The "GAWA Name and Shame Campaign" goes international (well Belgium at least)

OK Folks,

Soap box time.

The text that follows was something that I placed on the Northern Ireland supporters forum on the "OurWeeCountry.co.uk" website. On this forum many intellectual debates are had by those proud soldiers of the Green And White Army (GAWA) on a whole range of topics.

Recently there has been a long discussion where supporters are naming and shaming bars in Belfast city centre which turn away fellow soldiers whose only crime it is to wear the football colours of their national team - in their homeland's capital city on match day. And this whilst other supporters sporting their own colours are allowed in. Absolutely disgraceful displays of prejudice which cannot go on any longer.

Supporters are naming these bars and our fellow comrades are boycotting these premises on match day or any other day for that matter. And fair play to them, for we will not be treated like lepers in our own country. The GAWA has had enough!

But then it occurred to me - why keep it local? I have experienced my own prejudices whilst I've been on my travels and one such incident occurred only a couple of weeks ago here in Belgium that I felt had to be shared my fellow comrades.

Friends, I give you - "The GAWA Name and Shame Campaign goes International" (well Belgium at least)

Picture the scene:

It’s a lovely, warm, Saturday lunchtime in September as I make my way to Antwerp’s historic Grote Markt.

The weather is unseasonably warm by Belgian standards and it provides me with a wonderful opportunity to show off my GAWA colours as I walk tall, proud and bristling with excitement that the European qualifiers had finally come around after the long summer’s wait spent watching those World Cup finals that we didn’t fancy going to.

As I walk the narrow cobbled streets of Antwerp’s Oude Stad I look around me at the spectacular architecture, the wonderful medieval guildhalls with their gold-plated statues at the peak of each roof, the impressive Stadhuis, the beautiful Brabo fountain and of course, the quite simply stunning Cathedral of Our Lady.

After living in Belgium for almost 7 years I know this part of town like the back of my hand but even so, familiarity does not dull my sense of marvel at the picture-postcard perfect scene which never ceases to take my breath away.

On this occasion however, I am not here to gawk and pose for photos like so many around me, instead choosing to politely make my way through the throngs of tourists, intent on reaching my destination as quickly as the crowds will allow me.

For I have important business to cake care of: that is the Very Important Business of getting well-oiled and into the mood for The Big Game. Norn Iron v Iceland – surely a three pointer and a great start to our qualifying campaign (well – at least that’s what I thought at the time)

Having arranged to meet a couple of Canadian friends in one of the several Irish bars in town - yes they’re bloody everywhere – even in this most historic of locations are you unable to avoid being greeted by the ubiquitous Guinness sign – I made my way to a pub called The Irish Times.

Despite the fact that I had worked the night shift and not reached my bed until 08:00 in the morning, I was keen for the festivities to get under way and had coerced them into meeting me at 12:00.

Arriving there at 11:55, I walked into the dim light of the bar, the only people sharing the place with me being three Hells Angels sitting on the terrace outside conversing in Afrikaans (of course) and the guy working behind the bar, who was chatting on the phone as I walked in.

Clocking me and more importantly clocking the Norn Iron top that I was wearing – a rather impressive number 14 shirt as worn by Sir Gerry Armstrong in the 1986 World Cup Finals that my mother had won in a raffle – the barman promptly turned around from me and continued with his conversation on the phone.

I waited patiently as he continued talking to his mate about how “wrecked” he was the night before and how many beers he’d had and so on and so forth.

All interesting stuff I’m sure but nothing could surely have been as pressing at that moment in time than serving the one and only customer in the pub? Or so you would think.

A customer, who I might add, after 5 nights on the night shift had worked up quite an insatiable thirst and who was in dire need for skulling a few pints of The Black Stuff. And pronto.

5 minutes I waited patiently listening to one of the most inane conversation until he eventually finished. Already annoyed by his ignoring of me, I was not impressed when he proceeded to dial another number.

“Er, excuse me – any chance of a pint of Guinness please?”

