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!

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.

A modern-day Leonardo da Vinci AND he’s Belgian?! Nobody told me!

Except that’s not quite true.

I had heard of the guy who calls himself Panamarenko - a name I absolutely love the sound of. So much so I am saying it aloud as I type it. Although to be fair, I’m typing this whilst on my lunch break and my colleagues are not too impressed by seeing the half-eaten mouthfuls of the tuna sandwich that I keep presenting to them so I’d better stop it.

Eating.

Not saying PAN-AMA-RENKO.

But before I talk about the man who I think is the greatest Belgian ever, let’s talk about the guy who Belgium thinks is the greatest Belgian ever.

Recently, the Belgian public was asked to vote for their Greatest Belgian.

The people of Belgium let their voice be heard and they all united as one.

Wallonions and Flemish, arm in arm, ran naked in the streets with Stella Artois in hands, munching on chocolates, all screaming the same name from the top of their voices (and spitting beer and crumbs of chocolate in the process).

The name of …… Father Damiaan.

Yes quite.

Not wishing to offend any Belgians out there and I hope you will please excuse my ignorance but….

Father who?

Wasn’t he the guy with the white beard who used to hang out with the Smurfs?

So – if like me – you needed a little bit of a refresher course on who this guy is – Remember The GREATEST Belgian *EVER*, here is a brief biography:

Father Damiaan (Missionary in a lepers' colony)
Born: Tremelo, 3 January 1840
Died: Molokaï, 15 April 1889

Jozef de Veuster grew up in Tremelo, the 7th of eight children. At the end of 1863, Jozef — who in the meantime was known as Damiaan — left for missionary work in Hawaii. In 1873, Bishop Maigret decided to send him to the island of Molokaï for three months. He stayed there for the rest of his life. Ignoring advice to avoid any risk of infection, Father Damiaan worked for and with those suffering from leprosy. He eventually died in 1889 from leprosy, but had become world famous in the meantime.

So let’s this straight folks:

This is a guy from a small town in Belgium, who managed to get the dream ticket of a cushy little number preaching to the “heathen hordes” in Hawaii – Hawaii of all places – and decided to leave it to go to a leper colony to help out. Which in itself, is very commendable, although not everyone would have made the move.

But to then follow that up by going against all medical advice and staying for too long on a disease-infested island, then contracting the disease himself, and finally dying on aforementioned leper colony with aforementioned disease, could surely seem to some to be acts of anything BUT greatness.

Acts of bloody stupidity even.

Of course I think what he did was truly courageous and showed super-human levels of kindness. The guy’s complete lack of thought for his own well-being when compared with being able to help suffering people has got to be admired and the world would be a much better place if there were more people like him.

Provided they listened to some friendly advice from time to time.

I have no doubt the guy “became world famous in the meantime”. I mean – the rumours of this guy must have spread throughout the civilised world when they got a hold of this story.

Just how daft can one guy be?

Apparently not as daft as a whole country can.

But then who am I to comment? The people of Belgium have spoken and their choice has been made.

Father Abraham, sorry, Damiaan it is.

Which brings me to the point of this blog. (Is there ever a point?)

Panamarenko (there’s that name again!)

For those of you that hadn’t heard of this Belgian guy before, here’s a brief bio.

(Folks - isn’t this week’s blog just so EDUCTIONAL? Don’t panic – next weeks will be all about setting fire to one’s farts…)

Anyway – on with the show.

This is taken straight from his website www.panamarenko.be – including the spelling and weird turn of phrase at the end.

“Panamarenko (born in Antwerp, 1940) is an exceptional and unclassifiable figure in contemporary art, who has been described as 'one of the great creators of the end of the century'.

Artist, Engineer, Poet, Physicist, Inventor and Visionary, and has for thirthy years pursued a singular course of exploration of space, movement, flight, energy and the force of gravity.

His work, fusing artistic and technological experiment, takes many forms: Aeroplanes, flying carpets, cars, flying saucers, submarines and birds. Spectacular structures of strange beauty, both playful and inspiring.

Welcome in the wondrous world of Panamarenko.”

OK – but his own website would say that, wouldn’t it?

