Eurovision – The Aftermath

When typing up these blogs I usually put on some tunes to get me in the mood and as I type this one up, there can only be one song to choose from – this year’s Eurovision Song Contest Winner – Finnish rock band Lordi and their “Hard Rock Hallelujah.”

I know the yearly debacle that is Eurovision has long since faded from memory but just what did you lot make of proceedings this year? Of course the whole thing was as farcical as ever, with its terrible songs, awful hairstyles, wooden presenters, blatant favouritism in the voting, awkward uncomfortable pauses during terrible link-ups and of course, the obligatory embarrassing, cringe worthy, gay Dutch presenter making a fool of himself.

And it all most ably presided over by Mr; Terry Wogan as we followed him on a rollercoaster of emotions from genuine amusement to increasingly bemused, exasperated and then terribly agitated (the main focus of his agitation being the aforementioned, Dutch TV presenter.

Some of the highlights for me included the sexy combination of short skirt, dazzling smile and long blonde hair of the Ukranian entry, the mulletted Russian entry with the dancer crawling out of the piano, the wooden Polish presenter struggling through his countries voting results in English before delivering a dead pan joke at the end when he announced that Poland had given Poland the maximum 12 points.

Hilarious indeed.

What a wonderful show it was from start to finish. I watched it with friends in an Irish pub in Geel, where we all scored the entries out of 5 in three categories: performance, song, costumes. Needless to say, I gave Lordi, the eventual winners, a resounding 6,6,6.

History has shown me to be right and fair play to the rockers from Finland. It made a refreshing change to the usual tack performing on the show – and there can be no denying the effort that they put into their performance.

The last time 3 hours of make-up and 12-inch high boots graced a Eurovision song contest stage, it was Michael Flatley and look where that got him.

At any rate - it certainly beats the pants out of Ireland’s nemesis, Mr. Johnny Logan – a guy who rather worryingly for the future of Irish-Belgian relations has been spending a lot of time here in Belgium in recent years.

Speaking of the white-suit-wearing, mullet-sporting, Irish tosspot, I’m reminded of a performance he was giving a few years ago in my ex-girlfriend’s home town of Kontich. Apparently he was performing in a church hall and had to change in a room at the side of the stage. ‘Unfortunately’ it seems he was locked in the room for two hours before they were able to release him.

It wasn’t me.

Honest.

Upon his release, stories of him tearfully clinging to an unspecting church volunteer tea lady sobbing "Hold me now" have, until now, proven unfounded...

But the night in Geel wasn’t just about this year’s competition – it was also about a celebration of all Eurovision competitions. It was certainly a shame that the Belgian entry, the lovely Kate Ryan, didn’t qualify for the final stages, amid rumours that the Greek TV company deliberately sabotaged their entry after her manager complained that she wasn’t given enough close ups.

Whatever the reason, the voting didn’t go their way and it was an early trip home for the much fancied entrant.

Well, I say much fancied but to be honest I think that was just the Flemish media saying that along with the massive PR machine that was behind Kate Ryan – before the festival she embarked on a whistle stop tour of over a dozen countries to promote the song and – it has to be said - to promote herself.

She was even wearing a dress that cost somewhere in the region of 20,000 euros. Money well spent indeed.

We had a little giggle at the pointed “We love you Kate Ryan” comment on the back of the Belgian juror’s score card when she was reading out the results of the Belgian vote.

But without the Belgian interest in the competition, what else could the bar organise to get people in the pub and to keep them there drinking?

Well, how about Belgium’s one and only ever Eurovision song contest winner, Sandra Kim performing live and exclusive on stage? I kid you not. Sandra Kim won Eurovision in 1986, when only 13 years of age with the song “J’aime la vie” in 1986, 1 year before Johnny Logan won it with “Hold Me Now”.

So this was going to be a chance to see another Eurovision song winner in the flesh, having already struck Niamh Kavanagh off my list, when she performed in The Dubliner Irish pub in Antwerp a few years ago. I figured that I should quit while I was ahead – making a mental note to self that two Eurovision song contest winners were more than enough to admit to having met in one lifetime.

This meeting turned out a bit special because on this occasion, I actually shared the stage with her, accepting the bar owner’s somewhat unexpected invitation for me to be the compeer for the show. And so it came to pass, that I found myself on stage that Saturday night in a town called Geel, in the Flemish countryside, with the lights shining brightly into my eyes, and the sweat trickling down my back, welcoming onto the stage “the beautiful, the lovely, Miss Sandra Kim!” Come on folks – if you had a choice between Johnny or Sandra – who would you choose?

















EXACTLY!

Having a Shit time in Antwerp

It’s been 13 days since the trauma.

13 days to try and put down in words the experience of Friday 9^th June.

I’m not sure where to start but I’ll persevere with this one – for it is a tale that I simply must share with someone, or else I’ll not even believe it happened and start to question my own sanity…

For those of you that don’t remember much about Friday the 9^th of June, let me remind you.

It was a special day.

The weather was glorious. It was the hottest day of the year so far, reminding me of the reason why I have subjected myself to such a long time in Belgium – the weather is marginally better here than in Northern Ireland.

June 9^th also saw the start of that most special of quadrennial events – the football nirvana that is The World Cup. The biggest sporting event in the world – The Beautiful Game competed by the best teams in the world (and Angola) was starting it’s month-long festival once again.

So how did I spend the hottest Friday evening of the year so far? Sitting in a terrace enjoying a few cool beers in the warm evening sun? Eating ice cream at the seaside? Swimming in an outdoor swimming pool perhaps? Sitting on a terrace watching Germany defeat Costa Rica in the opening game of the World Cup – a match that turned out to be a 6 goal thriller?