“Aye – sure no problem” came the thick Dublin-accented reply as he made it sound as if it was the BIGGEST PROBLEM EVER to pour a pint of the aforementioned Black Stuff for me. Once again he clocked the Norn Iron shirt (did I mention it was worn by Sir Gerry Armstrong at the Mex – oh aye, I did – sorry about that)

My grandmother should be proud of the way she instilled good manners in me as a child and I’ll always say my pleases and thank-yous but just to show the guy that I was not impressed at him at all, I went and sat on the terrace waiting for my pint.

That will teach him for treating me like a leper, I thought to myself. (In Belgium, terrace service is a more or less given in every bar – no matter how small or how busy they may be. The Irish Times, however has a sign behind the bar announcing “No Waiter Service” almost like they’re proud of it.)

After at least another 5 minutes, Surly Barman appeared with quite possibly one of The Worst Pints of Guinness Ever. The head too big and spilling down the side of the glass, he placed it on the table without do much as a word to me, although I think he may have grunted, no doubt all talked out from his two conversations about how “wrecked” he was and how “mental” the night before had been.

I used my beer mat to scrape off some of the foam, having already decided to watch the football back in my local (but more about that place in a wee bit).

Halfway through The Worst Pint Ever, the barman came out onto the terrace and not content with showing how extremely talented he was in being rude, getting wrecked and pouring shocking pints of Guinness; he then proceeded to employ his artistic abilities as he started to write on the advertising board.

“ALL THE HOME NATIONS MATCHES LIVE ON BIG SCREEN TODAY” came the proud declaration by way of the barman’s scrawl.

He then proceeded to write the matches that would BE SHOWN LIVE ON BIG SCREEN TODAY:

First up: Germany v Republic of Ireland

Yes quite. A Home Nation? Mmm – not sure too many Republic of Ireland supporters would go along with that observation.

And then the rest of the matches complete with kick off times:

Scotland Faroe Islands

England Andorra

Czech Rep. Wales

And then of course….nothing.

Just as I was watching this little performance with interest but with no surprise, it’s a lonely thing to be a soldier of the GAWA in foreign lands, my Canadian friends arrived.

“Like the shirt – where did you get that?” my mate asked.

I explained to my friends that is worn by Sir Gerry Armstrong…well you know the rest, with the barman in ear shot still beavering away next to me with his artwork.

“Shouldn’t that be behind a frame somewhere?” my mate’s wife responded.

“Not at all – the Green and White Army’s colours need to be flown loud and proud, although there’s not much point flying them here seeing as they’re not even showing the bloody match. Let’s go to Laundry Day” (which I have to admit had always been the plan – I never drink in The Irish Times because this sort of thing has been going on for years)

After spending 3 hours at laundry day – not some clothes-washing marathon as you may think – but in fact a 12-hour dance fest, where I got my freak on in true GAWA ambassador style; we then indeed did go to our local - a fantastic football bar 2 minutes walk from where I live and only 5 minutes from The Irish Times.

Owned by an English guy and his Flemish wife and despite the rather dubious name of Café Old Trafford and ignoring all the ManYoo memorabilia inside, it’s where we go to watch all our football matches - a place where supporters of all colours and creed can always be sure of a warm welcome, along with the rather unfortunate waxing lyrical by the owners about how fantastic ManYoo are.

So to finish this rather long-winded rant and rave (it obviously wasn’t too busy this night shift, was it?):

Café Old Trafford, Lepoldsplaats, Antwerp - GOOD

The Irish Times, Grote Markt, Antwerp – MOST DEFINTELY BAD!

Having said all that, Antwerp is a fantastic place for a few bevvies and some craic. If you’re ever in town – look me up – I’ll be sat at the bar of the Old Trafford proudly wearing my Norn Iron shirt. The one worn by Sir Gerry Armstrong at…

So who’s with me? Anyone else out there with similar experiences on their travels?

Err, PS – I’ve just found out that I can make it to the Denmark match but I need a ticket. Anyone out there with a spare?

Thanks for listening.

Doing the family thing

As you probably know by now I recently went on a week’s vacation to the south of France.

I have already mentioned previously on this blog that during that time I spent two amazing days doing absolutely ridiculous things. Once in a lifetime things and even then, once in a lifetime if you are very, very fortunate as I undoubtedly was.

