live in ANY country for a time that you get a proper feel for the place.

When I first moved to Belgium, through work - I mean, come on - no-one would actually 'choose' to live in a country that was soooooo boring! ;-), I had no idea what to expect. My company initially sent me there for 4 weeks. I chose to live there for 7 years because I loved the place.

Whilst living there, I started a blog with the IRONIC title BelgiumIsBoring.blogspot.com.

In that blog I spent many hours during my time in Belgium documenting great times that I spent in that wonderful country and trying, in my own way, to dispel the Arrogant Islander's opinion that Belgium was boring when, in actual fact, it is very fucking far from that.

Perhaps Noel needs to read it. Or perhaps he saw the website title and made his own mind up, without reading what I had to say about the place. Maybe it's my fault??!

Suffice to say, I loved my life in Belgium, still love the country and some of my fondest memories are from my time spent there.

Even though I have lived in Australia for the past 8 years, I count myself lucky to have been able to get back there twice since leaving.

België, Ik hou van jou!!

Fuck Noel.

ANZAC Day Dawn Memorial Service

This morning I was up and at ‘em at three thirty. 

Nothing new there, then.

However, far from partying hard with friends, or even having a party for one at home, or watching my beloved Liverpool FC play several time zones away, I was awake at this ungodly hour for a rather more sombre reason – to attend the ANZAC Day Dawn Memorial Service, which was to be held at the beautiful and austere location of ANZAC square, in the heart of Brisbane city.

For those that don’t know, (I certainly didn’t before I moved to Australia) ANZAC stands for “Australian and New Zealand Army Corps” and April 25th is a public holiday, known as ANZAC Day, which commemorates those soldiers from Australia and New Zealand who fought – and in a lot of cases – died at Gallipoli, Turkey to fight against the Ottoman Empire in World War I.

All around Australia, there are services held to remember those who perished or were injured in Gallipoli, as well as acknowledge and to give thanks to those who gave the ultimate sacrifice in subsequent battles and wars.
Consider it Australia and New Zealand’s version of our Remembrance Day which is held each year on 11th November.

Many of these ANZAC Day services are held at dawn which I think adds a certain gravitas to proceedings and – let’s face it – what’s one early start a year in comparison to the sacrifices that those we remember today gave?

Now, let’s get one thing straight here. I am certainly not an advocate for war and I am sure most of us would agree that war is most definitely ‘bad.’ Indeed, war is a cruel and terrible reflection of all that is worst about mankind. However, what I do strongly believe in and something that I am very grateful for is to have been fortunate to have lived all my life in democracies. Something that should never be taken for granted and on ANZAC day, I take the opportunity to pay my respects to those that fought and died so that the rest of us could enjoy that privilege.

I am not making any grand political statement here but for me – ANZAC day, as well as Remembrance Day – play a vital and important part of our fabric and I will continue to take part as often as I can.

I remember as a kid back home in Northern Ireland going to the local war memorial park on Remembrance Sunday with my Nana, who proudly wore her polished medals – and those of my deceased Papa – as we paid our respects and this is a memory that I cherish to this day.

My Papa flew and landed gliders behind enemy lines to gather reconnaissance info. My other Grandad also fought in World War II and indeed lost some toes whilst under mortar attack diving head-first into his bunker. Had he not dived head-first, then he would most likely have had his head blown off instead. Which would have meant my father would never have been born and therefore, of course, neither would my brothers and I.

These were ordinairy people thrown into extraordinairy circumstances and – but for timing – I could have been thrown into a similar situation: scared, cold and a long way from home fighting an enemy that consisted of men just like me. It is hard for me to grasp that concept and almost seems surreal as I live my day to day life and enjoy a standard of living here in Australia that I shouldn’t take for granted but have to admit, I very often do.
I spent a few years living in Belgium and once went to visit the Fields of Flanders with my mum. The sight of immaculately maintained pristine graveyards containing row after row of countless brilliant-white gravestones reflecting the summer sun is a humbling experience that I shall take to my own grave.

Another lasting memory from that day was that, in the entrance to the St. Patrick's Cemetery, Loos-en-Gohelle, just one of the multitude of graveyards and the one that we happened to stop at, was a log-book of all the soldiers who were buried there. One of those names belonged to a 15 year-old Private from New Zealand. 

Can you imagine that?!

He obviously lied about his age to get into the army and would have spent weeks travelling to Europe only to fall in the Fields of Flanders. At times like these, I often wonder what it must have been like for that young boy, so far away from home caught up in the maelstrom of war...