Err, no. Not quite.

As the rest of the post-office work crowd started to fill the many terraces around Antwerp’s beautiful Grote Markt, mingling with the tourists and the students that were already outside enjoying the sun, I donned Wellington boots and green waterproof overalls to prepare myself for, quite literally, 3 shit-filled hours.

Let me explain:

A few weeks ago, an email was sent out to those of us in the company that work in the logistics arena, inviting us to a half day seminar, where we were going to find out a bit of upcoming developments on the system that we work on, SAP. The seminar was to be given by a representative from SAP and was to be followed by what had been intriguingly described as a “secret event” and then a meal and drinks afterwards.

Employees from one of our biggest clients were to join us for the occasion as well.

It all sounded like a decent way to spend a Friday but history told me to proceed with caution before committing to any events organised by my employers.

In the past, I have blindly said yes to these things, only to find out that, thanks to my hectic social calendar, I had double booked and then had to back out at the last minute much to the consternation of my employers.

June 9^th rang a bell in the dark recesses of my mind, so I didn’t accept the invitation immediately, leaving it for a while until it came to me just what the special occasion was.

After two days, nothing came to mind and so I announced that I would be attending.

It was only as I returned home that evening, stuck in one of Belgium’s famous traffic jams, that I realised just what that event was – the start of the 2006 World Cup. I cursed myself for my stupidity and promptly tried to find ways to get out of the event.

Alas, no get-out clauses materialized, no sudden illness to me, friends, family or indeed the pet poodle that I don’t have, so it was with a heavy heart that I took part in the occasion, in the knowledge that for the first time in my life I was going to miss the opening match of the World Cup. (Mental note to self – buy sick puppy).

The seminar went fine - it was interesting and informative and it was great to catch up with some of the guys from the client – a client that I had previously worked with on an enjoyable project, in fact a project that provided me with an opportunity to meet one of the most special people in my life – a lovely Belgian girl who I lived with and spent two and a half years in relative happiness with. (Until the messy divorce of course.)

After the seminar, we then headed to the location of our “secret” event – Suikerrui 21, just by the spectacular Grote Markt in Antwerp’s old town.

The address seemed strangely familiar to me but I couldn’t figure out why that should be and as we headed into my adopted home town’s centre with the sun beating down gloriously from above my hopes were raised – perhaps we were after all going to see the football – taking in a little kroegentocht around the many cafes and bars in the town centre that would undoubtedly be showing the game.

I realised that I was kidding myself thinking that this should be the case – in my experience the worlds of football and IT rarely cross, but even I had no idea just how shit the event was to be.

Shit being the operative word - the event turned out to be a walking trip through the city of Antwerp’s sewage system.

I kid you not.

A recent addition to the city’s many undoubted attractions; the Antwerp “sewer tour” has been going for over a year now and has been a huge success, with the tour fully booked and a waiting list of 2 months.

In fact, I have actually tried to take my mother on the tour during her last visit but it was booked up. Mum was horrified at the idea but I was disappointed, thinking that it would have been a “fun time” and “something different.”

Believe me folks – Mother knows best.

So at 18:00 CET, June 9^th, 2006, as approximately 1 billion people worldwide tuned in to become part of the one-month festival of football, we set off for the tour’s starting point - a cavernous hole just off Suikerrui, the stench already quite overwhelming.

It was with some reluctance, it has to be said, that I swapped the warm evening sunlight, the cool beers and the World Cup kick-off for the cool, dark, smelly underbelly of Antwerp but that’s what I did.

Our guide for the trip introduced himself as Johan and he apologised for suffering from a sore throat but that he would do his best to explain everything to us and answer as many questions we may have in the group’s adopted language, English – which had been decided upon not just for my benefit – but because we also had an American girl and a guy from Wallonia in our group.

The first question that sprang to my mind was if he thought that spending his working day in the sewers of Antwerp had anything to do with his physical condition but I thought it might be so churlish to do so at such an early stage and anyway – it was difficult to get a word in edgeways with the guy – this was one enthusiastic tour guide – this man definitely knew his shit.

Unfortunately for him, his enthusiasm was hardly reciprocated by the group as we contemplated the prospect of wading in Antwerp’s shit for the next couple of hours.

He was dressed in the same outfit as us, but rather worringly, he was also carrying a rather large backpack. I wondered what the hell was in it and why he would need it.

“Smells a bit, doesn’t it” my musings were interrupted with his rather unnecessary comment “… but don’t worry – you’ll get used to it” he happily informed us.

I had to disagree with him on that one – but once again, I held onto my tongue. If I could have held my breath for two hours, I would have done that as well but the fear of turning as green as the overalls I was sporting was not something I was comfortable with.

My spirits were raised, however, as we got into a boat.

OK – it was a small, wobbly boat, with not too much in the way of facilities, but anything that meant we didn’t have to wade knee-deep through the effluent of Belgium’s second largest city compared in a favourable light to even the most exclusive of cruise liners.

It soon became apparent that my relief was only temporary, for almost as soon as we had got onto the boat, we were being ushered off it again (alternating between one side and then the other to stop the boat tilting over, presumably causing us to do the unthinkable and fall in - head first), because the water that we had sailed in was actually a man-made dam built for the purpose of the tour - presumably to break people in gently before making them walk through the foul smelling water.

And then the tour began in earnest - the electric lights that had aided us in our progress by boat diminishing in number as well as brightness, enforcing us to crank up our torches that we had been thoughtfully provided with.

