An open letter to the International Olympic Committee

Dear Sir/Madam/The powers that be in deciding these matters,

Please spare me a few minutes of your undoubtedly very precious time without further ado, I shall get straight to the point.

I have just returned from a very enjoyable vacation in the south of France, a vacation I shared with 7 Flemish friends and a little 13 month old baby, who doesn’t really have anything to do with the reason for writing, but I just mention him, because , well – he’s a cute kid.

Now where was I? - Ah yes, the vacation.

A great time was had, lazing around the pool of our stylish villa all day long, relaxing, reading and sipping at chilled rosé wine. We even found the time to go on a couple of wine tasting days out, one to the charming village of Gigondas and the other to the world-renowned Chateauneuf de Pap. (I hope you’re as impressed as I am).

Anyway, the purpose of this letter is not to swap vacation stories with a complete stranger – although if you would like me to, I’m certainly up for it if you are (photos guarantee reply); oh no, the reason is that I have a proposal for you to consider a sport for inclusion in the Olympics possible even in time for the 2012 London Olympic Games.

[BTW thanks for giving us that one – you know we’d have sulked for years if you hadn’t and The Sun would have gone on one of it’s xenophobic rants and the whole thing could have got terribly messy, so I’m sure you know that it’s for the best – but am I the only one that thinks it was worth it just to get one over on Le Frogs?!!]

But I digress.

The sport that I would like you to consider for inclusion – nay include is that most taxing of disciplines, petanque or “French Bowls” as it is more commonly known in the rest of the civilised world.

For the uninitiated, I would suggest visiting the website http://www.laboulebleue.fr/en/html/reglepetanque.htm for details of the rules, but I certainly do not question the sporting knowledge that lies within your ranks and will not insult your intelligence by going through the rules at this juncture.

Not only do I feel it is a sport worthy of inclusion but I’m sure intelligent people like yourselves can also see the beauty of including this game – the French may not have got the Olympic Games, but at least they’d have a little piece of back home in which they can compete in with a great chance of winning. This should ease their loss somewhat and give them something to strive for, although I draw the line at making ‘acts of cowardice’ or ‘smelling’ Olympic disciplines – we may as well just give them the bloody medals straight away if that’s the case.

Petanque is a fine sport, suited best for lazy, sunny, Sunday afternoons at the local town square, whilst sipping on chilled pastis or rosé wine, so it’s obviously perfect for London and its environs. I mean just think what the Eastenders omnibus would be like if they were all playing petanque in the gardens of Albert Square?....Exactly!

However, this is not just about recommending a fine upstanding sport for inclusion in the Olympic Games, for I must confess to an ulterior motive for me mailing this suggestion to you.
For you see, whilst on vacation, I was introduced to this most magnificent and noble of sports for the first time and I embraced it into my manly bosom with great gusto and fervour. Indeed, I found it to be an absolute joy - mainly because I kept winning, granted – but also because it gave me an excuse to drink lots of rosé wine without too much of a reprimand from the other half.

Cometh the man, cometh the hour and I don't mind admitting that for the period of that vacation I was a lean, mean, rosé drinking, petanque playing machine - Man, rosé and petanque in perfect harmony.

I've finally found my talent in life! OK - it's taken me into my early 30’s to find it but the beauty of it all is that I can still play petanque when I’m old, fat, bald and stink of piss – you only have to go to any town square in rural France on any given Sunday to see this to be the case. My time has come!

Indeed so impressed am I with my talent for petanque that I have copied the Great Britain and Irish Olympic teams into this letter, to offer myself as a representative for either fine nation in both the individual and team events.
(Dual nationality being one of the benefits of being from Northern Ireland and therefore twice the chance for Olympic inclusion!)

Especially when you consider the fact that I was playing with my "bad arm" (my good arm still bandaged and recovering from a recent operation) and also this was my first time playing the game. Ever! And I was up against seasoned veterans in the sport, Belgian guys who are certainly no strangers to the demands of playing petanque in the blistering heat of Provence in conjunction with all day drinking .

What can I say? When it comes to combining all day drinking with throwing objects accurately I'm definitely the guy for the job (and this has certainly got nothing to do with me being brought up on the streets in Northern Ireland).

As I am already convinced that you’ll give the sport of petanque the big 5-ring rubber stamp (and it’s been a while since I encouraged anyone to give me one of those), I have a few suggestions for you as to how the games should be incorporated into the global event that is The Olympic Games, in order for the sport to retain some of its humble authenticity:

• The arena should be an exact replica of a typical French village's town square, complete with small café terraces, where the spectators can sit and read newspapers whilst drinking café au lait and breathe in an atmosphere made all the more authentic by the subtle infusion in the arena's air conditioning system of smells of garlic, onions and unwashed sweaty bodies sprayed with eau de toilette.
• Chilled rosé must be available for competitors constantly. Not only does this add to the relaxed atmosphere of the sport, it also helps to loosen up the player’s throwing arm
• Berets, whilst optional in real-life petanque, should, in fact, be made compulsory for the Olympic version. This will add a certain colour and style to the sport which will have those in disciplines such as the cycling and swimming green with envy
• The berets could sport the player’s flag of nationality which will make it easier for Sky cameras to pick out players from their overhead ‘blimp-cam’
• Walking around with an air of indifference whilst shrugging shoulders and smoking Gauloises should be encouraged at all times

I trust that I am not alone in seeing how obviously the Olympic Games would benefit with the inclusion of petanque and look forward to reading your confirmation that my proposal has been accepted.

Regards

Jonny "The Petanque Prince" Black

PS – Team GB and Team Ireland, I look forward to receiving your invitation to represent these proud nations. It’s not an easy decision to make so I’ll base it purely on a first come, first served basis. Get in touch asap!