What about website from a shit-kicking bogman from the Antrim valleys? What does it have to say about it?

Well folks –

The show finishes on Sunday (29th Jan) and if you have a chance GET TO IT BEFORE IT CLOSES!!

I know that sounds like a cop-out, but come back this time next week and we can discuss further. You can tell me what you thought about “The Raven’s Variable Matrix”, the “Prova Car” or the wonderful “K2 – The 700-metre-high flying jungle and mountain machine”.

And of course the “Aeromodeller” has to be seen to be believed.

You’ll thank me for it afterwards. Honestly you will.

Now of course I’m no art critic (no really I’m not) but I loved it.

So go to the exhibition - I’ve been there, done that, and bought the ridiculously overpriced glossy book to go with it.

You should do the same.

What are you waiting for? Go!!

Ah yes ok – WHERE is it perhaps?

It’s in the Museum of Modern Arts, Place Royale, Brussels. See website for details: www.fine-arts-museum.be/

Finishes Sunday.

I’m excited for you! Have fun in a world where words like BING are in everyday usage. It will do you good.

Are your eyes painted on?!

The frost twinkled in the early-morning sunshine of a fine, crisp, winter Saturday morning as I made my now customary weekly drive from Antwerp out to the suburbs. To be precise - a small village with the strange name of 's Gravenwezel located about 20 minutes north of Antwerp.

In a previous life, I would have seen 09:00 on a Saturday morning as “lying-in-my-bed-being-lazy time” or on some occasions, it would still constitute part of my Friday night out but yet, for the past couple of months I have found myself doing this trip on an increasingly regular basis.

Indeed, irrespective of the weather, or regardless of the excessiveness of the night before, I’ll more often than not find myself out in the suburbs combating the early nature of the hour by shouting myself hoarse at a bunch of six-year old kids.

So what is the reason for me sacrificing my comfortable bed at such an ungodly hour on a Saturday morning?

Well, it probably comes as no surprise to those that know me that the reason is of course football-related.

But bear with me; for this is not just about any football, this is football in its purest form – junior football. The under 7’s of FC ‘s Gravenwezel to be exact.

Now before you jump to any conclusions, I am not some sort of closet pervert that gets his kicks out of watching small boys run around in shorts.

In fact, the eldest son of dear friends of mine plays in the team and when he was a bit younger, I used to spend a lot of time playing football in their garden with him. I like to think I taught him everything he knows but of course that couldn’t be further from the truth. He is a great wee player in his own right – a bit timid on the ball perhaps but certainly one of the team’s most skilful players.

It has to be said the team that they have put together is really quite a special collection of kids, having only suffered one defeat this season – and that a closely fought 6-5 defeat.

There is a lot of talent in the team and if they can stay together for a few years I can see the team developing into a force to be reckoned with. Their coach is a great guy and their parents are really enthusiastic – the only thing that could happen is that the guys start to find an interest in other things - girls for instance - and what a slippery slope that would be, eh?

I have to say the first time I was asked, I balked at the idea, much more preferring the notion of being tucked in my bed until the pm of the Saturday.

However, my friends, not to be undone and being of a resourceful nature, invited me over to their place for the Friday evening and we went out for drinks, and let me stay overnight.

So, it came to pass at some God-forsaken hour on the Saturday morning that their youngest son came into my bedroom and bounced up and down on the bed, screaming and shouting until I was forced to get up.

There was no getting out of that one.

And I have to admit, I haven’t looked back since, I think missing only one game over the past two months.

Make no mistake – this is not just two teams playing each other every week. This is a whole other world that up until that point I hadn’t known even existed. There are something like 500 members affiliated with FC ‘s Gravenwezel, male and female, representing teams of all age groups, right up to veteran stage.

The facilities are impressive as well, with four pitches, changing rooms, floodlights, and last but not least the club house. And some of the away matches have been in even more impressive surroundings.

As I walked to the football pitch (thankfully just out the back of my friends’ expansive back garden), slowly coming to terms with being awake, I was struck by all the hustle and bustle going on around me. Proud parents, energetic kids, enthusiastic coaches, referees – there are four matches going on at any time. The place is a hive of activity.