The small torches worked on a dynamo which was powered by turning a small handle on the torches side.

“We may encounter some rats along the way. They used to be afraid of us, when we first came down but now they’re getting used to us, we see more and more of them,” Johan matter-of-factly informed us.

The handles on the torches whirred a bit faster.

As we followed Johan, he stopped frequently to point out various “features” of the sewer system:– overhanging pipes that the ‘mud’ (as he annoyingly kept referring to it as – never once using the word ‘shit’) used to fall directly out of, the new pipes that had replaced this system, chimneys that were used to extract the methane gas into Antwerp’s air, signposts indicating which streets we were walking underneath, a system that used gates and the tide of the Scheldt to flood and therefore clean the sewers periodically and it seemed every piece of iron that we passed was talked about in great detail.

Not to mention a colony of South American spiders that had quite literally come off a banana boat over a century ago and decided the sewers of Antwerp were a great place to hang out and breed. Errr…Copacabana beach or Antwerp’s sewers? I know which I’d have preferred – but then again – what choice did they have? We were there of our own free will and had paid good money for the privilege. Or at least my employers had.

“It doesn’t happen anymore,” Johan explained, “after loading the banana boats, they now gas the hold of the boats, to preserve the bananas and kill any unwanted passengers.”

“And what – Antwerp is killing the poor buggers by a slow death of human-generated gas?” I didn’t ask our host.

And then of course, there were the rats.

Not too many of them it has to be said – but enough to have me thanking my foresight in tucking my overalls into my boots. I didn’t want one of the furry vermin climbing up the inside of a carelessly flapping overall-leg and deciding to nest there.

On and on we walked. Under Antwerp’s Grote Markt, the Conscienseplein, the Jesuit Church, each place helpfully signposted for us.

After about an hour and a half of walking, we then reached what was undoubtedly the “highlight” of the tour – at least in the eyes of “Jovial Johan the Shit Expert” (as I was by now beginning to think of him).

“Here we have a large junction, a meeting of several sewers. Impressive, isn’t it?” He showed us the object of his admiration – a large square hall-like structure were, uhm, several sewers met. Impressive indeed.

“123 square metres wide – the same as the Antwerp cathedral is tall – an easy to remember number”

Mate – I don’t think there’s much of this tour that I’m not going to forget, I thought to myself.

“Story has it that around a hundred years ago, there was a huge banquet held down here for all the workers in the sewers. Here is a photograph of it”

As we stood there, breathing in the foul stench, he showed us a photo of about 40 people happily dining at a huge dinner table in the square that we were currently standing on, I couldn’t help but think that the story, if you’ll excuse the pun, sounded like a load of shit.

Apparently Johan agreed.

“But I don’t believe it - I think it’s fake”

And who am I to argue with Johan’s take on things? Like I said – this guy knew his shit.

And then, we came, quite literally, to the light at the end of the tunnel, a spiral staircase that led to the part of Antwerp that I like the best. The part above ground level. Call me old fashioned if you like.

“OK folks – if you want” (if you want!!) “you can use the hoses provided to wash off any mud” (there was that word again). “… and then leave the sewers to start the over-ground part of the tour.”

Over-ground part of the tour??! Jesus – he wasn’t done with us yet - there was more to come.

Fed up with it all and as my shit-dwelling compatriots proceeded to wash the ‘mud’ from their boots; I decided to see about meeting up with some people for the second match of the evening.

Walking to the edge of the tunnel, near the exit above, I tried to get a signal on my phone. As I prayed for a few bars of signal to appear so that I could extricate myself from this nightmare situation, my nightmare proceeded to get even worse as I was on the receiving end from a splash of liquid on my head from one of the old overhanging pipes. It wasn’t that much and probably didn’t warrant the girly squeal that I heard coming out of my mouth but let’s just say it wasn’t that nice a feeling…

Pissed off, hot and smelly we emerged into the bright, warm sunshine of Antwerp and onto…..the fucking terrace of a pub, interrupting a few people’s peaceful early evening drink. The look of surprise and bemusement on their faces was a picture, was matched only by the look of embarrassment on ours as we quickly stripped off and proceeded to order some beers much to the frustration of our trusty guide.

He evidently wanted to continue with the tour. Apparently we were not so eager.

During our drink I got cornered by Johan, who was seemingly curious as to how I got to live in the city that was a home and a place of work for him, as well as home to “one of the most advanced sewage systems of its time”

“Are you English?”

Not beating around the bush and to avoid much deliberation over the point (unlike Johan’s protracted tales) “No I’m from Northern Ireland, just outside Belfast” hoping that the awkward silence that this usually is greeted with would end the conversation there and then.

Having been accosted in a pub by the world’s biggest tram freak a few evenings earlier ‘a story in itself), I wanted to nip this conversation in the bud.

“So what’s it like over there now?” he enquired.

“Well – we’re not killing each other as much as we used to” was my deadpan response.

He got the hint and didn’t pursue it any further making me feel a little guilty.

“I really enjoyed the tour” I rather unbelievingly heard myself saying.

“Yes?”

“I do have to say one thing though”

“Err, yes?”

“I’m amazed that you spent the last two hours explaining everything to us in a language that is not your native tongue and considering the subject matter you didn’t say shit once!”

He smiled and a few colleagues sniggered. I was only half-joking.

As I reflect back on that one hour walk in Antwerp’s Friday evening sun, it’s hard to imagine a more embarrassing moment in my life as we trudged in the heat back to our starting point carrying our shit-covered overalls and our welly boots, with Johan pointing out places that we had been underneath a few short minutes earlier – much to the amusement of the thousands of people that were sitting on Antwerp’s many terraces.