On a lighter note – another tradition of ANZAC Day is something known as a “Gunfire Breakfast.” Now before, I go any further, I had never heard of such a thing.

One ANZAC Day, a couple of years ago, I was holidaying with friends on Stradbroke Island, a simply stunning part of the world just off the coast from Brisbane. 

The night before had been spent playing board-games, chatting amicably in the company of great friends and consuming plenty of glasses of wine, all to the soundtrack of the sea crashing up on the beach a hundred metres away and with the warm sea breeze whispering through the swaying palm trees. 

Basically, we were in full holiday mode.

And so, it came to pass, that we were rather dusty when we got up just a few short hours later to go to the small and intimate ANZAC Day ceremony on the island. 

At the close of the ceremony, the MC invited us all to the local “RSL” (Returned and Services League) Club where we were welcome to partake in the aforementioned “Gunfire Breakfast.”

Upon arriving into the club, I spied several small glasses of milk on the bar which people were taking to drink. More than a little hungover and with a parched throat, the idea of imbibing a lovely chilled glass of milk was like stumbling across an oasis in the desert and I happily plucked one from the bar and as I did so, I said hello to two elderly soldiers who were standing at the end of the bar surveying the scene.

Putting the glass to my lips, I greedily downed the glass in one – only to find that it wasn't quite what I had expected it to be. In fact – and let this be a lesson to those of you not in the know – the glass contained a mixture of milk AND RUM and was actually a drink given to soldiers for fortification as they prepared to go Over The Top into battle.

Not wanting to look like a complete and utter eejit, whilst ABSOLUTELY looking like a complete and utter eejit, I bravely swallowed the potent mix, my eyes watering as I did so. The looks on the two elderly gents’ faces were a picture. Needless to say I had one or two more that morning, all be it not by downing them in one, and by the end of proceedings I would be preaching to all and sundry about just how lovely they were…

Australia aspires to be a democratic, multi-cultural, inclusive and tolerant country. Of course, whether it has actually got to that point yet is very much open for debate but its intentions should nonetheless be applauded. 

Could this be achieved without the sacrifices that our forefathers made? I’m glad we didn’t have to find out.

So yes – I take pause for reflection on ANZAC Day and give thanks to the brave men and women who fought and died for me.

Lest we forget.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Anzac_Day

Hillsborough

On the 15th April, 1989, 25 years ago, at six minutes past three, it was a surprisingly, sunny Saturday afternoon and I was hanging out with my mates at a local video library, in my home town back in Northern Ireland.

I was sixteen years of age and it was what we did. As well as renting out Stallone, Van Damme and Schwarzenegger videos, there was a pool table, there were video games, there were girls to chat to and there were also the infamous “singles”, cigarettes sold under the counter for the princely sum of ten pence each. Many of the customers were minors. Needless to say, this was illegal but no-one seemed to mind, least of all the owners.

Of course, what with this kind of commodity to be procured, the place attracted a few of the “rougher” kids in town but, as a non-smoking teenager, it was still a Cool Place to Hang Out. I honed my pool skills there and developed a wonderful ability to rack up ridiculously high scores on Wonderboy, a popular video game at the time. For 20 pence (or the price of two singles), I could be on that game for over half an hour, scoring a million-plus worth of points.

Unfortunately for me, there were other kids that frequented the place that could score even more than me. So, at six minutes past three that day, I was impatiently waiting for my turn to have a crack at beating my best score, whilst one of the other kids was effortlessly on their way to a score that I could only dream of.

These things mattered at sixteen years of age.

Some of us in the shop, myself included, were huddled around a radio, listening to a football match, where our team, Liverpool, were competing in the FA Cup semi-final for the dream of playing in the cup final at Wembley.

It was to be our Date With Destiny. Of course, none of us had any idea just what that destiny was to be.

***

Today, exactly 25 years later, this time on a Wednesday afternoon, at six minutes past three, and at the ripe old age of 41, I was in a business meeting in the head office of a multi-national mining company in Brisbane, Australia, in my role as an IT consultant discussing the kind of things that would have put that naïve sixteen-year old to sleep in a heartbeat.

Evidently, my world has moved on.

How do I know where I was at six minutes past three, 25 years ago?

One word.

Hillsborough.