A veritable cacophony of noise, coaches barking orders, mothers cheering their kids on, children shouting, referees whistling, fathers giving encouragement and me – the Irish football hooligan shouting at the referee.

Lord knows what they made of me at the first game.

Of course I toned it down compared to going to watch Liverpool but after my initial
“Auch Referee!! Are your eyes painted on??!!” I did receive some strange looks.

Needless to say it did not take long for me to sober up, although the post-game beers that went on long into the afternoon as the kids continued playing football, made sure that sobriety only visited for the shortest of time.

Since that first day, I have gone back as often as I can and it is always a great social event. I was even invited to the parent’s New Year party last Friday - and me – the only one without any children of his own.

As I stood in the club house, swapping football stories with the coach and fathers and flirting with the mothers, I wondered just who enjoyed the football more – the kids or the parents?

I suppose when you think of it – it doesn’t matter. The whole environment is a pleasant experience and one that has become as big a part of my social life as I perhaps used to spend chasing women.

And since I’ve officially retired from that caper, I hope my friend’s son continues playing football for years to come!

For tomorrow’s game, I get a lie in – kick off is only at 11:30 – which is probably just as well, because tonight I’m going to a transvestite show.

As you do.

At least I’m staying at my friend’s again. You can’t be too careful.

New Year’s Resolutions – The Follow Up

Keeping New Year’s Resolutions is never an easy thing.

We start off the New Year with all the best intentions but invariably we succumb to our weaknesses and by the end of January we’re back doing all the stuff that we said we wouldn’t do and are not doing the stuff that we said we would.

But I am determined to do better this year.

A case in point being the resolution to “Do More Exercise”.

So with that in mind, I found myself heading to a sports hall in the outskirts of Antwerp yesterday evening to take part in my first game of indoor football in 9 months.

With a couple of games of squash, pushing my luck, running up bar bills and chasing after women the only forms of exercise that I’ve been pursuing in the interim, it was not before time that I got myself back onto a football court.

Little did we know as we set off from the café at 18:15 yesterday evening just how eventful the evening was to become.

Taking two cars with six “strapping athletes” / “overweight beer monsters” (delete where applicable), we set off to the game.

In no particular order the cars were populated by:

DJ Bram - a guy who shared his birthday with the late Pope John Paul II
Stefan – Man United fanatic, so therefore not that knowledgeable about football.
Mark – Former marine and tri-athlete with the emphasis on ‘former’
G-Man – The granddaddy of the group but as an ex-professional footballer a lot was expected from him (based on his own build up)
PopTart – My good mate from Cork, the wizard on the ball, the guy is a legend. In his head.
And me, your humble scribe.

As we headed off, my car in lead, with Mark following behind, we deftly weaved our way through the Antwerp rush hour.

Unfortunately, not quite sure of which direction I had to go and somewhat confused by the sign posts (certainly not the first time that that has happened to me in Belgium!), I ended up in the wrong lane and tried a quick manoeuvre into the lane to my right to rectify the situation.

A manoeuvre that proved to be too quick for the gentleman who was driving up alongside me.

Before I noticed my mistake, our cars collided, the right side of mine embracing and kissing the left side of his.

Pulling out of the madness of the traffic and cursing myself, we started to deal with the formalities of the insurance details.

Having spent my entire existence in Belgium slagging off the driving abilities of the locals, I have to put my hands up and say that the accident was entirely my fault.

I also have to say that the guy who I crashed into was probably the nicest, calmest victim of a crash in the world.

Ever.

I would even go as far as to say that if I ever had the misfortune of crashing again, I would choose to do it with this guy (although he might not be so keen).

Along with our insurance details, we swapped, jokes, cigarettes, football stories, although I drew the line at swapping saliva with him. His wife didn’t look so amused but as he kept saying… “Shit happens”.

So once the details were shared, we then went on our journey again – with the guy that I crashed into actually saying “Follow me out of town and I’ll show you where you’re supposed to be going”

Stefan, the wit, followed that comment with a “Make sure you don’t follow him too closely”

After all that excitement, we arrived on the football court at 19:15, a mere fifteen minutes later than planned. 15 minutes that we were glad of not having played, come the end of the hour.