As we approached Antwerp’s Grote Markt, Johan offered us an escape.

“If you want to avoid any embarrassment, we can take a detour back to the start to avoid these people,” he offered.

“Let’s just get back to the start in the shortest way possible and get this over and done with as soon as possible” seemed to be the collective response and we lowered our heads and proceeded a walk of shame through the heaving hordes of people.

It was ok for the rest of the group but this was my home town and the Grote Markt has had the pleasure of my presence on more occasions that I care to mention. Naturally I bumped into a few people that I felt the need to explain what I was up to.

I’m not sure they believed me.

I felt sorry for Johan though – he was still wearing all his overalls, his welly boots and carrying that backpack – a backpack that I never did find out what the contents were.

If, even after reading this sorry tale you’re still interested, check out http://www.ruihuis.be/ for more details…you crazy, crazy fool…

The World Cup 12 Commandments

Dear Wife, Partner, Girlfriend,

1. From 9 June to 9 July 2006, you should read the sports section of the newspaper so that you are aware of what is going on regarding the World Cup, and that way you will be able to join in the conversations. If you fail to do this, then you will be looked at in a bad way, or you will be totally ignored. DO NOT complain about not receiving any attention.

2. During the World Cup, the television is mine, at all times, without any exceptions. If you even take a glimpse of the remote control, you will lose it (your eye).

3. If you have to pass by in front of the TV during a game, I don't mind, as long as you do it crawling on the floor and without distracting me. If you decide to stand nude in front of the TV, make sure you put clothes on right after because if you catch a cold, I won't have time to take you to the doctor or look after you during the World Cup month.

4. During the games I will be blind, deaf and mute, unless I require a refill of my drink or something to eat. You are out of your mind if you expect me to listen to you, open the door, answer the telephone, or pick up the baby that just fell on the floor....It won't happen.

5. It would be a good idea for you to keep at least 2 six packs in the fridge at all times, as well as plenty of things to nibble on, and please do not make any funny faces to my friends when they come over to watch the games. In return, you will be allowed to use the TV between 12am and 6am, unless they replay a good game that I missed during the day.

6. Please, please, please!! If you see me upset because one of my teams is losing, DO NOT say "get over it, it's only a game", or "don't worry, they'll win next time". If you say these things, you will only make me angrier and I will love you less. Remember, you will never ever know more about football than me and your so called "words of encouragement" will only lead to a break up or divorce.

7. You are welcome to sit with me to watch one game and you can talk to me during halftime but only when the commercials are on, and only if the halftimes score is pleasing me. In addition, please note I am saying "one" game; hence do not use the World Cup as a nice cheesy excuse to "spend time together".

8. The replays of the goals are very important. I don't care if I have seen them or I haven't seen them, I want to see them again. Many times.

9. Tell your friends NOT to have any babies, or any other child related parties or gatherings that requires my attendance because: a) I will not go, b) I will not go, and c) I will not go.

10. But, if a friend of mine invites us to his house on a Sunday to watch a game, we will be there in a flash.

11. The daily World Cup highlights show on TV every night is just as important as the games themselves. Do not even think about saying "but you have already seen this...why don't you change the channel to something we can all watch?" because, the reply will be, "Refer to Rule #2 of this list".

12. And finally, please save your expressions such as "Thank God the World Cup is only every 4 years". I am immune to these words, because after this comes the Champions League, Italian League, Spanish League, Premier League, FA Cup, etc.

Thank you for your co-operation.

EURO LA LA

Well folks,

It's that time of the year again that sees grown men weeping, women dancing with joy and kids giving an indifferent shrug and returning to their playstation.

The end of the football season.

For nine months, we have followed our team through thick and thin, through good times and bad on the rollercoaster ride of emotions that is Supporting Your Team.

Upon reflection, My Beloved Liverpool had a great season - third in the league with their best league points total in several seasons, winners of the European Super Cup, runners up in the World Club championship (in a match they totally dominated), quarter finals of the Champions League, and last but not least FA Cup winners for the ninth time in what was an amazing cup final last weekend.

An entertaining cup final? Liverpool must be playing.

The feel good factor is back at Anfield - and long may it continue.

But before you switch off - this is not a football related blog - no, not at all but rather the void that is left behind once the season finishes, is the subject matter de jour.

Of course this year is somewhat different - we have the mouth-watering prospect of a World Cup on our doorstep to look forward to with the tournament in Germany kicking off three weeks from today.

I love the World Cup and strangely enough - so do most of the girls I know. They seem to get caught up in the event in a way that the regular football season can never achieve - perhaps it's the opportunity to watch all those Latino Gods running about the pitch with their olive skin and piercing eyes, or maybe it's the samba and the salsa of our South American cousins, the spectacular colours and boisterous dancing of the African support or even the square jawed, athletic Scandinavians that awaken the fairer sex's interest in The Beautiful Game.

Whatever it is, the female interest in football is a welcome, if only all too brief addition to the ritual of watching sport, for we all know that once the season comes around again, us good men-folk will be going back to our seats at the bar, having just been on the receiving end of a bit of verbal from the missus about “spending too much time down in that bloody pub with your bloody mates watching bloody football.”

So yes – I enjoy the world cup.

But that is three weeks away.

21 days.

504 hours.

30,240 minutes.

181…. Anyway, I think you get the picture.

So what in the meantime then?

Quite simply – there is only one thing that reawakens international rivalries, cements bonds with near neighbours and shows to the rest of the world just what a weird and eclectic bunch of people we Europeans really are.