But what about the rest of the trip? Anything else worth reporting from the rest of my time?

I think so – and this is the blog dedicated to the rest of the vacation experience – the week I went to the south of France and did “The Family Thing”

19 of us went, men women children and a dog (but more about him later), on vacation to a beautiful part of the world, a lovely villa, located just outside the village of Lorgues in Provence.

I set off on the Friday evening in a Volkswagen minibus organised by a friend of ours. 5 adults and 2 kids as well as our luggage set off from the outskirts of Antwerp at around 20:00.

09:00, the next morning, we had arrived. Yes folks, it was a long, long drive and one that only one member of the group actually did. The rest of us being chauffeur driven all the way, our friend not accepting any of our offers to relieve him of driving duty.

Perhaps he didn’t trust us with the driving, I don’t know, but with only 4 short stops en route, it was a hell of a task to undertake and one that he managed with admirable fortitude.

Relieved of any driving duties, we did the only thing we could under the circumstances – we brought two bottles of red wine along for the ride with the intention of getting more along the way.

The two bottles were polished off before we had even left Belgium (by the two Irish contingent in the bus might I add) and this presented us with our first problem – because unknown to me the service stations in France don’t sell alcohol. A perfectly understandable policy but it is something that I take for granted here in Belgium. Alcohol is available just about anywhere in Belgium. And I mean anywhere.

Take for example drinks machines in train stations across Belgium.

Along with the usual cans of Cola, Fanta and water, it is possible to get cans of Stella Artois or Jupiler as well. And not only that, the beer is actually cheaper than the soft drinks.

Yes, quite.

Forced into sobriety for the rest of the trip, there was nothing to do but sit back and enjoy the ride. Except that’s not something that I am very good at, preferring to drive, I find it difficult to get comfortable when not actually driving myself. So as I stared out of the window and looked at the passing traffic (most of it passing us it has to be said), I hoped that sleep would take me into its welcoming arms and pass at least some of the journey for me.

Unfortunately, apart from a few stolen minutes here and there, I remained awake for the whole trip, a rather quiet journey, the kids having no problem going to sleep and behaving as good as gold, the journey being punctuated only by the 4 stops, where cigarettes were consumed at a frantic rate.

I have to say that GPS is a wonderful invention although I don’t actually have it in the Black Ninja (everyone has a nickname for their car, don’t they?) but it does help if you follow the instructions given by the ‘sexy lady’ when driving in the middle of nowhere in France.

To be fair though, our destination wasn’t even on the GPS, so the faffing around at the end was probably unavoidable. A phone call to some of the people that were already there ensured that we got to our home for the week just after 09:00 in the morning.

After we all said our hellos, I placed my luggage (a hold-all and my laptop) in my room and immediately changed into swimming shorts and flip-flops, grabbed my ciggies, a towel and a book and went down to the swimming pool, a rather splendid large L-shaped affair.

Whilst splashing and thrashing my way through a few lengths, I experienced my first introduction to our canine companion, a rather vocal Jack Russell.

Now folks, I have always avoided naming people on this corner of cyberspace. I write for the fun of it and whilst I have received some very nice comments from some of you about it, I certainly don’t expect everyone to agree with what I write but I would hate it if I caused anybody any embarrassment. Just because I choose to bare my sole on occasion in this, My Wee Corner of Cyberspace, does not mean that anyone else, guilty of nothing other than being a friend of mine should be exposed against their wishes on this blog.

However, having said all of this, I feel that on this occasion, there really is no alternative for me other than to name and shame Dinky, the aforementioned Jack Russell. Yes, Dinky came and joined me at the swimming pool and continued running up and down the length of the pool yelping repeatedly and constantly, shattering the early morning peace.

I gave up (to be honest, I probably didn’t have too many more lengths left in me anyway); lay down on a sun lounge, lit a cigarette and started reading. Dinky lost interest and rejoined the rest at the villa. I settled into my book and, although the sky was overcast, it was still pleasantly warm enough to be quite content with myself.

To be honest, lying by the pool with book in hand was the position that I adopted for most of the trip, being glad just to get away from the hustle and bustle of ‘Boring Belgium’ for a while.