For those of you that don’t know, Google it but, by way of a brief synopsis, I shall steal this paragraph from Wikipedia:

The Hillsborough disaster was an incident that occurred on 15 April 1989 at the Hillsborough Stadium in Sheffield, England. During the FA Cup semi-final match between Liverpool and Nottingham Forest football clubs, a human crush resulted in the deaths of 96 people and injuries to 766 others….and remains the worst stadium-related disaster in British history, and one of the world's worst football disasters.

Just a single paragraph describing an unspeakable horror that none of us, unless there, could even begin to comprehend.

766 injured. Whilst watching a football match.

96 dead. Whilst watching a football match.

Many of the victims were kids, just like me.

Girls, boys, women and men, the crush was indiscriminate.

Kids, who loved their football team but – unlike me – who was listening to the tragic events unfold on a radio in the video store, this being of an age when there wasn’t wall to wall coverage of football on the television - were actually able to go to the game and cheer on their Heroes in Red.

Kids just like me, with their whole lives ahead of them, excited and, as our beautiful anthem states, “with hope in their hearts.”

As the tragic events unfolded on that fateful day, for the 96 people who were cruelly taken from their families and loved ones, their lives stopped. Their stories cut short. For those that they left behind, as well as for the people who survived, the scars will be borne forever.

In the 25 years since, my life has been full of many of the experiences that any young person could hope and wish for and, of course, all the challenges that life’s journey throws at you, as well.

I have loved and been loved.

I was fortunate enough to finish school, studied at university, got a job and have seen some of the world through my career.

I learned to drive and have attempted to learn a language.

I have watched proudly from afar, as my beautiful nephew and niece came into this world and now find themselves starting off on their own life journeys.

I have experienced deaths to loved ones and family.

I have buried my father, who was taken too early from me and who I shall miss with every day that I am alive.

I have sung (badly) at karaoke.

I have met some fantastic people along the way and am blessed to consider some of them as my friends, as I hope, they too, think of me.

I wanted to play guitar but quickly found out I was rubbish at it.

I was declared bankrupt in my late twenties.

I have spent a night in the drunk-tank.

I have pissed off and hurt people who I professed to love.

Like the 96, I have cheered on my heroes in red and shared in the beautiful highs and lows that goes along with that privilege.

Along with 95000 other people at the Melbourne Cricket Ground, I sung our beautiful anthem, “You’ll Never Walk Alone” – an experience that I shall take to my grave, which will hopefully be a long time from now, as I sit here writing these words on the other side of the world from Hillsborough.

Of course, I could go on but – the point is – that at 41 years of age I have a story to tell. As we all do.

For the 96, their story ended abruptly and without warning 25 years ago today.

Who knows where those 96 stories would be now, had they not suddenly ended, through no fault of their own, on that dark day in history?

I said earlier that my world has moved on. One thing, however, has remained a constant throughout and that is my love and passion for Liverpool Football Club.

For their families and loved ones, the 96 shall of course, never be forgotten. Their loss, mourned forever. 

Their dignified search for TRUTH and JUSTICE against a system that has time and time again lied, cheated and distorted what happened that day, is an inspiration to the rest of us.

The 96 are immortalised by the Eternal Flame at Anfield Stadium but for as long as there is a Liverpool Football Club, The 96 shall all live on in all our collective memory.

Justice for The 96, for they shall “Never Walk Alone.”

96 stories that shall never end.

Soundwave Festival - A photo diary

Well Folks,

The dust has settled on yet another great Soundwave Festival. A day-long festival catering solely for the metal and punk fans out there. I have to admit that it is my favourite festival Down Under and I look forward to it every year.

Yes, OK, Megadeth, Stone Temple Pilots and Newsted all cancelled but there were still plenty of other highlights to be had along the way. I started to take a photo of each band that I went to see but then one of two things happened:

I got drunk
The battery in my phone went dead

Both of which means you are all saved gratuitous close ups of Alice in Chains, Rob Zombie, Devildriver, Ill Nino and Greenday.

Than your lucky stars!

MUSHROOMHEAD

FIVE FINGER DEATH PUNCH 

THE BLACK DAHLIA MURDER

DEFILED

UPON A BURNING BODY

VIDEO CLIP OF UPON A BURNING BODY

TESTAMENT

THE LIVING END

AFI

GWAR

MY NEW FAVOURITE BAND, VOLBEAT

 CLUTCH

PENNYWISE 

A GREAT BAND FROM BACK HOME, STIFF LITTLE FINGERS

THIS PHOTO DIARY WAS BROUGHT TO YOU BY THE THREE STOOGES

PEACE OUT

“MAY I HAVE YOUR ATTENTION, PLEASE? The night I went into Rapture with Eminem.”