If aliens were to visit from outer space for a bit of a nosey, we could show them highlights of the last 50 years of the Eurovision Song Contest and proudly say “We are Europe – this is who we are!”

If that didn’t have them scurrying away in their space ships back to planet Zagrovia, then nothing would.

Or is Zagrovia one of those new eastern European countries that compete in the contest these days?

Yes, tomorrow is Eurovision Song Contest time and I absolutely love it.

The whole show is a wonderful microcosm of this part of planet Earth - the farcical voting indicative of the internal squabbles within Europe’s confines, the terrible costumes, the God-awful songs with the inane lyrics and all this mayhem presided over by BBC’s commentator on the proceedings, the wonderfully sardonic Terry Wogan.

Surely Mr. Wogan’s rasion d’être, the show is tailor made for his dry wit and acerbic observations and as a viewer; we share in his chuckles of disbelief and gasps of horror at the car crash TV that unfolds before our very eyes.

Rather unsurprisingly, the country that has won this international pantomime more times than any other, is my homeland of Ireland. After all – a country that has remained neutral throughout every war (except its own), has given The Irish Pub to the world with its accompanying Guinness hangover and exported such musical greats as Stiff Little Fingers, Van Morrison, U2, Sinead O’Connor, Snow Patrol and the wonderful Therapy? must surely be in contention for the top prize, year in, year out.

And then you have a look at who we won it with.

Johnny “Mr. Eurovision” Logan, with his absolutely unforgivable mullet hairstyle and even more heinous gleaming white suit will be forever embedded in most people’s lasting memories of the contest. And this is a guy who, not only content with winning the event twice – went on to write a third winning song back in Ireland’s Eurovision halcyon days of the 80’s and 90’s.

My Eurovision claim to fame? Another Irish winner, the delightful Naimh Kavanagh, who won with “In Your Eyes” - once went on a drunken binge with me in Antwerp.

OK – slight exaggeration – what I meant to say was that I was drunk in the pub that she was performing in and I asked to have her babies, a hard-to-refuse offer that she, in fact, refused. And her heavily pregnant at the time.

*ahem*

So happy were we with all this adulation from our European cousins that we didn’t realise they were all taking the piss out of us –the winning country having the dubious (and bloody expensive) honour of organising the whole shenanigans the following year.

Indeed when Ireland won it 3 times in a row in the 90’s (a feat never achieved before or since), Ireland’s new found prosperity, ironically achieved thanks in no small fashion to financial help from the ‘European Old Boy’s Network’ that is the EEC, was in serious danger of being dented.

The Celtic Tiger was cowering in the corner at the thought of hosting another event and offered – with the advent of peace of course – the event to Northern Ireland.

The Republic of Ireland authorities were threatened with kneecappings and punishment beatings if they chanced their arm like that again.

So, the event was given to Cork who jumped at the chance to prove to the world that Cork was in fact the REAL capital of Ireland and they could put on a show that would be far better than anything that “shower of shite from Dublin” could do.

Sadly the economic implications had a lasting affect and a different selection policy was thereafter adopted by the Irish, unofficially known as the “let’s pick the WORST singers ever and make bloody well sure we never, ever win the damn thing again” policy.

You only have to look at some of the entries that have represented Ireland in the intervening years to see that this policy has been a huge success - choosing The Mullans was nothing short of inspired.

Then, there was also the rather weird event of an Israeli winner. For a start – Israel is not even in Europe but apparently as long as the European Broadcasting Union can transmit to you, you’re in. But as if this wasn’t weird enough – the winner was a transsexual. Could the contest get any weirder?

Of course it could.

A strange development then occurred – one that was to have serious repercussions on the Eurovision Song Contest as a whole – the borders of Europe changed and suddenly where there had just simply been Russia and Yugoslavia, we now had Latvia, Lithuania, Bosnia, Serbia, Croatia, and lots of other bloody countries that ended in “ia”.

These were the New Kids on the Block and they had fire in their bellies.

So proud that they were to be their own countries, with their own identity, they promptly entered into the Eurovision song contest with great gusto and enthusiasm, displaying a “blood is thicker than water” bond with all their neighbouring newly-created countries who they were pally with and a fierce “Nul Point” for their enemies.

Here they had a platform to forge friendships, pledge allegiances and alienate enemies.

Suddenly such hitherto relatively unknown European outhouses such as Estonia and Latvia were walking away with the biggest prize in European pop music. Allegedly.

Something had to be done about it and something has.

The Irish are taking it seriously again.

This year, in Athens the ancient birthplace of Europe, it is only fitting that the Irish are launching a full frontal attack to wrestle the title back to its rightful home.

For into the Coliseum steps the Gladiator – Mr. Brian Kennedy.

Make no bones about it – by nominating Brian we are making a huge statement of intent.
This guy is a brilliant singer and has graced the stage with the likes of Van Morrison, Bob Dylan, John Lee Hooker and Ray Charles.

We are not messing around this year.

To make the evening all the more enjoyable for me, he’s a fellow Belfast lad, giving me further ammunition (pun intended) to shout “He’s from Northern Ireland!” every time somebody from my homeland graces the TV.

I fear for the patrons of the pub that I shall be watching proceedings in tomorrow evening.

Brian also performed a memorable and powerful version of ‘You Raise Me Up’ at the funeral of football legend George Best in December 2005.

As an interesting footnote, it will be the 1000th song ever performed at the contest.

He will perform ‘Every Song is a Cry for Love’, a song written by himself and has been selected by the Irish public.

The people of Ireland have spoken.

You have been warned.