Soon the clouds broke and the sun started shining and all was good in the world. A few of the kids came to the pool and started playing around and I helped myself to a glass of wine before settling down to the book again.

My early morning peaceful reverie was soon shattered once again by Dinky yelping excitedly by the pool. As I contemplated various ways of disposing with him, I thought that this could be a long week if things continued like this.

It did. How a dog so little can make so much noise is beyond me.

Apart from the two excursions to St. Tropez and Monaco, the rest of the vacation was just what I had hoped it to be – relaxing. After a few hours of lazing by the pool, I caught up on some much needed sleep, opting for a little siesta. This was exactly what I was looking for, for you see, I spend too much of my time running about Belgium until the wee hours of the morning and the few weeks in the build up to the vacation, I had been going to many festivals and concerts, so nothing appealed more to me than just getting away from it all and chilling out.

Apart from a couple of evenings where we went into town for dinner, we dined at the villa, everybody chipping in with preparing dinner, setting the table, clearing the table, doing the dishes (or at least loading them into the dishwasher) and preparing the coffees.

Occasionally, a few of us men went into town to hunt, forage and provide for the women and children. This basically meant racing down into Lorgues, filling up a shopping trolley with the supplies and then heading to a wee terrace café in the village for a few sneaky drinks. Even though everyone knew that’s what we were up to, there was something deliciously naughty about those afternoon drinks.

The first afternoon I joined the guys on their foraging mission we went to a terrace and sat down at a free table. The neighbouring table was occupied by an elderly gent with a poodle on his lap, which I find a deeply disturbing sight at the best of times (a poodle on a guy’s lap – not elderly gentlemen).

However, even more noticeable was the guy that he was talking to. Honest to God, if you’d looked up ‘Stereotypical French Man’ in ‘The Xenophobe’s Guide to Different Nationalities’ there would have been a photograph of this man.

Sporting dungarees, a black and white striped top, carrying a wicker basket over his arm with a stick of French bread protruding and smoking Gauloises cigarettes, all that he was missing was a black beret and a string of onions, to complete the picture.

As our two neighbours conversed animatedly in French, my Flemish friends started to discuss the guy with the poodle on his lap in Flemish. Clinging on to it like it was a loved one, I could see their point.

Shortly afterwards, Stereotypical French Man bade farewell to his friend, leaving Elderly Gent sipping his Heineken (what else?) and stroking his poodle.

One of my companions started conversing to the guy in French about the dog and much to all of our surprise, he responded in Flemish, asking if we were from Antwerp.

Ooops.

What a way to ingratiate ourselves with the ‘locals’. How much of our conversation had he heard? Enough to know my companions were from Belgium and that they hailed from. If he did hear the jokes being made about the poodle he didn’t mention it but instead proceeded to tell us His Story.

It turned out that the guy was originally from Ghent and had been living in Lorgues for the last 9 years since leaving the diamond business. His wife had taken ill 3 years previously and died, leaving him and the dog but he didn’t want to go back to Belgium, preferring the climate and the more sedate pace of life in the South of France.

Oh dear. The dog probably belonged to his departed wife and this was his daily reminder of her. No wonder he seemed so attached to it.

Drinks were quickly ordered for him and our table and we spent the next hour chatting with him about the differences between the two lifestyles. This guy was definitely a convert to the South of France way of life and had no desire to return to Belgium. When he told us his age, I could see it was certainly having a good effect on him. Putting him around the early 60’s, he told us that he was 76. The South of France was obviously treating him very well.

Having to return with our supplies, we bade our new friend (and his poodle) goodbye but not before inviting him to the villa in a couple of day’s time for dinner, which he gladly accepted. We arranged to meet him in the same café terrace, if not on Tuesday (which was market day in the village), then on the Wednesday when he was going to join us for dinner.

Incidentally, it turned out that this arrangement was something that he could not keep in the end, thanks to having a date with the village pharmacist. Yes, life in the south of France was treating this guy (and his poodle) well.

Perhaps I’m stating the obvious here, but one of the problems of going on a family holiday is that people operate on very different body clocks, kids generally going to sleep first, with some adults opting for early nights whilst others are happy to chat quietly on the terrace, sitting under the stars, sipping on wine into the wee hours.