Let’s get one thing straight before we go any further, shall we? I LOVE black people. In fact, some of my family are Blacks.

Now, considering this is supposed to be an anonymous blog, I realise that that last statement could be misconstrued as the musing of some patronising middle-class, middle-aged white man from somewhere like Northern Ireland where black people are very few and far between and where racism can sit easily alongside all the bigotry.

Then again, considering that the only people that know about this blog are friends and family, you will all be acutely aware that both those sentences work on so many levels. What can I say? It’s how I roll.

I do also realise however, that there is an (admittedly very slight) chance that you could have stumbled across this corner of cyberspace all on your own. In which case, welcome Dear Anonymous Reader, I congratulate you on your powers of fortitude and perseverance that saw you squirrel your way into this corner of the interweb, when we both know that there is so much more you could be doing with your precious online time.

Having said all this, strap yourselves in for a wee story about how it came to pass, that I, a middle-class, middle-aged white man with the surname Black from Northern Ireland (let all the frikkin’ cats out of the bag there, didn’t I?) ended up at an Eminem gig last night.

But before I do, let’s go back in time for a moment. Mid-1990, to be exact.

“Roads, Marty? Where we’re going, we don’t need roads.” (Yep, gratuitous and completely unnecessary Back to the Future reference there)

In mid-1990 many things were happening in my life. For a start, I had just turned 18, a landmark event in anyone’s life. I was studying at a college in Belfast for a year and I was also working part-time. All incredibly adult pursuits, I’m sure you’d agree.

Musically, however, I was a mere child. Being the eldest of three meant that a lot of my musical taste was forged all on my own. A fact made all the more startlingly obvious by sharing with all three of you Readers that my first ever gig was Norwegian pop beat combo, Aha, at the Kings Hall, Belfast.

Moving swiftly on.

As swiftly, it has to be said, as my taste in music moved on. The next gig I went to less than a year after finding myself in joining in the cacophony of Northern Irish adolescents screaming “We want Aha! We want Aha! We want Aha!” was the gobfest that was New York thrash metal combo, Anthrax, performing in Bangor Leisure Centre.

Time stands still for no man, Marty. (Not even sure if that is a quote from Back to the Future but it feels like it should be, so let’s keep it in, shall we?)

Independently of my own forays into the Pandora’s Box of music that the world has to offer, I naturally had the musical tastes of my parents to influence me. And for them, I have to thank for the likes of The Beatles, Jethro Tull and Marc Bolan (mother) and Rolling Stones, The Animals, Bob Dylan (father) being on my musical radar from a very early age.

But music is a never-ending journey. Trends come and go. Indeed, the very first album that I bought was “Prince Charming” by Adam and the Ants and wherethe eff is he, these days?

So, like a human sponge, I started devouring all kinds of music and, upon reflection, I guess it was only a matter of time before this naïve, wee country boy from Northern Ireland made the progression from New York thrash metal to New York hip hop, in the form of Public Enemy.

Actually, thanks to “Bring the Noise”, a musical collaborationbetween the two bands, the leap from thrash to hip hop wasn’t as big as you might think.

And, so it came to pass that I found myself on a bus home from Belfast one day, nursing a vinyl (Google it, younger Readers) copy of the seminal Public Enemy album, “Fearof a Black Planet,” a brilliant choice for a first-time dip into the magical world of American Hip Hop, if ever there was.

To say I loved the album would be a rather bland description of how I felt about this piece of modern musical art and for weeks, I played the album to absolute death. Even now, as I type these words whilst listening to it for aul’ time’s sake, I have to say it is a timeless classic.

But, along with death and taxes, another thing that is certain is that the never-ending soundtrack of your life will grow and evolve as you follow on its journey and it wasn’t long before I was spending my hard-earned cash on the likes of Metallica, Megadeth and Sepultura, the last of which I am now listening to. Crunching Brazilian speed metal? Yes please.

As an interesting side-note to this indulgent Trip Down Memory Lane, my younger brother whole-heartedly embraced the world of rap, thanks in no small part to the aforementioned Fear of a Black Planet and I can safely say that he is now the whitest black man I know, to the point of wanting to name his first-born Tupac.

Seriously.

But I digress.

Let’s jump back into the DeLorean, Marty, and head Back to the Future to the year 2014 – a world that is sadly bereft of hoverboards, flying cars and self-tying laces. Although it seems that in the year 2015, we’ll all be able to enjoy at leastone of those innovations. What times we live in, eh?