Blood, Sweat and Tears - The Rock Werchter Report - Part 3

Well folks, the gap between part two and three has been even longer than the one between parts one and two and I can only assume that by now you couldn’t give a flying fuck about the blood, sweat and tears from that eventful weekend, the memories of which are fast receding.

If this is indeed the case, I can only apologise as I demonstrate my innate stubbornness and continue with this, the third part of my sorry tale.

I’m sure there are already several papers circulating the internet, published by eminent psychologists as they analyse the mindset of the blogger and indeed that of the person who reads the blogger’s musings.

I suppose – if I was to think about it for any length of time – that there is something of an exhibitionist in the Blogger, perhaps even a kind of arrogance to even think for a moment that the experiences of one’s life would be remotely interesting for somebody out there to read, so I thank you, Dear Reader, for your perseverance.

Booker Prize material, whilst this stuff most definitely is not, I do hope you find the stories at least a little bit entertaining. Of course I enjoy writing and would continue to churn out this crap even if nobody out there were to read it but the fact that there are some of you out there that read my musings, keeps me motivated to continue with it, all be it at irregular intervals.

As a little anecdote to all of this, I am typing up this instalment, in the cool, shaded living room of a beautiful villa in the south of France, having decided to come here on vacation with several Flemish friends.

So having left the sweltering heat of the poolside, and the Belgians to their Flemish conversations, I have sought English-speaking solace here in the world of my blog, and considering that I have been here since Thursday evening, it is now Monday afternoon and we are only set to leave for Belgium at the weekend, there is every chance that I will come back and write some more.

I’m having a good time, but I’m sure you’d all be able to sympathise with the fact that it can be at times a little bit frustrating for all concerned at the language barrier that exists between us. They all speak English, of course, and whilst I have little more than a rudimentary knowledge of Flemish, it’s still difficult – we are, after all, on vacation, the heat is incredible and we are all hear to relax. Stumbling our way through conversations in ‘Flenglish’ sometimes seems to be just a little bit too much trouble for us all. But c'est la vie (just to throw in a third language into the mix).

So as I pour myself another local rosè wine, and enjoy the cool air of this villa, join me on this the third part of the Werchter Weekend tale.

I thank you for your patience…

As we all dragged our abused bodies out of our tents, we slowly set about regaining a state of consciousness capable of dealing with the day’s festivities that lay ahead. Breakfast consisted of bananas, oranges, those Grany cereal bars as well as a lot of crap - crisps, sweets, chocolate bars, and of course alcohol.

One of the participants of the weekend was a young English fella called Warren, the son of Abbie’s ex-boss and at 19 years of age, the baby in the group. This was his First Festival and he was embracing it with all the energy and innocence of youth and not to mention an unnerving ability to turn his space in the campsite into an episode of that American TV show, MacGyver, the guy who it seemed could put his hands to anything in order to get himself out of a tricky situation.

For a start, Warren’s tent was camouflaged and matched nicely with the camouflaged vest that he was wearing. Armed with a little gas cooker, we then watched in amazement as he then proceeded to make himself a pot noodle and cup of coffee. A fine breakfast that I’m sure, had it been around in bygone days of yore, would have ensured that the British Empire stretched even further throughout the four corners of this globe.

As we sat eating our breakfasts, we looked at the bands that were to be performing that day with much excitement. Closing was the dance act Faithless but before we got to that we were to be entertained by bands such as Within Temptation, The Kills, Garbage and my personal highpoint of the day’s entertainment – American punk rockers, Greenday.

PopTart continued to regale me of the previous night’s events, mainly at my expense. Apparently, during the chemical brothers and having decided to forgo the natty blue rain-mac, I had danced the night away, oblivious to the fact that I was absolutely drenched, the sweater that I was wearing turning into more of a tent as the evening had progressed.

I had absolutely no recollection of the visit to the first aid tent or the stop at the beer tent on the way ‘home’ although I was vaguely aware of wandering around the wrong campsite, like a little lost sheep, being lost in the dark surrounded by snoring Belgians sleeping in their tents seemingly having some sort of sobering affect on me.

With breakfast, along with my memory refresh, complete, we made our way to the festival site, where I immediately went to the first aid tent, this time accompanied by another friend, Matt, who needed attention to a tooth that he was having problems with. We were fast becoming extras in a low-budget version of ER.

When the resident doctor looked at my hand, his face became one of nervous horror.

“You’re going to have to go to hospital, the wound is getting infected! We’ll organise an ambulance to take you to Leuven hospital as soon as possible.”

I was absolutely gutted, and if truth be known, a little frightened at this new development.

And so it came to pass, that within a few minutes, I was saying goodbye to Matt and climbing into the back of an ambulance destined for nearby Leuven hospital, accompanied by another Werchter casualty, a young girl who had tripped over in the dark and managed to sprain her ankle.

I sighed to myself as I came to terms with the fact that my weekend was set to come to an abrupt end and cursed the decision to get my hand fixed. I was also aware of the fact that this was my first time in the back of an ambulance – an experience that I did not want to be repeating anytime again in the near future. I conceded a rueful smile as I thought of my time watching my home football team, Ballyclare Comrades, when we would sing “You’re going home in the back of an ambulance!” to players of opposing teams who were being stretchered off the field of play. It was a bit of a laugh then but there was certainly no humour to be found in my present situation.

I was admitted into the hospital and waited to be seen to for what seemed like an eternity, then a nurse came and called me into a room where she inspected my wound. Granted, it didn’t look too clever but I clung on to the slim hope that she would tell me everything was ok as she washed the wound.

“I’ll go get the doctor to have a look at this” I heard neither for the first time nor the last for that weekend.

I waited for several minutes for the doctor to arrive.

Whilst managing to keep a calming bedside manner, he looked even less impressed than the previous doctors.

“Our hand surgeon is in the operating theatre at the moment, but to be honest, you need to get this looked at by the surgeon that operated on you in the first place.”

I explained that my surgeon was only in the hospital on Tuesdays and Thursdays and after a long discussion, the doctor decided that he would consult with the hand surgeon to see what she had to say on the matter. He instructed the nurse to place a temporary bandage on my hand and sent me back out to the waiting room to await my date.

After some time passed, a time which was spent watching the limp, the lame and the damaged that proceeded past in Accident and Emergency, the nurse returned to me to inform me that the hand surgeon did not want to operate on a hand that had been operated on by another surgeon and that I should see my surgeon as soon as possible.

And that was it.

After a 45 minute wait for an ambulance and an even longer trip back to the festival site through the traffic jams (my encouragement to the driver to use the sirens and lights to speed our return being flatly refused) I arrived back at the scene of my departure two hours previous and rejoined the group with a really, really, crap bandage on my hand.

I didn’t see any reason for the weekend to finish, I mean after all, the hospital had washed their hands of me (pun intended) and sent me back to the festival. What was I supposed to do? Needless to say, I enjoyed the rest of the night and played catch up on the rest who had had by now a few drinks head start on me.

Shortly after I rejoined the group, I received a phone call from the late arrivals to our party, my Canadian friends, Chris and Janet, who had just returned from a week long trip to Yellowknife, Canada and were winging their way from Brussels airport to join us at the festival site.

It also transpired that on their journey in the train from the airport, they had fallen in with an Irish couple who were travelling from Luxembourg to join in the festivities and they had decided to tag along with the Canadians and put their tent up at our campsite.

A campsite that I, rather surprisingly, considering my lack of ability to find it the night before, managed to direct them to by phone from within the festival site and with Garbage performing in the background.

I suppose my Northern Ireland flag, brought especially for Therapy’s performance the following morning, flying proudly from the gazebos helped them find their way, but it certainly hadn’t helped me the night before.

They joined us just as Garbage finished which is a shame because that was one of the highlights of the weekend - I had no idea just how horny that Shirley Manson is and made a mental note to myself to dig out their CDs from my collection – the music definitely worth a revisit.

The rest of the night continued in the way that these things tend to do, with alcohol flowing, greasy food following greasy food but to be honest my experience that afternoon had left me feeling a little nervous as to just how bad my damaged appendage was becoming and because of that, and correctly so of course, I took things a little bit easier than the previous night.

Can I just state now for the record that Greenday were absolutely fan-fucking-tastic, every song an anthem and I really enjoyed their performance, for me the highlight of the weekend and even Faithless, who I have seen several times, put on a great show that sent us off into the night thoroughly satisfied with the evening’s experience.

As we joined the throng struggling to leave the festival site, suitably buoyed by the events of the previous few hours, with all the other thousands of people, I did what I generally do in these crowded, frustrating atmospheres – I started to sing.

And within a few lines of my song, and even though the mass of people were by and large tired, frustrated and impatient, it wasn’t long before I had managed to encourage a large proportion of the crowd to join in with me, which gave me no end of satisfaction.

The song that these Belgians and I were singing? None other than that greatest of football anthems – ‘You’ll never Walk Alone.’

Liverpool supporters around the world would have been proud.

Having been suitably encouraged by so many people’s involvement in this truly great song, I felt inspired to keep the mood going – after all we were no closer to leaving the venue and I had a captive audience.

So there was only one song to follow it up with – “Bohemian Rhapsody” by Queen and what a beautiful sight to behold it was! Belgians, rubbed shoulders with English, Irish, Canadian alike in one of rock music’s finest offerings.

Oh how the heart glowed with pride as I watched all these people of different nationalities united in that most of uplifting of experiences – the head banging section of the song as so once wonderfully demonstrated on the silver screen by Messers Wayne and Garth.

Having blasted out a wonderful rendition of that great song, we filed out into the night, searching for the beer tent from the previous night and the hospitality of the nice girl that had donated a couple of t-shirts to the sad and sorry-looking waifs that had stumbled into her establishment.

And upon arrival there it wasn’t long before we had the whole tent and beyond singing the same songs again. I decided I was on a role and encouraged by lots of alcohol, drunken friends and strangers alike and a delusion that I can actually sing, I stood up on a chair and gave a wonderful (at least I thought that then) rendition of ‘City of Chicago’ by Luka Bloom. A wonderfully, sad but inspiring song about the Irish potato famine and the lengths people went to, to try and survive the deadly pangs of hunger that drove so many from our land to seek survival in America.

Despite the fact that no-one there knew the words, ii was afforded a respect that you wouldn’t normally expect in such a situation and as I finished the song, I opened my eyes looked at the faces of the bemused onlookers and stepped down from the seat (but not before I got a rendition of Wonderwall going).

I went to my tent a happy man, the trouble with my hand long since dissipated in the darkness of night and the comforting embrace of drunken sleep…

Blood, Sweat and Tears - The Rock Werchter Report - Part 2

Apologies for the delay in getting this post out into blog land, I’m sure you've been struggling to eke out an existence in this crazy, cruel world since i placed part 1 up on the internet all those days ago and since left you hanging in suspense, so without further ado…

Having played the old "I-can't-help-anymore-I'm injured" card, my mate Isabelle and I headed off to the first aid tent, which just so happened to be inside the festival site, ensuring that we got to see the first act of the weekend, The Bravery, perform as well.

Showing a rare glimpse of sensibility and demonstrating a far too often missing responsibility I immediately took myself off to the first aid tent upon arrival at the festival site, where I was led to something that looked like the set of M*A*S*H – a huge canvas tent with lots of people milling about inside.

I filled in my details in an admission form and noticed that I was number 37, 36 people managing to injure themselves even earlier in the weekend than I had; which, rather bizarrely, I found quite reassuring.

I showed my hand to a nurse and watched as the colour drained from her face as she unwrapped what was left of my bloodied bandage.