We met up with the other three players that had turned up:

“Monster” Mons – top bloke from Libya and the chief organiser of the game
Crazy Legs Gerd – a tall Belgian whose long legs have a habit of taking the ball off you and finally,
Tony, an English fella who we hadn’t met before but endeared himself instantly to me by turning up wearing a Liverpool shirt.

The game itself was an entertaining affair.

Because of the odd number, we had to split into two teams of 5 and 4, but the numerical advantage didn’t seem to have much affect at first; the team of 4 (Gerd, Mons, Tony and me) streaking off into a 2-goal lead. The first a tap-in by me after some good teamwork and the second a thunderbolt from distance by Tony.

The team of five looked rattled.

Suddenly however, the game turned with 2 goals coming in short succession restoring parity.

2-2 and game on.

A bit of tit-for-tat goal-scoring ensued that saw the scores go to 3-4 in favour of the team with only 4 players, the fourth a particularly memorable goal (at least for me) when I turned Mark inside out and from a narrow angle blasted the ball high and hard into the roof of the net, leaving the G-Man, who was in goal, with absolutely no chance. The fact that he was wearing a ManYoo shirt at the time making it all the more satisfying.

The game continued at pace and it wasn’t long before I hit the physical wall of pain. My nose was running and my throat felt like I had swallowed broken glass.

I went into goal, relieving The Monster of goalkeeping duty.

The Monster, having already notched his team’s third goal, seemed energised by being released from the shackles of the goal and buried a sweet shot from distance after some good work on the right by Gerd.

5-3 to us!

And then disaster struck.

A 50-50 challenge between the Monster and PopTart resulted in a sickening crunch that saw Mons hobbling off the field and in search of some medical attention, citing a possible broken ankle as the problem.

A quick reshuffle and with the teams now an even four players each, G-Man taking the wise option and opting to join the winning team, we restarted the game.

What?!

The guy was injured; there was nothing we could do for him. He was going to go to hospital. We’d paid for an hour and had already missed a quarter of it. He said he would be ok. He told us to play on!

*ahem*

Anyway. Where was I?

Oh yes - the game continued to ebb and flow and goals went in at both ends, with all of us registering at least a goal or two, although it has to be said that my own contribution was quite significant – raining shot after shot on the goal and some of them actually hitting their intended target from time to time.

Then, with the scores at 7-7, disaster struck again, G-man citing a broken toe as the result of a fairly innocuous looking tackle. He did however, play on, the loss in speed barely noticeable, because, well because he wasn’t that fast to begin with…

Shortly afterwards, we got the hat trick, when Mark joined the fast growing list of casualties.

After ghosting past me with a shimmy and a body swerve that a young John Travolta on the dance floor would have been proud of, he inexplicably stumbled over the ball and tore a muscle in his ankle.

Thankfully he was able to drag himself from the court as it could have been difficult trying to move him on our own, if you know what I mean…

So with 4 against 3, and one of those with a broken toe, the game it has to be said went a little stale. General fitness (or lack of it) was becoming an issue and we chopped and changed to try and keep things fairly even.

A tactic which seemed to work as the game finished 10-10.

It was with some relief that we greeted the players who had booked the court for the following hour - relief that we could retire to the bar and relief that the rest of us had made it to the end of the game without too much incident.

After showering, we joined a fairly forlorn looking Monster at the bar, nursing his exposed foot with some ice.

So, as we drank our non-alcoholic drinks, we made our arrangements for the following week, injuries permitting.

I’m pleased to admit that the car-journey back to Antwerp was pretty uneventful although PopTart and I went for a few drinks afterwards (to “work off all that exercise”) that were anything BUT uneventful.

Disgraceful behaviour for a Monday night but we deserved it – after all, we’re back doing regular exercise now, aren’t we?

FINAL SCORE:
10-10
( + 2 damaged cars / 3 damaged bodies / several bruised egos)

The Strange Phenomenon of Sinterklaas and Zwarte Piet

First of all – Season’s Greetings to you all. This blog is coming to you from my little shoebox of an apartment in Belgium, having returned from a near life-threatening alcoholic overdose of a trip home, I now find myself in shorts and T-shirt at lunchtime on the Eve of New Year’s Eve, having treated myself to an evening off the booze and a twelve hour sleep.