And, to follow on in a similar vein, what times we live in when one of the biggest rap stars the world has ever seen is the poster boy for white trailer trash itself, none other than Marshal “Eminem” Mathers III.

Bet you never saw that one coming, Marty.

Yesterday evening, Eminem brought his Rapture Road Show juggernaut to my doorstep and it seemed only polite of me to go and join in the fun. Now normally Suncorp Stadium, or “The Colosseum” as I like to refer to it, is where I go to indulge in my other great love, watching sport, and it holds very many special memories for me.

On a slight tangent, a girl I was seeing briefly last year dumped me because of my love of sport saying, and I quote, “How can you waste so much of your life watching sport? There’s a whole big world out there with many experiences to enjoy, instead of wasting it watching sport.”

Well, excuse me!

Some of my finest experiences in life have been thanks to my passion for sport and in my recent history, Suncorp Stadium has played host to many of them. Grand Final wins, State of Origin wins, British and Irish Lions wins have all been born in this iconic stadium and I wouldn’t change it for the world. And all this in a stadium that is less than 3kms from where I live.

Every year Suncorp Stadium also plays host to some of the world’s largest music acts and in my time in Brisbane, the list includes Red Hot Chilli Peppers, Robbie Williams, Bon Jovi, Andre Rieu and, erm, Taylor Swift.

But, until last night, I had never been to a gig in the place. It seems strange to be saying that, considering how much time I have spent there over the past few years but it came to pass last night,  that I stood wide-eyed on the Hallowed Turf, staring around me in wonder at how my second home had been transformed into Eminem’s personal fiefdom.

It was a fantastic sight to behold.

There were several acts on the bill: M-Phazes, 360, Action Bronson, J Cole, Kendrick Lamar and finally, the main man himself but, considering the show started at 4pm on a school day and we all have to earn a crust to be able to pay for these nights out, my friends and I missed everyone else on the bill, opting for the more comfortable confines of The Paddo Tavern’s smoking section.

Reasonably priced, full strength drinks, an awesome smoking section, conversing in the company of good friends whilst sitting on comfortable seats are a hard thing to compete with for our attention and, with the exception of Kendrick Lamar, there wasn’t much desire from my friends and I to leave for Suncorp, just a few short minutes’ walk down the road.

To be fair, we did try and see Kendrick Lamar but considering the whole “herding cats” thing, trying to co-ordinate a group of pleasantly pissed, excited adults proved a task too much and, as we arrived into the stadium we heard the last couple of his songs as we were queuing for our drinks.

Sorry about that one, Kendrick.

And so, with enough alcohol in our systems to loosen up limbs and tongues, we picked our spot in amongst the Baggy Shorted Flat Brim Capped Brigade and settled in for the Main Event itself.

Now, rappers as a rule don’t do modesty. We all know that. And once you make it as one of the biggest fish in this Sea of Bling, all bets are off. The stage show itself had everything you would expect: dazzling lights, massive screens, bucket loads of energy. And fire, lots of fire.

The one thing that it did not have, however, was a decent sound set-up. Suffice to say, from where we were stood, the sound was shit, which is all the more strange, given that we were less than ten metres away from a massive speaker tower; although upon reflection, it was behind us blasting out towards the back of the stadium, which might account for the somewhat muffled tunes that we experienced. Still a surprise though, considering that Eminem’s style has always been based on his clear, crisp machine-gun delivery.

That whinge aside, Eminem delivered all that you could possibly want in his 90-minute, 26-song set including new songs ‘Survival’ and ‘Bezerk’, older anthems like ‘White America’ and ‘Stan,’ as well as a medley of his three biggest hits ‘My Name Is’, ‘The Real Slim Shady’ and ‘Without Me’.

Suffice to say, I still managed to get my wigger on with the rest of the crowd and everyone enjoyed the whole spectacle. I did note, however, that Eminem’s back-up rapper (no idea who he was) seemed to do a lot of the work. A regular thing in the world of rap, I was reliably informed by a mate.

Highlight of the evening for me – and for many others it seemed – was “Lose Yourself.” Top tune and to see the capacity crowd at Suncorp bouncing along to that epic track was a sight that will live long in the memory.

So, a big shout goes out to my man Eminem for coming to ma hood and rapping the shit out of it for me and my mates and about 45,000 others. A top night out!

Now, I hope you’ll all excuse me as I go off to shop for a flat brimmed cap.

Peace out.

February 2014, Brisbane.