“I’ll get a doctor to look at that for you” she said before hurrying off into the canvas labyrinth in search for someone that would help me.

I took the opportunity to look at my hand and was quite horrified to see that some of the stitches had popped out leaving a flap of skin dangling exposing a hole in the palm of my hand about the size of a 2 euro cent coin.

I was not impressed and although I am not of the medical profession, it seemed that the doctor shared my opinion.

“This is not the sort of environment to be walking around with an open wound. You run the risk of getting infection and your situation will get worse. I can patch this up, but you should really get this seen to by your surgeon as soon as possible.”

I listened in dismay and watched as he did his best to patch me up. Suitably repaired and with a nice fresh bandage I returned the festival, rejoining Isabelle to take our seats in the grass soaking up the evening rays supplied by the sun which had decided to make a grand reappearance just before The Bravery began their act.

But before doing so, there was one more important stop to make.

At the beer tent, I tried to get an inflatable Stella Artois tray that was capable of carrying 9 drinks but was dismayed to discover that you had to buy 10 drinks to get the tray for free.

There was only one thing for it.

“Can I have 7 beers and three waters please?”
“You want them all now?” said the barman looking at me like I had two heads.
“How else do you think I’m going to carry them?” I replied waving my bandaged hand.

The barman went to get a tray and set it down in front of me.

“Do you not think I’ve got enough to carry?” came out of me before I could stop it, quoting an old Smithwicks beer advert from Northern Ireland.

It has to be said that I laughed at my wit a lot more than the barman did….

Watching The Bravery, and singing along to classics such as “Honest Mistake” and “Fearless” we awaited on the arrival of the rest of the gang.

And we waited.

Faced with the predicament of a tray full of drinks going cold we did the only thing we could and consumed the lot, and indeed it was just as we were going to the bar for more during the set of New Order (yes – they’re still going) that the rest showed up.

It was time for the party to really start.

And boy did we party.

Unfortunately, I embraced the whole festival thing with just a little more gusto than was required and very quickly found myself stumbling amongst thousands of Belgians lost and trying to find the rest. The fact that we had set up base camp just to the left of a tall tower of speakers not helping me much in my quest to find a friendly face.

Next up on stage was the American rapper and self styled pimp (aren’t they all?) Snoop Dogg but to be honest, recollection gets a little hazy at this point, with “The Dogg’s” performance barely making an impact on my festival experience.

And anyway, I was there (at least for that night anyway) to see “The Chemical Brothers”, a band that I’ve had a soft spot for ever since my step father renamed my two brothers and I with the same moniker for reasons that should be quite obvious to regular readers.

Unfortunately my recollection of this act is not much better although I do remember dancing in the torrential rain (which had decided to return) waving my hands in the air only to get slapped in the face by my bandage which had decided to come apart again.

Cue another trip to M*A*S*H at the end of the night where I was rebandaged and this time supplied with a snazzy rubber glove to help keep the bandage dry.

All this I know now but you can imagine my surprise when I woke up the next morning completely oblivious to this knowledge in a tent with my mate “PopTart” and wearing a rubber glove.

I feared the worst.

Thankfully PopTart set my mind at ease as he recalled the evening’s events to me, including a visit to one of the many beer tents on the way from the festival site to the campsite.

Somehow, however, I had managed to lose PopTart on the way to the tent and had to be talked by phone by another friend, Abbie, back out of the wrong campsite and into the correct one.

Believe me, for Abbie to be soberer than me is quite an achievement but thanks to her help I eventually managed to get back to the tent for a few short hours sleep before embarking on day two of the festival, a day which would include such acts as Within Temptation, The Kills, Garbage, Greenday and Faithless.

Shame I didn’t get to see them all as I was ‘otherwise engaged’ sampling the delights of the back of an ambulance and two hours in nearby Leuven hospital…

Blood, Sweat and Tears - The Rock Werchter Report - Part 1

Before I go on with this most recent of addition to this corner of cyberspace, I am aware that some of you are experiencing problems when reading the text in your email. At the moment I can only suggest going to the website http://www.belgiumisboring.blogspot.com to see it in all it's glory. At least until I can sort out what the fuck it is that I am doing wrong!

Well Folks,

The dust has settled on yet another Rock Werchter festival...and what an eventful one it was.

For the uninitiated amongst you Rock Werchter is the largest music festival in Belgium and indeed one of the largest in Europe and has been rocking in its various guises for over the last 30 years.

Werchter itself is a small, sleepy town that lies between the Flemish towns of Mechelen and Leuven (the home of the beer Stella Artois) and is less than 30 minutes from Brussels.

Granted, the idea of spending 5 days in a field with 80,000 sweaty Belgians might not be everybody's cup of tea, but I consider myself fortunate enough to have been to the last three Rock Werchters and was determined to get to this year's event, purchasing my ticket through a long suffering friend and someone who I am sure feels like a part-time ticket agent. As per usual, the event sold-out within a matter of days, long before the final line-up was to be announced.

Make no mistake, the event is not for the faint-hearted. The festival is a 4-day long event, with the first band taking the stage at 18:00 on the Thursday and the final band closing on the Sunday at half past midnight. We had decided to stay the Sunday night to avoid the traffic leaving the event.

The build up to this year's event was setting the scene for a great one - a convoy of 12 of us were going to join in the festivities, the weather leading up to it had been scorching hot and several of my favourite acts were performing.

As per usual, the organisers managed to get a great collection of bands with many of my personal favourites playing. Although I suppose that is all a matter of taste but personal highlights for me were (and in no particular order):
Nine Inch Nails
Audioslave
The Chemical Brothers
Faithless
Greenday
Soulwax
Daan
Rammstein
and of course those fellow Northern Irish men - Therapy?

Spirits were high when we all met up at Thursday lunchtime in Antwerp's Grote Markt for a couple of pre-festival drinks, before setting off at around 14:00, only an hour later than planned which has gotta be some sort of record for the crowd of chronologically-challenged people that I knock around with.

At around 15:00 we joined the traffic heading fro the festival site and after crawling along in the glorious sunshine, we arrived at our destination and unloaded our cars at close to 16:00 - just as the heavens opened.

Caught in a huge deluge, weighed down by our camping gear, we were faced with no other option but to partake in our first of many visits to a burger van.

Suitably enchanced by our intake of grease-soaked fast food and seeing a break in the rain, we made a dash for the campsite and made our way to a corner of the campsite big enough to house our 6 tents, 2 gazebos and enough junk food to give Jane Fonda a coronary, we began to set up our base for the next five days.

Just in time to be caught in an even bigger deluge.

Setting up tents, especially those that have only recently been purchased, is a difficult enough task, but add in some howling wind and pelting rain, the task becomes a Krypton Factor task that even Gordon Burns (a fellow Northern Irishman) would have been proud of.

Needless to say tempers were frayed and long-standing friendships were put to a severe test.

Having purchased stunningly naff plastic raincoats at the more than reasonable price of 1.99 euros (believe me - even at this price - a little bit pricey) we put them on immediately, forgoing any semblance of fashion sense for the much more practicality of a pneumonia free festival. Certainly not designed for their freedom of movement, whilst protecting us from the torrential downpour, they only managed to further compound our situation.

Suffice to say we looked like a bunch of giant smurfs, indulging in a drunken rampage through an army surplus store.

Throw into this disastrous equation the fact that I was handicapped by my recent hand operation and was proving to be of as much use as tits on a skateboard and I am hoping that you are imagining a picture of just how difficult things were.

Multiply that picture by a thousand and you're getting somewhere close.

Of course by the time we had finished wrestling with the tents, swore profusely at mates and questioned our own sanity at the fact in deciding to willingly put ourselves into this predicament in the first place, the weather improved just as we had finished setting up base camp.

Unfortunately, during this mayhem I had managed to re-open the wound in my hand, the bandage soaked and bloodied, hanging off my hand making me look like the latter stages of a strip-tease act as performed by The Invisible Man.

This was not good.

With the supplies still to be retrieved from the cars, it was evident that I was in need of medical attention and accompanied with a friend I set off looking for it.

Unfortunately this was not for the last time in what turned out to be one hell of an eventful weekend...

An insomiac writes...

4:42, Tuesday morning and I am wide awake.

Morning is starting to break; the birds have already begun their morning chorus; the day grows steadily brighter, it’s pale light shining through the window, not to mention the really fucking annoying mosquito that has been buzzing about my naked, exposed body all night long.

In the darkness, I take flailing swipes at the wee bastard and every time I think I’ve got it, almost immediately my eyes flash open as I hear the incessant drone of its wings as it circles around me, planning its next attack.

It’s warm - very warm. Has been for the past couple of days and will continue to be so for another few.

But none of this is reason for the sudden bout of insomnia that finds me in front of my laptop - chasing the blinking cursor across the screen whilst sharing these thoughts with you.

Lord knows my body would be much better served in The Land of Nod, dreaming of impossible foursomes with Britney, Christina and Madonna, or scoring Champions League winning goals (this dream having replaced the dream of watching them winning it just a few short weeks ago).

For you see – I am in pain.

And I don’t mean the pain of inner turmoil; the pain of unrequited love; or even the pain of abdominal cramps after a late night curry – I am suffering physical pain.

To explain it all better to you I have to go back in time; a time before all The Millennium Hype, a time when Brit Pop ruled the world, a time when getting rid of my mullet hair and beard actually became a reality, finally realising that it didn’t make me look like George Best – pre-liver failure of course.

It was my final year at university – a strange period in anyone’s life. A time where the pressure of studies peaking at its frenetic climax clashes with the sudden realisation that This Is It - The End of an Era.

The end of arsing about, the end of parties, the end of Sensible Soccer competitions on the computer, the end of Wednesday night sessions on the poor mans snakebite – Thunderbird fortified wine mixed with LCL extra strength lager. We later found out that the LCL stood for “Low Calorie Lager” which, come to think of it, meant that we were getting our alcoholic kicks on a beer called Low Calorie Lager Lager. That would explain why it was so cheap.

As our final exams approached, our need to Succeed in Order to Make It was at loggerheads with our need to ensure that We Enjoyed Ourselves.

This was more difficult than it sounds.

During final year, the house I lived in was called Whitehaven. Legendary throughout the university, this place was the party house. A huge sprawling place, it looked like fuck all squared from the outside – from the faded gold lettering above the double front doors announcing its name to the passing world to the faded paintwork, only it’s size had any ability to impress.

Inside was a different matter all together.

Seven bedrooms and equipped with dance floor, fireman’s pole, sauna, huge stained glass window, perspex dome complete with spiralling coloured lights and a hallway big enough to drive a small family car through or play three-a-side football (the latter we did on a regular basis) this house provided no end of distractions.

Not that we needed much encouragement.

But I’m not going to bore you with tales of drunken debauchery, excess and wild parties – perhaps that’s something for the future – instead I want to tell you about the rather impressive staircase that Whitehaven boasted.

Or more specifically, the impact it had on me.

Going through the front door of the house the staircase was instantly visible at the far end of the house. A grand affair, the wide, varnished, wooden staircase swept up to a small landing where the stained glass window presided over proceedings, before branching off into two sets of stairs that doubled back on themselves to a balcony on the upstairs floor.

Stood on this balcony and looking over, you looked down at the bottom of the staircase a good 20 feet (6.5 metres) below.

This alone should have been thrill enough for me but for some reason that I am still trying to fathom after all these years it wasn’t.

Obviously possessed with the spirit of a long dead acrobat (no doubt one who died during a performance) or at the very least the indestructibility of youth but more likely a need to show off and do something that little bit crazier than the rest of my housemates, I would regularly take a run up to the banister, where I would place both my hands and then leap up into a handstand position, balancing precariously before deftly flicking back onto the solidity of the floor behind.

Typing these words now, I’m filled with a mixture of utter disbelief and dismay not to mention incredible embarrassment, at just how incredibly stupid I was to even consider doing such a thing.

Needless to say this story does not have a happy ending.

One “Thursday morning after the Wednesday Student Night before” and my hangover was worse than usual as, ironically enough, considering the title of this part of cyberspace, I had spent the previous evening celebrating the fact that I had already gained employment in the big, bad world, working in Belgium for a Belgian software company.

To say my head was a little bit fuzzy would be an understatement.

Awaking from my slumber and possessed with the invincibility of the fully employed, I walked out onto the landing from my bedroom and made a run for the banister as I had done on several prior occasions, before flipping onto my hands and placing my body into the upright handstand position.

I knew immediately that things were not right.

Having given myself a more-than-enthusiastic run-up I hit the banister with a little more speed than was required for the task in hand.

There was nothing I could do.

My legs, carried by the unnecessary momentum that my run-up had provided, moved beyond the normal vertical position that my stunt required and the next thing I knew I was falling headfirst to the bottom of the exposed stairs below.

Frantically, I grabbed at one of the balustrades on the balcony, which succeeded in changing my fall from a reckless head first affair into a much more acceptable perpendicular-to-the-ground affair.

Just at that point, Mark, one of my housemates came out of his bedroom brushing his teeth (did I mention that all the bedrooms had sinks? Apart from mine – which was the only en suite in the place – it was only fair – I had been the one fortunate enough to get us the house).

For the briefest of moments, our eyes locked together – Mark’s wild with something resembling shock and horror, mine something entirely more ‘emotional’.

Mark stopped in his tracks, the toothbrush suspended from his mouth like a colourful thermometer that some forgetful nurse had misplaced.

I continued to fall to my (by now) certain death.

After what seemed like an eternity, I hit the bottom stair, the impact knocking the air out of me. I doubled up in pain fighting to find the breath that my lungs craved.

In another world, I heard Mark scream “Holy fuck lads!! Jonny’s fallen down the stairs!!”

Even then I remember thinking – “that’s not what happened – I didn’t touch any of the stairs! The only one I hit was this bottom one!!” Falling, after all, implied something completely different. A rather unnerving detail to be so adamant about considering my situation, but one that seemed strangely important at the time.

Choosing the more tried and tested method, but the oh so much boring technique, Mark came running down the stairs to my crumpled heap of a body at the bottom.

“Jesus Jonny – are you ok??!”

Fighting for breath, I brought out a reassuring hand from my abdomen and proceeded to tell him that everything was ok and that I just needed to catch my breath.

Everything was pretty fucking far from all right.

“Shit Jonny – look at your hand!!”

I turned to look at the right hand that I had raised to calm Mark down.

The sight that greeted me will live long in the memory and is not something for the squeamish amongst you to read, but I’m sure you will anyway…

My middle finger, like that of any normal person, was usually the longest in my hand.

On this particular occasion it was the shortest, reduced to an abnormal, crumpled, awkward mess. The reason for the deformed appendage I saw before me was blatantly obvious, one of the finger’s bones having decided that it had spent far too long cooped up inside my body and had pierced through my skin for all to see, glistening in the light coming through the stained glass window.

I freaked out.

I ran up one staircase, along the balcony and down the other and repeated the circuit several times whilst screaming “Shit Oh Shit Oh Shit – I’M DEFORMED!!!” I was followed by Mark, who was trying his best to placate me.

It wasn’t working.

Awoken by the commotion, two of my housemates came to see what was happening and within a few minutes, 4 hairy arsed hung-over students were rushing to a nearby hospital in one of the guy’s modest Citroen car, with me apologising as I bled all over the upholstery.

I was a mess.

We all arrived at the reception of the Accident and Emergency ward where we were asked who the patient was.

I raised my hand up in the air, the damaged appendage in full view with blood continuing to drip down my arm.

The receptionist gulped, eyes transfixed on my hand. “We’ll get somebody to have a look at that right away”.

Four hours, a lot of pulling, pushing and a helluva lot of drugs later and my hand, described by the doctor as “the worst dislocation I have ever seen”, was repaired. I returned to full health, never to repeat the handstand stunt ever again.

But that’s not the end of the story.

Despite the fact that I am lucky to be in a position to recount this tale and not in a wheelchair, or worse; fate has managed to deal me just a little bit of a bum deal.

Over the intervening years, I’ve noticed a problem developing on my hand, the index finger becoming more and more contracted, gradually getting closer to my palm, with the other fingers following suit, until my hand was becoming quite claw-like.

Awkward, rather than painful, the situation was manageable but taking advantage of the wonderful health service that we have here in Belgium and looking for some recompense for the incredible amount of money I have been paying through the years in Belgian taxes and social security, I thought I’d get it looked at, taking myself off to Middelheim hospital one afternoon a couple of years ago.

“This is the worst was of Dupuytren’s contracture that I have ever seen in one so young” came the rather unsettling observation from the doctor.

This did not sound good.

“Dupuytren’s contracture?” I enquired.

“Are you Scottish?” was the Monty Python-esque response to my question. Things were getting a bit surreal.

“Err, well no – but I’m Scotch-Irish”, I offered hopefully, not wanting to disappoint.

“It’s a genetic disease, present only in Northern Europeans. Members of your family will no doubt have suffered from the same ailment.”

“Not that I am aware of”

Ignoring me, he continued:
“But it normally only occurs in a person’s 50’s or 60’s. I’ve never seen it in somebody so young.”

I explained my handstand ‘incident’ to him. He didn’t look too impressed.

“That might explain it – the disease has been accelerated by that trauma – still I wouldn’t want to operate on it, unless it becomes worse, say to a position of 45°”

So a couple of years passed and the situation became somewhat unbearable for me and now in a situation where I am in between projects, and with a contracture of more than 45° I now find myself recovering from an operation which took place Friday afternoon.

Hence the pain that has me up in the small hours even contemplating sharing this tale with you.

The time is now 07:19 and it is broad daylight. In the outside world people are getting up to go about their daily business – indeed some of you might already be up and about at the start of another Tuesday in Belgium.

As I already mentioned, the past few days have been hot, I believe yesterday was a scorching, 34°C, with today expected to be a slightly cooler 30°C. With more of the same to follow over the next few days, I have to admit I am not totally adverse to the idea of two weeks enforced absence from work but I’d certainly appreciate a better night’s sleep.

Time to get more drugs into me and to take myself off to bed, although not for too long – I’ve a sun tan to work on.

Except, of course, where the bandage covers.

June 2005

For those of you interested or just plain nosey, you can check out the disease and the operation I went through (with lots of gory photos included) at:
http://www.pncl.co.uk/~belcher/dupuytrn.htm

"A difference in culture"

(Names and identities have been changed or omitted to protect the guilty)

A few days ago, I was in Brussels for what was one of THE best concerts in my life but still I am left a little hollow inside and I feel the need to share it with you.

A warm, summer, Saturday evening in Brussels and those ‘mad ferrets’, the Gallacher brothers were in town with their British super-group Oasis. The first gig of their world tour and in the small intimate venue of ‘Ancienne Belgique’, the scene was set for the night to be a cracker.

And it really, really was, but a few events transpired leaving a bit of a sour taste in the mouth and one that I would like to get off my chest (although quite what my sour tasting mouth was doing on my chest, I’m not so sure).

In order to set the scene a little bit better, I have to take you back in time a few hours to explain how the events of the day unfolded. 12:57, Saturday afternoon and after a night out in Antwerp which saw me start a ten-hour shift on the booze at 17:30 before dragging my arse to bed at 05:00, I woke up.

The night before had involved copious amounts of ‘Cigarettes and Alcohol’, including some pretty potent absinthe along the way - and boy did my battered and abused body know it. To say I was not on top form, would be a bit of an understatement. But the thing was, on this particular Saturday lunchtime, I had to be. Indeed – not only that - I should have been on top form an hour earlier, the reason being that I was due to play in a football tournament in a small town near Turnhout, 40 minutes east of Antwerp.

Our first match was to be at 14:00, and I had arranged to meet the rest of the team out in Turnhout at 13:00. Which was exactly the time that was displayed on my phone when I switched it on as I got out of bed. Like most people, my phone doubles up as my alarm clock and as far as I was concerned, I had set it to waken me up at 11am.

Apparently not.

Not only that – I had switched the phone off as I always do when I go to sleep – a throwback to a time when my considerate friends who worked in the horeca trade would phone me up pissed out of their heads and think that there was nothing more that I’d like to do on a wet Tuesday at 03:00am than to get out of my nice, warm bed and go and join them in some den of eniquity, or at the very least engage in some ridiculous drunken conversation with them.

This meant that my team mates were unable to get in touch with me which presented a bit of a problem for the team. I’d like to say that this was because of my wonderful football skills and the detrimental affect my absence would have on the team but this was not the case.

You see, I was supposed to be coach driver for some of the team, as well as the kit man – our snazzy EDS-sponsored kit, sitting in the boot of my car.

Needless to say, we arrived at the tournament late, missing our first game and as a result we lost our first game 5-0 by default.

You’ll have to believe me when I say that it wouldn’t be much of an exaggeration to say that this was our best performance of the tournament. With the other games finishing 7-0, 8-0 and 3-0, it probably goes without saying that we were diabolical.

So much for showing the Belgians how to play The Beautiful Game.

We might as well have spent the afternoon ‘Fucking in the Bushes’ In our defence, the pitch was really muddy and most of us were running about in our running shoes, sliding all over the place in the mud.

Actually – come to think of it – in our defence there was nothing but a huge gaping hole that a herd of elephants could have stampeded through without too much difficulty. That was part the reason for our humiliating show.

‘Some Might Say’ we embarrassed ourselves – in normal circumstances I might have ‘Aquiesce’d but in fact, we really didn’t care - it was all good craic and we had plenty of beer during the day, which helped numb our embarrassment, whilst no doubt contributing to it at the same time.

Well, I say we didn’t care but I have to admit that was perhaps a little use of the Royal "we".

One guy did.

At the end of the tournament, obviously a little bit disappointed with how things had turned out, he stormed off in a huff to shouts of ‘Stop Crying Your Heart Out’ from his ex-team mates. Our last game had finished at 16:45 and instead of joining the rest of the team for some beers, we went to get showered and changed. After all, we knew we were on a tight schedule, if we were going to arrive in Brussels at the ridiculously pre-arranged time of 19:00.

I say ridiculous, because support band “The Stands” weren’t on until 20:00 with Oasis appearing on stage sometime after 21:00 but the guy who had organised the tickets wanted to get to the venue “as soon as possible to get good spots and to see the support band”

Our predicament was further compounded because one of our players (who owns a car) hadn’t shown up, citing bad weather and shopping duties as his excuses (and you know who you are), meaning that I had to go into Antwerp to drop off a team mate before taking the rest of us onto the Oasis show. The road-works in and around the beautiful city of Antwerp ensured that our journey was increased by the best part of an hour.

At least we were able to use the opportunity to swap cars with a bigger one, to accommodate all of those that would be travelling back from the gig. The point that I’m making here, is that never was there any lingering around, drinking or arseing about – the normal ingredients that constitute “Irish time” - referring to the rather insulting theory that arrangements with people from Ireland need to include a one hour buffer zone for lateness (although, in fact, there may be some truth in that theory).

In fact – barring a slight detour when ‘we’ got lost in Brussels, we went from football tournament to concert as quick as was physically possible, ‘Supersonic’ in fact, meaning that we arrived at the venue at 20:00.

More than enough time to see Oasis.

We knew that our friend already in Brussels – the only Belgian in the group and the hero of the day who had procured the tickets would not be impressed with our time keeping, blaming ‘Irish Time’ on any lateness for appointments that he is subjected to. We had, however kept him up to date with our situation and didn’t think our enforced lateness was any great deal.

But, despite the fact that there was nothing we could have physically done any quicker to ensure that we would have arrived much earlier – apart, of course from the getting lost part which added 15 minutes onto our drive – we still felt the wrath of a disappointed Belgian.

“The support band has already started” he said when we arrived in the bar of the Ancienne Belgique. He was, unsurprisingly, a little agitated.

Still – this wasn’t a problem, as we were there to see Oasis. Missing The Stands, as far as we were concerned, was no great loss. We explained this to him.

"Perhaps next time I’ll give my tickets to people who’ll arrive on time and appreciate the support act!” came the response.

Well!

That was it as far as I was concerned and I’m embarrassed to say that I lost the plot.

“Look mate, we’re really grateful that you got us tickets but we couldn’t have got here any quicker!!”
“I’m not looking for gratitude, I’m just looking for people to be on time”

“But we are on time!!”

“Perhaps it’s just a difference of culture”

Is it Dear discerning Reader, I ask you - is it?

"All Boys Smell" - Discuss

It recently occurred to me that – strange as it may seem – perhaps not all of you out there are as madly interested in the trials and tribulations of being a Liverpool FC supporter as I may be.

If this applies to you, then this blog has been written with you in mind, but more specifically – this one has been targeted for the female readers out there amongst you, of which I hope there are many and with many more to follow.

You see, it is certainly not my intention to turn women off of my little corner of cyberspace with chat and banter of a football nature. Let’s face it - I don’t want to be accused of turning females off. After all, I have a reputation to live down to. Period.

(and that was just in the ‘period’ = ‘full stop’ sense, not in the other ‘womanly sense’ – just because I’m making my blog more female friendly, doesn’t mean I have to start banging on about that sort of thing)

So, in the hope of welcoming the fairer sex into the warm bosom of my blog, I’ve decided on the subject matter “All boys smell” for this particular blog entry. I’m not sure whether or not what I have to say will add credence to the argument or indeed will dispel it forever.

Naturally, being of the boyish persuasion myself I would hope it were the latter but the truth is I don’t know what I’m going to write, so just bear with me, while we see where this one goes. Isn’t this exciting?!!

Before I go any further - I’d like to put in a little disclaimer notice at the start of this blog entry:

Basically, if you ever have been or indeed perhaps currently romantically involved with me, perhaps it’s a good idea not to read on any further.

I mean – I am sure there are some nice alternative websites out there that you could go visit instead? (I’m thinking amazon.com to buy me some nice presents perhaps?).

[And there is yet another plug of a commercial website for which I get absolutely no financial reimbursement for whatsoever. This blog just really is a labour of love. *sigh*]

Anyway – on with the show!

“All boys smell” is a theory that a female friend has voiced on many a moment, usually in response to some unfortunate story where a female acquaintance has been given the proverbial elbow by some undesirable lothario with lust in his loins and a lump of coal for a heart.

So it’s not – as you may think – a reference to a general deficiency in male personal hygiene; although I would have to agree that are plenty of men who do indeed smell.

Badly.

But as I’ve said, it’s not man’s ability to smell like Ghandi’s flip flops on a particularly hot, humid day in Calcutta, but rather their ability to treat their women like, errr, shit that brings about the observation that “All Boys Smell”.

All this begs the question – is the fact that some girls have bad experiences with their men proof therefore that ALL boys smell? Indeed can the flip side of the argument – that “All girls DON’T smell” hold up to scrutiny?

I suppose that discussion should be left for another day.

Getting back to the topic in hand, I would have to beg to differ.

Quite strongly, in fact. (how does one strongly beg to differ? “Mug to Differ”?)

I can of course only speak for myself and in doing so, I therefore cannot claim to be speaking for the entire male race, but can I categorically state for the record that I, FOR ONE, DO NOT SMELL!!

Glad we got that straightened out.

I like women – I really do. I think they’re a great invention. In fact, I think that they’re right up there with HP Brown sauce, TV remote controls and those little cup holders you find in cars.

Soft to the touch, pleasing on the eye, all curves and fluttering eyelids – the female form is a joy to behold. And the thing is – women know this. They know that man cannot live on bread alone. If there’s a chance that he can get a ‘bit of loving’ thrown in with his daily slice then man will dine as heartily as a Belgian who has just found out that the bedpan full of mussels that he’s dining on are a volenté.

But does all this mean that we, as a race, smell?

In my experience, women can be just as bad as us guys when it comes to the “dating game” for want of a better description.

I think I can safely say that we are all, in general, looking for the same thing from life. We all want to treat people nicely and be treated nicely in return and I really do try and do that. In the past I know I have been guilty of hurting people but I never, ever did it on purpose. Indeed I spend too much of my life trying to do the right thing and I have to admit that it gets me into all sorts of bother.

Of course you only have my word for it that what I say is true, but I feel the special bond of trust is forming between us and am sure that you’re all with me on this one.

I can almost feel the love - a cacophony of amorous affections as it were. Heart-felt emotions stirring within us as I, “The Writer”, write and you, “The Reader”, read. Like two star struck lovers dancing slowly and closely together, aware only of each other’s presence and the magnetic attraction that holds them together, the focal point of the attraction being deep within their souls….

Fuck it – I’m horny – anybody wanna shag?!

You see – ALL BOYS DON’T SMELL!

*ahem*