My Favourite Weed

Apart from being the best friend of Bill and Ben, The Flower Pot Men, according to the dictionary, a weed is an "unwanted plant". But surely this is entirely open for interpretation and the notion of "unwanted" must lie in the eye of the beholder?

Such ponderings entertained my under-used mind today when, as I drove to the local sandwich shop for my daily "broodje tonijn" (tuna sandwich), I spied the first poppies of spring swaying in the gentle breeze at the side of the road.

As weeds go, the poppy would have to be one of my favourite - not that I've actually given the matter much thought you understand - but if I was to draw up a list of my favourite weeds, the poppy would be right up there with my other favourite weed - Super Skunk. *ahem*

Flanders, the northern, Dutch-speaking region of Belgium where I currently reside, can be described with many terms – “breathtaking scenery”, “picturesque vistas” and “mountainous, rolling countryside” are all terms of phrase that would most definitely NOT be used; “flat”, “dull”, “densely populated”, “one big industrial zone” and “a slow-moving traffic jam” are all terms of phrase that would be a lot more appropriate.

Let's face it folks - and I'm sure the Belgian readers out there would have to agree - when it comes to scenery, this part of Belgium most definitely IS boring.

Take the Kempen - the supposedly scenic part of Flanders - which is described on Wikipedia as "a moor of swamp and sandy peat, encompassing the east of Antwerp province, and a part of Limburg province in Belgium, a former coal-producing region ….. now being rendered fertile by irrigation."

Doesn't exactly inspire you to pack your wife and kids into the Hi-ace van and head off there for a picnic, does it?

Still - I suppose there's no danger of busloads of Japanese tourists arriving on your doorstep uninvited.

Although don't be getting too complacent - you can never be too sure – those guys are mad about taking photographs of just about anything. Believe me, I've witnessed them going around Frankfurt's business quarter enthusiastically taking pictures of endless dull, grey buildings, so who would bet against them taking an interest in a swampy bog-land that once existed as a slag-heap and is now "being rendered fertile by irrigation"??

But I digress.

The point I want to make is that, in this sort of environment, you have to get your visual kicks out of the somewhat less spectacular. Take the aforementioned humble poppy for example; or to be more precise - The Corn Poppy (Papaver rhoeas).

At this time of year, the fields of Flanders - or at least the central reservations of motorways, the grass verges at the side of busy roads, or whatever little handkerchief-size plots of grass they are lucky enough to find to grow on - become awash with them, turning even the most non-descript piece of land into a hypnotic, swaying, sea of red, gently dancing to the rhythm of the summer breeze.

Or more likely being violently tossed around in the violent slip stream of a speeding juggernaut.

It’s also the national flower of Belgium - not that many of our Belgian cousins actually know that. But then again – just how many Belgians do you know that can actually sing their national anthem? In French, Dutch or German?

Of course to the ex-pats amongst us, the humble poppy means a lot more to us - serving as a symbolic reminder of those service men and women that lost their lives on battle fields fighting for our countries in violent conflict that most of us (fortunately) can only imagine as to what they were like.

In his poem “In Flanders Fields”, written almost 101 years ago to this very day, Doctor Sir John McCrae immortalised these unassuming bit-part players in the Flemish landscape, just as he immortalised his fallen comrades:

“In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing,
fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days
ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now
we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To
you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If
ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep,
though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.”

For anyone that has seen the Ypres war graves and the surrounding flat fields of Flanders with the bunkers still visible after all these years (and if you haven’t yet but are in a position to, I urge you to do so); looking at the endless rows of immaculately tended to, dazzlingly white war graves, with the red sea of poppies swaying in the surrounding fields - their heads eternally bowed in seemingly respectful reverence, it is a truly humbling experience.

As I stood surveying the scene around me, it was one of the most moving moments of my life and a moment I shall remember forever. You don't need "breathless scenery" to have the same effect.

So I make no bones about it, I make no excuses, I love the humble poppy.

And then of course, opium is produced from the unripe seed pods.

Need I say more?

At the Great Mayfair in Ballyclare!

OK Folks,

Only two days to go, so it's time to get in the mood…..

Those of you who have the pleasure of knowing me – which I would guess is pretty much anyone that reads this website - may also know just what a special day the third Saturday in May is for me (and I'm sure for many other people as well).

Yes - you've guessed it folks - it's that time of year when my home town of Ballyclare (or “Billyclare” as we locals like to refer to it) goes a little bit crazy and lets its collective hair down… The Ballyclare Mayfair Festival.

Now, I wouldn’t assume that many of you out there will have even heard of this week-long event that brings my home-town to a standstill, so I will give you a brief run down on it, or rather – I will steal it from the website www*nireland*com*may*fair (replace the ‘*’ with ‘.’)

A hugely impressive website, I’m sure you’ll all agree. Apparently to watch it in all its intended technological glory your PC must have Macromedia Flash v ‘16.90’ to view. Apparently.

“On the 16th December 1756 George II granted to the Earl of Donegal the
right to hold 'two fairs yearly at the Town and Lands of Ballyclare', 'yielding
therefore yearly to us the sum of thirteen shillings and four pence for the said
fairs to be paid forever'

At first the fairs were markets for animals and goods but as they grew to four in a year it was the May and November fairs which became the most important as it was there that the farmers hired their labouring men and servant girls for the next six months. The May Fair was traditionally held on a Tuesday in late May but in the nineteenth
century such was the demand for horses that the Monday was given over to the
trade. One dealer alone brought a hundred horses each year while others came
into Ballyclare riding bareback and leading a string of horses. Representatives
of cavalry regiments from all over Europe came to buy as the reputation of the
fair spread.

Local farmers also needed horses to plough and transport their produce while the nearly city of Belfast sought carriage horses and sturdy animals to pull carts. Any of the bakeries alone would need a hundred animals. The great days of the horse fair ended with the First World War and growing mechanisation. However in recent years the Main Street again echoes with the sound of horse being exercised and dealers shouting. This is not just a colourful revival of part of the town's cultural heritage but a real market
where bidding is keen. It is now the centrepiece of the week of festivities
which is the May Fair Festival. Today's sales are for leisure purposes but in
many ways the sights and sounds are those of a past century.

It begins with the Mayor's Parade followed by sports, street events, concerts and
exhibitions. Local shops compete for the best dressed window. Children take part
in Fancy Dress Competitions and the Duck Race.

A May Fair Queen is chosen to represent the town over the next year. People come from far and wide to meet old friends and make new ones.”

Sounds lovely, doesn’t it?

Ever since I was knee-high to a grasshopper, I have always looked forward to this time of year with - a time when all the year's troubles can be forgotten and a time when we all get to go a little bit crazy.

As a kid, the craziest thing I would probably wish for was a go on a “really scary ride” and it is amazing that as I grew older (and supposedly wiser), that my life had only subtly changed to wishing that I wouldn’t WAKEN UP NEXT to a “really scary ride”…

For the duration of the week-long festivities, all talk of shagging sheep, punishment beatings and fucking Fenians (not literally of course) is put on hold, while the people of Ballyclare have a bit of a laugh.

This year, marks a special landmark in the history of the town in that the Mayfair celebrates its 250th anniversary this year.

250 years.

And to be honest – not a lot has changed in those intervening years.

For 250 years, the farmers of the surrounding countryside have been coming to our wee town, bringing with them the strong smell of stale whiskey on their breath and the even stronger stench of horse shite.

For 250 years, people have been ripped off on the many “Try Your Luck” stalls, with the false promise of riches being announced to all and sundry by the vocal stall holders.

For 250 years, the good people of Ballyclare have stuffed their faces on half-cooked, bacteria-ridden food, or gorged on sickly sweet sweets – the famous “Yella Man” having originated from the Ballyclare Mayfair (fuck off Ballycastle and yer Aul’ Lammas Fair - WE invented it – you stole it and took it as yer own.)

For 250 years, Ballyclarians indulge in the traditional past time of “Let’s get pissed, talk shite and fall over”.

And then we all go on the many amusement rides in the town square and get thrown about until we vomit.

And you know what, folks?

I absolutely love it.

No lesser man than Callum Best (son of Georgie) will be in town on the last night, no doubt to sign off the week-long proceedings in the traditional fashion of a blue-bag carryout of lethal snakebites of Thunderbird mixed with Steiger Lager, 20 Berkley cigarettes and a grope of some aul' Ballyclare slapper underneath the bridge at the Sixmilewater river park.

Unfortunately this year I am not able to make it to the “Centre Of The Universe” to join in the festivities but all is not lost, because this somewhat raucous time is also shared with a slightly better known event – that of the most famous club game of them all – the English FA Cup Final.

After a Friday night of indulging in all these wonderful activities, I would wake up early with the tingle of excitement and prepare for the big game with the traditional FA Cup fry up before heading into town to start it all over again.

I’d listen to the big match previews on the radio and watch the build up on BBC before striding through the town with my Da to jump in a taxi to his local - a small farmers' pub 3 miles outside of town that my he rather inexplicably chose to call his 'local'.
Strangely - or perhaps upon reflection, extremely wisely - ignoring the fact that there were around 20 drinking establishments a lot more local than his one.

We’d watch the game with some mates – a bunch of like-minded guys - each one seriously good fun to hang around with and more than fond of an afternoon drink or two.

After the match, just a few short hours later - we’d all head home in a drunken, dribbling mess, invariably making the Saturday night a non-event. God love our partners but fair play to them for giving us some “boys will be boys’ time”.

You can imagine the difference if my beloved Liverpool were actually playing in the game.

Well, this year may not see me running about Billyclare like a dog with two dicks at the Ballyclare Mayfair, giving Callum a run for his money in the drinking and womanising stakes but it does see me with the opportunity to watch my team compete in this year’s FA Cup final versus West Ham United.

And. I. Can’t. Bloody. Wait.

I’m fairly sure that by seven o’clock this Saturday evening, I’ll once again be the drunken, gibbering fool that seems to so easily go hand in hand with Cup Final Day but hopefully I’ll be celebrating yet another addition to the Anfield trophy cabinet to keep the European Champions Cup company.

Give her one for me Callum. You’ll Never Walk Alone.

Istanbul - The Anniversary (Lest we forget)

Hello folks,

There was a competition in that highest quality of publications, The Liverpool Echo, to subject your "Memories of Istanbul".

The idea was that to commemorate the anniversary of that special evening, almost a year ago, you subjected your memories of that night and the winning selections would get published in a special edition.

Having been published in the Belfast Telegraph, I figured what the hell and started writing.

Once I was happy with it, I went to submit it and then realised that you had to have BEEN IN ISTANBUL to qualify and I also found out that my entry was about 6 times too long.

So all that work for nothing. Except, not quite - there's always this corner of cyberspace to dump the crap that spills out of my head an onto my keyboard (not a pretty sight I can tell you).

Anyway, my football (and non-football) supporting chums, in the absence of a much coveted publication in the Liverpool Echo, I give you "Istanbul - The Anniversary (Lest we forget)"

I watched THAT cup final on the terrace of an Irish pub in the "Grote Markt" in the centre of Antwerp, Belgium.

I was surrounded by friends, some Liverpool supporting, some not. There were neutrals of mixed nationalities and there was an impressive contingent of Milan supporters mingling about the old, historic square as well. It made for a colourful sight.

It was a beautiful summer's evening and because the weather was so nice, the pub had organised a big screen outside facing out onto the pub terrace. A few of the other bars and restaurants had decided to do the same.

The atmosphere - and the crowd - was gradually building up, as we gathered, waiting expectantly for the big kick off.

I had already indulged in a couple of coma-inducing strength Belgian beers to calm the nerves having already been on a post-work first date with a really hot Belgian Babe, who shall remain nameless. After the drinks, I convinced her to come and watch the match with me - the old romantic fool that I am. What a first date!

33 years old and 33 years a Liverpool supporter (thanks to my equally Liverpool passionate father) I originally hail from Northern Ireland. We got over to see as many games as we could until I moved over to Liverpool. I met a girl at a Liverpool match and moved over there nearly immediately. She owned a pub 20 minutes from Coliseum Anfield - I was in heaven!

My job has since taken me to Belgium where I am a member of the Belgian Liverpool Supporters Club and still get to see the mighty Reds a few times a season.

Like every Liverpool supporter, I have been sick to the back teeth and green with envy at the success our "nearest and dearest" up the East Lancs Road have been enjoying over the past 15 years. It's annoyed me to see all these ManYoo supporters out there who don't seem to realise that football started before the age of Sky television.

But I digress.

I felt sure that night that the tables were turning. The Rafa-lution was in full effect. It was our destiny. Stevie Gerrard was going to lift “Old Big Ears” that night and I was ready to join in the celebrations.

I tried to explain all of this to a rather non-plussed Belgian Babe and I think she managed to get caught up in the excitement of it all, looking pretty and sporting a spare Liverpool scarf I had brought her for the occasion. It didn't go with her designer clothes, and it was a hot summer's evening but bless her - she wore it anyway.

I was a twitching, nervous wreck, almost to the point of nauseous but I loved every minute of it.

I swelled with pride as I surveyed the hundreds of people all around that square, trying to catch a glimpse of the game.

This was MY team playing in THE biggest club match in the world.

And then - the moment arrived.

20:45, 25th May, 2005.

Our biggest match for 20 years had kicked off.

The first half, as we all know was an absolute disaster.

The Milan supporters all around me were rejoicing, the neutrals were shocked; the anti-Liverpool (read Manchester United) supporters were having a field day at my expense.

I put my head in my hands.

The Belgian Babe politely made her excuses and left, citing "meeting up with a friend" as some form of flimsy excuse, to exit stage left.

At least she kept her scarf on.

We arranged to meet up after the game. I figured I would be in need of some consolation and a sweet-smelling rounded shoulder of a beautiful female - all be it one who could desert us in our hour of need - to cry on was most definitely better than none.

I phoned home and spoke to my brother - another fully paid-up Liverpool fanatic.

"I can't believe it. I just can't believe it. I've waited 20 years for this moment and we are getting hammered! It’s embarrassing!" I complained down the phone to him.

My brother's response in his thick Northern Irish parlance reverberated in my head:
"Catch yerself on! We've scored 3 goals in one half before - we'll do it again! Now get behind the team. We're all in this together!!"*

[* - Conversation might be slightly edited so as to be safe for public consumption!]

I returned to my seat contemplating just how many beers my brother had had and wondered how many more Belgian beers I would need to make me as delusional as he so obviously was.

And then it happened.

Towards the end of half-time, those Liverpool supporters lucky enough to have been there on that magical night, started singing that most special of football anthems - indeed the ONLY football anthem - "You'll Never Walk Alone"

On the screen, the camera panned around the sea of red in that big open stadium in Turkey and we saw – no – more importantly we HEARD every Liverpool supporter singing Our Anthem with all their might.

Maybe. Just Maybe.

The rest, as they say is history.

After our second goal went in – a cracker from Smicer of all people - I got a text from my brother that simply read "I TOLD YA!!!" I hadn't even begun to think up a reply, when we got the penalty and Alonso - at the second time of asking - put the ball in the old onion bag.

I was delirious. I was hysterical. I was kissing, and hugging and groping everyone (well - the attractive girls at least) in my nearest vicinity. We had done it!

The Italians around me had lost all their earlier air of machismo. Surely now at 3-3, the game was ours for the taking.

Of course I should have known better.

It had been an extraordinary cup run to get to that very moment – so of course there were to be a few final twists.

The agony of extra-time, Carragher defending like a rock - even when suffering from cramp and of course THAT incredible double save from Jerzy Dudek.

And then the horror of the penalty shoot-out.

I saw Jamie speak to Jerzy just before the shoot-out and I lip-read the word "Grobbelaar".

I knew exactly what he was saying. "He's gonna do a Grobbelaar!" I shouted out to nobody in particular.

He did and we won.

We were Champions of Europe for a fifth time. “Old Big Ears” was coming back to Anfield for keeps.

The Belgian Babe had returned and the celebrations went on late into the night and it was with the sweetest hangover I've ever had that I walked tall and proud into the office the next day.

After all, we were CHAMPIONS OF EUROPE!!

Thanks lads, for giving me one of the best nights of my life. Later, I tried my best to give the Belgian Babe the best night of her life as well but I'm not quite sure that I was up to the task. We split up shortly afterwards but my spirits would not be dampened for all in all it was the Best Night of My Life.

The moral of the story?

Girlfriends, no matter how pretty, come and go. Liverpool stays forever.

YNWA