If Carlsberg Did Weekends…. (Part 1)

Recently, a few mates and I were fortunate enough to spend a weekend away in Sydney. I use the word fortunate because – as it transpired – the weekend turned out to be one of the best short breaks that any of us had experienced in our lives and I feel suitably motivated to give a little summary of events as they transpired, if only for my own gratification and posterity. But if you’re that way inclined, then I invite you to sit back, relax and read my wee story from the trip. 

Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you: “If Carlsberg Did Weekends….” – Part 1

A few months ago, a couple of Aussie mates decided they were going to go to watch our local football team, Brisbane Roar, play against Western Sydney Wanders, in Sydney, on a Friday night and were going to make a weekend of it, taking in another game on the Saturday evening, Sydney FC versus Adelaide United, returning to Brisbane on the Sunday evening. Was anyone else interested?

Now, anyone who knows me will realise just how interested in a trip like this I would be, so I, along with another mate, signed up for a weekend that promised plenty of beer, banter and football.

It didn’t disappoint.

Going to an away match in Australia can be quite the daunting experience, considering the distances involved. Indeed, according to Google maps, a little under 1000 kms separates the two stadiums, so driving certainly wasn’t an option for such a short getaway. Flights were organised pronto, to take advantage of the $75 flights being offered by Virgin Australia.

Unfortunately, in my haste to book the flights, I made a rookie error and booked the wrong outbound flight, ensuring that I had to get up at 04:30 in the morning to catch the 06:00 flight. The rest of the boys had the relative lie-in of only having to make it to the airport for the 07:00 flight. I did enquire about rearranging the flights but the 280 dollars quoted to do so ensured that I didn’t do so. I love the guys but I don’t love them 280 dollars worth.

And anyway, with access to the business lounge, waiting for an hour in Sydney airport was certainly no great hardship to endure.

Both flights were uneventful and arrived on time. And no - I am not on commission.

So, it came to pass, that a little before 10am Sydney time, we were in a taxi making our way to our accommodation for the weekend – a lovely 2-bedroom serviced apartment in the Sydney suburb of Waterloo. This had been recommended to us by a friend from Northern Ireland who lives in the neighbourhood. I have to say that the accommodation was dead on, to use the Norn Iron vernacular. 

Modern, spacious and with great service thrown in for good measure. We were pleasantly surprised to be able to check-in when we arrived at 10:30 and, to be honest, over the course of the weekend, the staff made sure that everything we wanted, which admittedly wasn't too much, was catered for. I'd recommend them to anyone. And no - I am not on commission.

Despite our spacious and luxurious surrounds, it wasn’t long before we were getting the train, in the manner of excited teenagers, to Circular Quay, the world-iconic location of Sydney Harbour. 

Sitting there, in the Splendid Sydney Summer Sun (TM), sipping on cold beers whilst also drinking in the spectacular backdrop of Sydney Harbour, Sydney Harbour Bridge and the Sydney Opera House, all was good in our world. Indeed, we spent so long in this wonderful environment that we all ended up with a bit of a roasting from the sun that day. We should have known better, of course, but boys will be boys.

Later that afternoon, with game-time fast approaching, we made our way to our home for the weekend to freshen up before taking ourselves off to the Western Sydney suburb of Parramatta, where, naturally enough, the Western Sydney Wanderers play their football. Two of the guys had already been to a game in Western Sydney and the game plan, according to them, was to go to a Bavarian Bier Café which was only a short walk from Pirtek Stadium. So that’s what we did.

The 10-minute walk from Parramatta Station was a memorable one. It seemed that everyone in Parramatta was wearing their red and blackstriped Wanderers shirt and – considering that Brisbane Roar play in a rather noticeable orange shirt – we stuck out like the proverbial thumb as we made our way to the café. 

In the past few weeks, there have been a few unsavoury incidents involving supporters associated with the Wanderers. There have been running battles with other teams’ supporters, including stabbing and beatings dealt out with baseball bats. Whilst well aware of the hyperbole that the Australian media perpetrates when it comes to "soccer hooliganism," it was hard not to think of these stories as we walked through the Parramatta heartland in our seemingly fluorescent Roar shirts. 

This was nothing, however, compared with what lay in wait for us at the Bavarian Bier Café. And no - I am not on commission.

As we approached the bar, it was evident that this was a popular pre-match pub with the Wanderers as we could see a few dozen of them wearing their shirts sitting in the bier garden at the front of the pub. There were also half a dozen police cars parked outside, which was a little disconcerting but reassuring at the same time. Always a good idea to drink in a pub near the local police station in times of uncertainty.