All is good in the world again.

It’s taken me a while to write about this one but its something that I’ve wanted to bang on about for a while

On this planet called Earth that we all share and call our home – apart from those ex-girlfriend’s of mine who were most definitely from another plant – there is a wonderful diversity of life.

Languages, skin colours, morals, characteristics, appearances, fashion sense (or lack of it – see USA for details) all go to make this world of ours a world of constant wonderment.

Granted I’m no Alan Whicker, Louis Theroux or Bill Bryson but believe me, I’ve been around a bit.

And I’m not talking about ex-girlfriends this time.

The thing that I want to discuss in this blog; something that differs the world over and has a huge impact on the life we live, the way we behave and the opinions we opine is perhaps one of the most curious of all.

Tradition.

Tradition dictates many things to us in many different forms.

For example, if you were a resident of Stonehaven, Scotland, tradition would dictate to you that every twelfth night of Christmas (6th January), you would take part in the Fireball-Whirling ceremony.

Or of course, who could forget the Stilton cheese rolling festival on the early bank holiday Monday in May?

Pancake day, Easter Bunny, pagan rituals, the list is endless.

And then of course there’s the dressing up that’s involved – like kids dressing up for Halloween Trick or Treat, the infamous wearing of beads at Mardi Gras, or the bowler hats as preferred by the less fashionable members of the Orange Order on the 12th of July.

But readers, there is a wonderful dressing up tradition that some of you may have been privy to already during the build up to the festive season here in Belgium.

The one of Sinterklaas and his seriously dodgy sidekick Zwarte Piet.

First of all, the history of this tradition - a tradition that I have witnessed the Flemish and the Dutch indulge in for several years now with more than a hint of uneasiness:

In the fourth century a.d. St. Nicholas (in dutch called "Sinterklaas" or "Sint Nicolaas"; in german called "Sankt Nikolaus") was the bishop of Myra, which is now situated in Turkey. According to the legend, he saved his town from starvation. He is also said to have revived three dead children, and to have offered gifts of dowries to poor girls. Some sources say that he died on the sixth of December in 343. In 1087 his relics were taken to Bari in Italy. It is unclear why, according to the Dutch tradition, he comes from Spain. Possibly it has something to do with the fact that St. Nicholas was the patron of sailors. In the 17th century Holland was famous for its navigation. Maybe by contact with Spanish sailors this myth began. It could also explain why St. Nicholas has "zwarte (black) pieten" to help him because the Moors dominated Spain for several hundreds of years. (Another [more popular] explanation for "zwarte piet" being black is that he has come down the chimneys so often [see below] that he can't wash the dirt off.)
His legendary gifts of dowries to poor girls led to the custom of giving gifts to children on the eve of his feast day, 6 December. The companions of St. Nicholas (in Germany and Austria they are called "Knecht Ruprecht" or "Krampus") show the victory over evil. Together with his "pieten" he visits children to punish the evil ones and to reward the good ones. The worst punishment is to be taken to Spain in "zwarte piet's" bag out of which the good children get the sweets (called "pepernoten", "taai-taai", or "schuimpjes") and presents. A less radical punishment is to get the "roede" (rod) instead of presents. Nowadays there are not much evil children any more...
A few weeks before his feastday St. Nicholas comes to Holland (and Belgium) on his steamer with all his "pieten" and the presents which they prepared in Spain during the year. This event can be seen on Dutch television. From his arrival in Holland till his feastday the children can put their shoes in front of the fireplace. During the night St. Nicholas visits all the houses by travelling over the roofs on his horse, traditionally a white/grey (called "Schimmel" in dutch), and "zwarte piet" enters the houses through the chimney to put little presents in the children's shoes. Sometimes the children put straw, carrots and water near the shoe for the horse.
On the eve of his feast day St. Nicholas visits all children. After knocking on the door he gives them a bag full of presents (if they were good children). Early in the morning of 6 December, when he has visited everyone, he leaves and goes back silently to Spain, to come back next year.

OK, pretty harmless fun this may all seem, and the similarities with Santa Claus are plain for all to see, so why should this make me so uneasy?

Perhaps it’s because I come from the British Isles, where political correctness has gone mad.

Do you think that back home it would be possible for grown-up, white, men to paint their faces black and run around singing, playing pranks and giving sweets to little kids?
Remember the outcry from the golliwogs on the side of marmalade jars? Or who could forget the sudden lack of work for black and white minstrel shows? Or indeed our surprise to learn that “Baa, Baa, Black sheep” was not, as I had thought, a harmless children’s rhyme, but in fact something akin to the KKK’s anthem.

Erm, quite.

But yet, in this modern multi-cultural society that we live in, the legend of Sinter Klaas and his sidekick Zwarte Piet continues to be played out on a yearly basis to the delight of young children across this little corner of Europe.

Belgium is Boring? Perhaps not. But it’s certainly a lot more blasé about being politically correct.

Perhaps it’s we stuck-up Brits and Americans that have the problem? It certainly wouldn’t be the first time…

New Years Resolutions

OK Folks,

As sure as eggs are eggs, the old year has passed us by at an alarming rate.

I’m sure the seeds of time fall quicker the further on life’s journey we travel but that’s the sort of philosophical bullshit I’ll leave for other better qualified luminaries such as Keith Chegwin, Mr. Blobby and errr, George Galloway.

Just what the hell is that man doing??? As if it wasn’t weird enough an MP appearing on naff (but oh such compulsive viewing) reality TV show, Celebrity Big Brother, I hear that yesterday evening he was in a dressing gown, acting like a pussy cat and getting stroked by “actress” and ex-wife of Dennis Waterman, Rula Lenska.

And to think this man had the entire US senate by the balls just a few short months ago. If only they had this TV footage to discredit him at the time, then the senate might not have been made to look so feeble and useless by the Scottish MP.

But (and not for the first time) I digress…

As is common for most of us, this is the time of year where we take stock of our lives. We reflect on the past 12 months and look forward to the next twelve, usually (if you’re like me) hoping that the next year will be better than the previous one.

It’s also an opportunity to wipe the slate clean. To start afresh. To get your act together.

Hence our penchant for making New Year Resolutions.

It’s not something I would usually do, but this year I’ve decided to make a list and not only that but I’m going to use this moment to share them with you. I wonder if yours are similar?

So here they are. In no particular order:

In the year 2006, I will endeavour to:
(and to assist you I have broken them into little sub-sections – very thoughtful of me, eh?):

Health
Drink less
Eat healthier
Do more exercise
Sleep more

Mind
Read more
Write more
Laugh more
Cry more
Smell the roses more
Smell my farts less
Keep my blogs down to a shorter length (Hoooorrrrayyyy!!)
Make my blogs more frequent (Booooooo!!!)

Financial
Basically, just get myself sorted!!

Personal (and this might take a while…)
Spend more time with people that care for me as much I do them
Spend less time with egotists, bullies, users, arseholes and twats
Avoid women who are Psycho Bunny Boiler Chicks / jealous / manipulative / beautiful (who wreck my head)
In fact, fuck it, I’m avoiding women, full stop.

Let me explain:

The year started off well, had a dip mid-spring, became a little bit nicer for a while at the start of summer, then became confusing as the summer progressed and then petered away to a depressing slump by the end of the year.

But hold on, if I reflect on the year past and indeed the past few years, I’m perhaps being too hard on the female species because don’t get me wrong…..I LOVE WOMEN!!

I think they’re a great invention. Every one should have one, but MY GOD how they can turn a quite normal care free life into a torrid existence of torture and torment.

But as I write these words to vent my spleen (as I so often do), or get something off my chest, I feel a calming influence come over me. It’s like the harder and more frantic I batter this keyboard, the more at ease with myself and the world that I live in, I become.

So having calmed down just a little, I am now able to see more clearly and can see my predicament…..

I MUST STAY AWAY FROM BELGIAN WOMEN!!

Hence my existence as a monk over the past few months. Some more of the same this year please!

OK – I feel better after that one.

Thanks for listening. The rest of the world – lock up your daughters!