I would place myself firmly into the latter category.

This in itself is fine; it does however present problems for those that wish to have a lie-in the next morning – another category of people I would firmly put myself into. However, thanks to the constant whine of the wash machine/drier coupled with the yelping of Dinky, the screaming of the kids at the pool, I can’t claim to have too many lie-ins during the vacation.

You might think it churlish of me to mention such a thing and perhaps it is but if the adults that are sipping wine into the wee hours of the morning do so well to keep their noise down, then surely there must be the same courtesy displayed by the people that get up early in the morning?

Am I expecting too much here?!

Perhaps I am and I have to say it wasn’t that big a problem – apart from the fact that my bedroom was right beside the washroom and Dinky’s constant yelping seemed to be delivered at just the right volume and frequency to ensure that a lie-in for me was extremely unlikely.

On more than one occasion I adopted the “if you can’t beat them, join them” attitude but it did make sure that the holiday was perhaps not quite as relaxing as I had hoped.

Upon returning from one of our ‘foraging’ expeditions I discovered that my nemesis, Dinky, had been at it again, deciding to chew extensively on a mini football that I had brought with me. Bought for me by a close friend whilst on vacation in Brazil, and then posted to me from San Francisco along with some other items for Christmas, it had done this many thousand-mile journey, only to meet its demise at the hands of Dinky.

I swear he did it on purpose.

The kids were great but they were just sooooooo tiring. They were continually on high spirits and enjoyed themselves immensely but you just knew as they ran around the swimming pool giggling, screaming and shouting that the tears were just around the corner. And they often were.

I left for this vacation with a near certainty that some time in the future I would father a couple of children and settle down and do the whole family thing, including the pet dog.

Now I’m not so sure.

Still – these are only minor grumbles. I had a lovely time doing the family thing. I’m glad I went - all in all it was a great wee holiday and I look forward to doing it all next year.

Although perhaps next time we’ll leave the kids and dogs at home…

The Graveyard Shift

I leave the office for a moment and step out into the cold, dark night.

I spark up a cigarette and inhale deeply and after a couple of seconds exhale the fumes in a long, relaxing sigh. I watch the cloud of smoke rise up into the air under the floodlit yard. The air is still, save for the distant hum of noise coming from the warehouse and the occasional rumble of truck engines.

I look at my watch.

04:30 and I’ve just finished my “lunch break”

It’s been another busy night on the night shift, keeping me occupied and on my toes at a time when I would normally be in my bed or at the very least out partying like most normal people.

Folks, I’ve come crashing back to earth from the dizzy heights of last week’s holiday with a bang, having started a new project which for the first time in my life requires me to work the night shift, between the hours of 22:00 and 06:00 each week night.

I’ve been called in to try and assist a distribution company in Belgium with their warehousing problems, and it seems that a lot of the problems occur during the night shift.

Lucky me.

Just how do people operate like this?

My mother and step-father have been working night shifts for years now. I really, really never knew how they could manage it and now, as I try and adjust my body clock into the night shift rhythm; I’m still none the wiser as to how they cope.

When I get home at 06:15 (no traffic jams at that time I’m pleased to report) am I supposed to stay awake for a few hours before going to bed and then waken or am I supposed to go immediately to bed? To tell you the truth, I haven't got a bloody clue.

What I do know is that my body clock and social life have been turned upside down. This is not how I want to live my life. Of course it has its advantages. I can go to the bank or the post office or the garage to get my car fixed, as I have done already this week.

But come on – this cannot be healthy. My colleagues in the warehouse seem pretty energetic during their shifts. The banter is good in the way that warehouses are. The radio plays Studio Brussel all night long, so work wise the job is fine. Perhaps it’s just a matter of getting into a rhythm. Time will tell, although I don't hope to be doing this so long that it actually becomes normal for me.

This blogette has been typed up on my return from the night shift. With the time approaching 07:00, I can hear people in the building getting up to go to work.

Me?

I’m off to my bed to recharge the batteries.

Good Night / Morning / Whatever.