Walking into the pub, however, we were greeted with a narrow walkway down to the back of the pub where it opened up into another bier garden. Lined all along this walkway were dozens more Wanderers supporters. The four of us steeled ourselves for comment and ridicule but as we walked through the throng of red and black and, whilst many heads turned, nothing was said. 

I guess we didn’t look intimidating enough to even warrant a bit of sledging.

After running this 'gauntlet', we reached the bier garden at the back of the pub and noticed our first Roar shirts of the evening. A couple of young fellas sitting rather nervously in the corner trying their best to look like they belonged. Or invisible. Biers procured, we joined them to swell our numbers to a massive 6. 

A while later, a couple from Toowoomba who had decided to take in the game as part of a romantic break to Sydney (who says romance is dead?), joined us. Our numbers now stood at 8 but the Wanderers kept streaming in and the bar was soon a torrent of red and black, with a small island of orange stuck in the corner.

But then, a strange thing happened - well - perhaps not that strange, seeing as it had been pre-arranged.

A coachload of Roar supporters arrived at the bar and joined us in the bier garden. My mates knew some of them and I even knew one of them as well. (You know you've been in Australia for quite the time when you bump into someone you know, a thousand kilometres from where you live.)

All of a sudden, this meant that there were 20 - 30 Roar supporters in the bar. The banter was almost as plentiful as the drinks, leaving only the football itself and, with kick-off fast approaching, it was soon time to make the last leg of our journey from Suncorp Stadium, Brisbane to Pirtek Stadium, Parramatta – just a mere 5-minute walk.

Thanks to the crrrrrrazy idea of daylight saving, a concept which my adopted home state of Queensland steadfastly refuses to grasp, the conditions were glorious as we walked to the stadium for the seven thirty kick-off.

Along the way, we got chatting to some of the home supporters and I am happy to report that everyone – and I mean everyone – was very friendly to us. A far cry from the demons that the Australian press would have you believe support the Wanderers. Now, of course, I am not naïve enough to think that these demons don’t exist but my experience of the average Wanderers supporter that evening was that they were both passionate and knowledgeable about the Beautiful Game and their team. Which makes them alright by me.

A bizarre footnote to add at this stage was that when we arrived at the stadium, a single security guard, upon noticing our arrival, said to me "Shit - why didn't you guys phone ahead?" before proceeding to take us on a walk around pretty much the whole of the stadium through all the Wanderers supporters, so that we could go into another gate, which was basically almost the whole way 'round the stadium to where we had first arrived. At the time, I couldn’t understand the reasoning behind it – and now, in the cold light of day and with the benefit of hindsight, I STILL can’t understand the reasoning behind it.

The atmosphere generated by the WSW supporters is widely regarded as the best in the A-League competition. A combination of a compact stadium and a loyal and passionate fan base ensures that the vast majority of the supporters in the stadium join in to make for a great atmosphere. The capacity of the stadium is a shade under 25,000 and that evening, there were (if memory serves me well, which is highly unlikely) 16,403 supporters at the game.

I have to be honest, these numbers were a little less than I expected, thanks to the stories that perpetuate in Australia about how the number of season ticket holders were capped to allow for a small fraction tickets to be made available for "at the gate" supporters, as well as away supporters, so I was a little disappointed when I saw the empty seats but, credit where credit is due, the ones that were there gave it a great go, as this wee video clip proves:

(Apologies for the gratuitous language and the even more gratuitous close-up of myself around 39 seconds into the clip)

Needless to say, our pocket of away support made as much noise as we could and I woke up on Saturday morning with the sore throat and hoarse voice to prove it.

Oh - and we got on the telly!

The match itself was a tight enough affair, with Brisbane Roar scoring half-way through the first-half and then Western Sydney Wanderers applying a lot of pressure after the break which eventually resulted in them equalising in the 84^th minute. The game went on to finish 1-1 and upon reflection, it was probably a fair result and, considering we were top of the league, leading WSW in second place by 7 points going into the game, we were none too disappointed when the final whistle went and, judging by the way that our players and manager came to celebrate the result with us, it showed how much the draw meant to us all.

Leaving the stadium, once again the conversations I had with the WSW supporters were enjoyable. There were compliments from both sets of supporters as to how well the other team played and most agreed that the draw was a fair result. All very pleasant and all very amicable. 

Still – we weren’t naïve enough to think that a pub-crawl ‘round Parramatta would have been a sensible thing to do, so we made our way back to the train station and made our way back to our adopted home for the evening.

It’s worth noting at this stage, however, that it wasn’t all plain sailing though...

Whilst at the train station, waiting on our train, we did meet a loud, obnoxious supporter and I am a little embarrassed to report that it was a Roar-supporting female who 'won' that award from the evening. And then, upon disembarking at the other end, events took a rather surreal twist, when one of my mates had his Roar scarf stolen out of his back pocket by a little street-rat kid who had followed us off the train, nicked the scarf, and then ferreted his way back onto the train as the doors closed shut again. It was all over in a flash and there was nothing we could do about it, apart from learn from the experience. It served as a timely reminder that we shouldn’t let our guard down too much. Country bumpkins from Queensland that we were.

When we got back to our apartment, one by one the guys went to bed, suitably happy with our lot in life and it wasn’t long before I did the same. After all – at least one of us had been up since the crack of dawn and we had another big day ahead of us. 

But, as I went to  bed that evening, I was oblivious as to just how big things were to turn out.

TO BE CONTINUED...

PHOTO DIARY OF A DUPUYTREN'S CONTRACTURE SUFFERER

Hello There, Stalkbookers!

I trust you are keeping well and not feeling too squeamish because this wee story is not for the faint of heart.

As some of you already know, two and a half weeks ago, I had corrective surgery on my left hand. This was to fix an issue that I have been living with since around the age of twenty and it is known as Dupuytren’s Contracture. (Named after the doctor who first did some research into it)

More about the ailment can be seen here:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dupuytren's_contracture

It is a condition that mainly affects white, Northern Europeans and because of this it is sometimes referred to as “The Vikings Disease”, which I must admit sounds pretty cool, even if the ailment itself was not.

In fact, a few years ago, I went for a medical as part of a job application here in Oz and the doctor told me that the “disease” had been traced back to 3 villages in Norway. I have never heard this or read this anywhere, so I can’t verify this to be the case. And shortly afterwards he got me to strip to my undies and do squat thrusts whilst he stood behind me (seriously), so I’m certainly not certain of the legitimacy of this.

Basically, it is where the fingers gradually bend towards the palm and cannot be fully extended (straightened.) It never caused me too much pain but with time, it got gradually worse. It normally only occurs in the latter stages of life in your 60’s and 70’s but thanks to the fact that I had two separate instances where I broke the finger in one hand and badly dislocated a finger in my right hand* and, coupled with the fact that I have a particularly extreme case of it, accelerated the onset of the problem.

* - More of this incident I recalled with great gusto in an article on my blog. Believe me; the sheer stupidity of this incident has to be read to be believed. http://belgiumisboring.blogspot.com.au/2005/06/insomiac-writes.html

Anyway, as I say, I've lived with it for 20 years and about 10 years ago in Belgium I got my right hand operated on. 10 years later and it was the turn of my left hand to get seen to.

And seen to it surely was.

This is what it looked like, a few minutes before surgery. (Apologies for the blurriness of the picture but I was a little stressed at the time!)

Not a pretty sight!

I was in the operating theatre for over 5 hours and, after two skin grafts and approximately 85 stitches later; I was set free in the world, or at least to my hospital bed, where this photo was taken whilst under the influence of some great drugs.

The past 2 weeks have been all about ensuring that the grafts take well. Then, on Monday I went for my post-op consultation and the results were promising. At least according to my surgeon, they were – from where I was looking, I reckoned my hand was something more suited to Frankenstein’s monster.

So, on Monday about half of the stiches were taken out and I was given a much more mobile (and rather sexy) splint:

Yesterday, the other half of the stitches were removed.

StalkBookers, I am here to tell you all right now, that I was not a brave soldier when it came to this process. 85 stiches being removed from ones hand and fingers was an exhausting and excruciating experience. And that was just for the physio that removed them.

So now – here I am at my keyboard “kind of” typing with two hands. I now have a process of 3-4 months rehabilitation but I am happy to report that the journey has begun and I am well on my way to recovery.

Oh – and before I go – this is what my hand looks like now:

Not perfectly straight, granted but it was never going to be, thanks to the years of stretching that the tendons were subjected to but at least now I can get dressed in the morning without poking my own eye out.

Thanks for listening.

NOT FOR THE SQUEAMISH ALERT!!! Do not read on if you’re of a squeamish disposition. 

Ladies and Gentlemen – I give you my Frankenstein hand uncovered in all its naked glory: