Oh - and before I forget...

...you can follow the next chapter, no matter how short, on my new blog at:

http://australiaisoz-some.blogspot.com/

Thanks for tuning in...

Goodbye Belgium.....for now

Dear Family, Friends, Acquaintances, Discerning Surfer, Random Person Who Stumbled Across My Wee Corner of Cyberspace:

This is it.

Belgium is no more for me.

At least in terms of living here.

For a while.

The time has come for me to spread my wings and fly. Something that I have threatened to do repeatedly for at least the last three years but none of us (including me) ever thought would actually happen.

Yes Folks - I am leaving Belgium.

I look at that last sentence and I still cannot believe it, even though I am typing these words in the wee hours of the morning (very quietly) in the spare bedroom of my friends’ house, friends who have kindly put me up for my last two nights of my stay in this wee country on the shoulder of Europe that most of us call Belgium but a place that I have called (and indeed thought of) as my adopted home for the last 6 and a half years.

The unthinkable has actually happened – I have finally taken the plunge, bitten the bullet, jumped recklessly on a leap of faith, or just plain ran away – depending on how you look at it – from the longest chapter of my adult life.

So, have I finally chosen a to leave the best friends I have on the planet to return to God’s Own Country and return to my home to be surrounded by my loving family?

Erm….

No.

Have I been offered a dream job somewhere that I just could not resist? (Angelina Jolie’s bikini consultant on some tropical island, for example?)

Erm….

No, again.

Am I leaving on a project that will take me out of Belgium for a while and then bring me back, before I’m even missed?

Erm, again the answer would have to be no.

The truth is I have taken a sabbatical from my job, given up all my employee privileges, moved out of my apartment, dumped a lot of stuff out of my life (with Oxfam being worthy recipients of a lot of it – such charming old ladies), placed everything else in storage, bought a backpack which is now filled to bursting - along with a hold-all and the by now famous “gay bag” - which now lie here, expectant, beside me.

Because….

I am going on a bit of an adventure.

For good, for better, or for worse, I am leaving Belgium.

I am leaving it for that country just around the corner of the world, the one where the beasties seem to be like something out of a post-nuclear war disaster movie, the place where “barbies” are king, everyone wears “boardies” and “double-plugged thongs”, sport is a way of living, crocodile hunting is a natural pastime, stingrays are fatal (along with practically everything else), and even the cuddliest inhabitant of them all, the koala, carries syphilis. (CRIKEY !!!)

A contrasting hotbed of entertainment that has spawned such big and small screen classics as Neighbours, Home and Away, Mad Max, Flying Doctors, Crocodile Dundee and Irresistible.*

* = I watched this movie last night – “Not Great” would have to be the verdict, although there was a scary bit of steam-iron action in the opening scenes. Sorry if I spoiled it for you…

Yes Folks, I’m off Down Under to try my luck there for a while.

It’s certainly not because I really did find Belgium boring (as I’m sure you all realise) but the time has come to explore, find myself, see somewhere different, whatever it is, the time is now.

I’d just like to take this opportunity to say thanks to everyone that I’ve met along the way. You’re too many too mention and as this is anonymous blog, I’m not going to anyway.

But, knowing how I am, I’m sure you already know who you are.

I’d also like to take this opportunity to say that I’ve met a few assholes along the way but once again, I’m sure you already know who you are.

I’m away for a while but I know in my heart how I feel. In the words of that finest US congressman, Termninator, I’ll be back.

In the meantime, take care of each other – at least the ones that you care about.

Lots of love.
Me

xxx

God's Own Country

I’ve just returned from a few days back home in Northern Ireland and I would just like to share the following with you:

Northern Ireland is the most fantastic place on the planet.

Of course I’m fiercely proud of where I come from.

Of course I may be somewhat biased in my observation.

Of course I may be suitably PUMPED having spent some time in the loving bosom of friends and family.

But what I am most definitely not is totally blinded by my love of my roots. I am merely stating fact – Northern Ireland is a fantastic wee country.

Over the years, I have been fortunate enough to be able to invite people over to see where I come from and even more fortunate that they have accepted the invitation. I mean, after all, based on the world’s media coverage, my wee country has been demonised at every opportunity thanks to the shocking events of the past 35 years and the media’s thinking that “Good News is No News.”

Thankfully, however, people have managed to see beyond that, trusted me and gone over and seen first-hand for themselves the wee country that is my home. And over the years none of them, and I mean none of them, have been disappointed with their experiences.

Why would this be? Why have people come over to Northern Ireland and left the place suitably impressed by what they’ve seen?

Get yer arses over there and find out for yourselves!!

But to help you, here are a few pointers:

The Northern Irish hospitality is second to none

It is quite simply one of the most scenic places on the planet

It’s cheaper than Dublin.

It’s a more authentic “Irish” experience than the tourist-chasing Republic of Ireland. You only have to see some of our famous landmarks and the understated way that they are dealt with to see what I mean by this.

It has some of the finest beaches in the British Isles.

The Antrim Coast Road is a spectacular drive and repeatedly appears on top 10 drives in the world lists.

We’re fantastic story tellers (although this blog might not prove that)

And last but not least…

We’ve got the FUCKING GIANT’S CAUSEWAY!!!

Shove that up yer “authentic, traditional, blackthorn leprechaun’s pipe” and smoke it!!

;-)

Australia is Oz-some - the first post!!

OK Folks,

(Well, Skippy, for the moment)

This is my next blog, the originally titled "Australia is Oz-some" - a little corner of cyberspace dedicated to my experiences as a wee country fella from Northern Ireland setting off on the biggest adventure of my life - a move over to Australia to sample the delights that that most beautiful of countries has to offer.

Wee bit nervous at the prospect but good or bad I know that it's going to be a HUGE ADVENTURE.

Perhaps I'll come back with my tail between my legs, perhaps not but it's something that I've got to try. I'd regret it forever if I hadn't. Yes, it's a step into the unknown but feck it, I'm the Intrepid Traveller, I'm not that bad a fella - surely Australia will be kind to me?

We'll soon find out!!

Talk to you soon.

When Team Building Goes Horribly Wrong

Let’s get one thing straight right from the start here:

Being suspended by my bollocks, 15 metres above a forest floor in the middle of Belgium is not my idea of fun.

The all-consuming nature of the pain, indeed, the exponentially increasingly eye-watering and stomach-churning intensity of it all is something that I really would like to avoid experiencing ever again.

Ever.

OK – glad we got that out of the way, after all, I wouldn’t want you thinking that I was some kind of secret masochist who was into kinky outdoor ‘self-loving’ in his free time*

(* - if that’s what you are interested in then feel free to check out my other blog: http://www.ThingsILikeToDoWithaStickofCeleryUpMyArse.blogspot.com)

As excruciating as this experience undoubtedly was, my situation was further compounded because not only was I suspended by my bollocks, 15 metres above a forest floor in the middle of Belgium; I was suspended by my bollocks, 15 metres above a forest floor in the middle of Belgium in the full view of friends and colleagues.

Many of who, it has to be said, were trying their best to stifle back giggles of laughter, apart from a few who didn’t even bother trying to hide their obvious amusement at my unseemly predicament.

Not only do you know who you are but I know who you are too…

Of course some blame has to be apportioned here. I mean, it’s not like I suddenly found myself, without warning, swinging from a tree 15 metres above the ground in a harness that would not have looked out of place in a fetish club - a harness that was increasingly cutting off the blood supply to my family jewels.

So just how the hell did I get myself into this mess? Just who do I have to blame for finding myself in such a compromising and less than flattering position?

Well, the answer is quite simple really – the blame lies squarely at the feet of my employers as this rather embarrassing episode of my life took place whilst on the company weekend a few weeks ago.

Regular followers of my website will already know that in the past my employers’ functions have had me singing karaoke in an Italian restaurant with the string-vest-wearing owner, ‘volunteered’ for a swimsuit beauty contest in a transvestite cabaret show and walking through the sewers of Antwerp on a hot summer’s evening.

It’s also worth mentioning that on another occasion, an event that was organised for representatives from important clients, my employers had taken them to watch the Antwerp Diamonds tennis Tournament and then afterwards on for a few drinks in one of Antwerp’s many gay bars. And I’m not talking “gay” = “happy” here, although by all accounts there were many happy people there – I’m just not sure how many of those would have been our important clients.

Now I’m not saying for a moment that I was suspended by my bollocks 15 metres above the forest floor in the middle of Belgium for the whole weekend. No, no – not at all – in fact for the most part my bollocks were pretty much left well alone. More’s the pity.

Looking back, the weekend had started off fine, with the midday sun greeting me on the Friday. Still on the night shift in those days, I had managed to get the Friday night off which meant that I could go check into the hotel where we were staying – a fine country retreat in the Limburg countryside - anytime from 14:00 onwards.

I duly obliged and it wasn’t long before I had checked in, unpacked, ordered a bath robe for the swimming pool and err, gone to the bar with my book for a glass of red wine (or seven) in the afternoon sun.

The hotel was lovely – and I found the occasional ping of golf club on ball quite the relaxing backdrop to my reading, smoking and drinking. Yes - I was quite content in my little reverie that Friday afternoon, completely oblivious to the torture that I was two experience less than 24, short, hours later.

A meal and a quiz (in Dutch) had been organised that evening as part of the festivities and both went down really well.

With everyone else.

Unfortunately, the only thing that went down with me well that night was the red wine, of which copious amounts were consumed by yours truly.

Not that I noticed at the time of course.

But oh dear me, how I suffered that next morning. The Hangover from Hell is not even close to describing how I felt that Saturday morning when I eventually woke up, too late for breakfast.

I rarely suffer from hangovers, which is a shame because of course the hangover is nature’s way of telling us not to abuse ourselves with such wanton destruction. Blessed or cursed – depending on which way you look at it – my body seems to cope better than most with the alcoholic rigours of a night before.

However, when the hangovers do kick in they tend to be excruciatingly bad. This was one of those rare occasions.

Head pounding like the base drum of the Shankhill Young Defenders Flute Band, eyelids like sandpaper, mouth tasting like I had been licking the dust from Ghandi’s flip flops all evening instead of drinking fine wine and with a seriously bad dose of sweaty teeth thrown in for bad measure, I greeted “The Adventure Day” feeling anything but adventurous.

When we signed up for the company weekend, according to the agenda, we had to make a choice between the two organised events on the Saturday afternoon. The problem for me was that the agenda was in Flemish, so instead of labouring through all the text, I quickly skimmed through it looking for words that I recognised.

Of the two events on the zaterdag, we were able to choose between an “Avontuur Dag” (Adventure Day) or a “Kroegentocht” (pub crawl) which included “gratis pintje” (free beer)

I’m sure you know which one I chose.

However having plumped for the latter of the two, it turned out that the “pub crawl with free beer” wasn’t all that it seemed.

More family-oriented than the Adventure Day, it involved playing a few old Belgian games that the kids and adults could take part in together and yes - whilst there was free beer - it was just that - a free beer.

Having discovered my mistake a couple of weeks earlier, I hastily changed my choice of event to that of the Adventure Day – with a little bit of peer pressure from colleagues/friends that shall remain nameless.

The location was gorgeous – Bokrijk – a big parkland between Hasselt and Genk in the Belgian province of Limburg, the weather was fantastic and the lunch provided was lovely but oh how I was ruing the decision to sign up for some ‘adventure’ lunch already providing me with the adrenaline rush of trying to force my lunch down and more importantly, to keep it down.

Shortly after lunch and a quick beer to steady the nerves (THE NERVES – NOT THE SHAKES) the time came that could no longer be avoided as a group of around 20 of us headed off to a corner of the forest, where I imagined all manners of torture to be lying in wait for us.

As it turned out, I wasn’t far wrong.

Kitted out in ridiculous looking safety helmets and tight-fitting harnesses that left nothing to the imagination, things started off tame enough, with an event involving traversing logs without falling off the 2 foot drop into the crocodile-infested waters below. Sorry, the imaginary crocodile-infested waters beneath. OK, so the last one span around on its axis but no big deal, not too scary at all. The crocodiles were, after all, imaginary.

Next up, was an obstacle made of rope, consisting of a climbing wall and then traversing across a net before climbing down the other side.

Easy-peasy.

At this point in proceedings, it was decided that we split into two groups, the other group made up of a mixture of over-eager kids with some rather worried looking parents headed off in one direction, whereas our group, consisting only of adults – 4 male and 3 female headed for…

…The Death Ride.

I actually let out a nervous laugh when our instructor for the day, a diminutive but stocky guy who had introduced himself as Jannick, nonchalantly made this remark, hoping that he had just cracked a joke.

It was only as we followed after him into a quiet corner of the forest where “The Death Ride” waited for us - its next victims - that it quickly became apparent that he wasn’t joking at all. There was even a jolly little wooden sign directing us with the words “DEATH RIDE” etched on it to further prove the point.

We craned our necks to follow the rather shaky-looking rope ladder with wooden rungs and a few car tyres thrown in for good measure all the way to its end, a small tree-hut about 50 metres above ground level.

I felt dizzy just looking up at it.

Whilst Jannick explained the workings of the safety equipment to us, his colleague proceeded to demonstrate how we should use it, climbing up the first few steps of the ladder.

“If you feel tired, just lean back on the rope – the equipment will keep you in place until you feel ready to continue”

As I watched the guy do this I thought to myself that it was all well and good to do this just a few short feet off the ground but would I really trust the equipment that much so that I would be able to recline back and take a breather, as if I was relaxing in some comfy recliner with my feet up watching the football?

I didn’t think so.

Next thing we knew, like a rat up a drainpipe, his colleague scurried up the ladder to the tree-hut above. He must have done it in half a minute flat, making it look as easy as going to the corner shop for a packet of ciggies. All be it a corner shop made of wood and nestled in the branches of a huge tree. I had a good idea that, come my turn, I would take considerably longer than that.

Not even realising that it had left me, I started to feel the hangover returning. Or perhaps it had quite simply been replaced with a nauseous, cold-blooded fear. Either way, all was not well in my world.

“To descend from the tree, you will then have to take the Death Ride.”

What? There was more to this torture?! I followed his finger to where he was pointing.

Apparently too pre-occupied with my impending death, I hadn’t noticed the cable descending at an angle into the field next to the forest and stretching into the distance as far as we could see from our vantage point.

Aha! My spirits were suitably buoyed by this unexpected development. Now I knew what The Death Ride was. It was one of those flying fox rides that you see in many an army assault course or, if like me, you’ve never been to an army assault course – the last obstacle in the final event in TV’s Krypton Factor. (RANDOM FACT: Presenter Gordon Burns is from Northern Ireland)

First up to take the challenge was a gung-ho Dutch colleague of ours. Not looking too graceful as he ascended the ladder, he did however succeed in reaching the top without too much trouble and his yell of joy as he set off on the Death Ride moments later was all the motivation I needed.

Needed to at least consider the idea of attempting it that is

One by one, the girls in the group attempted and succeeded in beating the Death Ride. There were only three of us left and one of them – again, who shall remain nameless – decided by this stage to bail out, leaving just the two of us to have a go at it.

I was shaking with nerves and nauseous at the prospect but as I watched my colleague begin his ascent, I resolved to do the damn thing. The opportunity for bragging rights over my “chicken” friend provided a powerful motivator.

Faster than I’d hoped, my colleague reached the top and it was all of a sudden my turn.

I began nervously enough and, without looking up (for fear of seeing how far I still had to go) and without looking down (for fear of seeing how far I had gone), I slowly made my ascent up the wobbly ladder.

True to form, I did not trust the equipment to hold me as I took an occasional rest, opting for the less flattering but oh so more reassuring technique of holding on for grim death, to a point where imprints of the ladder where left as bruises on my arms for several days afterwards.

Eventually, I made it to the top where I was greeted not by the six-pack of cool beer, nor the leather recliner that I had hoped for but instead, without getting a chance to breathe some much needed gulps of air into my lungs, I immediately got hooked up to The Death Ride itself.

Taking little baby steps to the edge of the platform, I looked down below me ahead in the distance to where one of the instructors was waiting for my descent.

Rather than taking time to compose myself, I merely charged off the small wooden platform and flew down the Death Ride with as much grace as a bloated BSE-infected cow. If a bloated BSE-infected cow ever found itself on the Death Ride in Bokrijk, that is.

The wind flying in my face and through my ridiculous looking safety helmet, I screamed “ NORN IRON!!!” at the top of my voice as I plummeted towards the instructor on the ground.

Now I have to admit, what happened next came as a bit of a surprise to me.

As I neared ground level, I expected the instructor to get busy with some sort of safety catch to initially slow down and then eventually stop my rapid descent but as I quickly approached, it soon became apparent that he was stood down there having a sly smoke break.

The twat.

Passing the instructor at what could only be described (but hopefully not self-fulfilling) as a breakneck speed and with panic starting to set in, I wondered just how in the hell I was going to stop.

This was a question that needed answered with more and more urgency as I hurtled through the field over the hedge and into another part of the forest heading straight for another equally big - and solid-looking - tree.

Already seeing the headline in the Ballyclare Gazette back home, “LOCAL MAN KILLED IN DEATH RIDE” and for once it not referring to a joyriding accident, I prepared myself for the impact.

But of course I needn’t have worried.

Yes, the cable along which I was travelling led back up among the trees but thankfully at a safe distance from actually hitting any trees.

Having slowed down to a stop by nature’s very own force of gravity, I then started returning in the direction from whence I came, gathering speed and then passing the smoke break-enjoying instructor for what was the second - and already two too many - times that afternoon.

I then proceeded to go back and forwards until I eventually came to rather ignominious end to my Death Ride experience. My cigarette enjoying friend, put out his cigarette and eventually helped me down from the ride.

A ride, admittedly, that I had enjoyed tremendously. Once I had got up that bloody ladder, that is.

However, the worst was still to come.

A couple more obstacles negotiated, such as climbing walls and another ‘mini’ death ride (a Major Illness Ride perhaps?), I was feeling quite pleased with myself and my afternoon efforts. A sunny Saturday afternoon that had begun with me hugging a toilet, convinced that I was going to throw up had progressed to me feeling like something akin to John Rambo in First Blood.

And then, we moved on to the high wire assault course.

Ah yes – the high wire assault course.

A wonderful collection of obstacles designed to provide the adventurous amongst us with the task of getting from tree to tree whilst balancing along connecting cables, 15 metres above the ground.

I took one look at it and initially balked at the idea but the girls in our group continued to put the males to shame and looking at their determined expressions, I knew that I would have to tackle it.

It was suggested by the instructor that we paired off to help each other switch from safety cable to safety cable after each tree. There were tiny platforms allowing us somewhere to rest and compose ourselves for the next task.

Looking back, my partner definitely drew the short straw.

Having successfully (but with no little effort it has to be said) negotiated the first two stages; I was then expected to walk along a cable whilst holding onto nothing other than a rope for balance.

Balance was something I had been struggling with all afternoon, no doubt caused by the excesses of the night before. I had been experiencing many a wild wiggling of the hips that would have done me proud on the dance floor at the disco later that night, but when suspended 15m above the ground, it was the last thing that was needed. Believe me.

Halfway across the cable and in complete no-mans land I felt the uncontrollable shakes building up. I stopped shuffling across to try and steady my rapidly gyrating hips but it only served to further my predicament.

I then made the mistake of looking down at the forest floor beneath me and noticed the concerned expressions of some of my colleagues looking back at me. Realising I must have looked a right eejit, I did the only thing that I could do under the circumstances – I fell off.

As if my embarrassment wasn’t bad enough, I struggled for a moment to get back up on the cable. I would have had more chance of Angelina Jolie in full Tomb Raider attire coming to my rescue and in truth – I froze.

Unable to do anything to rectify my situation, I looked despairingly at Jannick who was below me looking at me with a worried expression on his face. I can only begin to imagine the expression on my own.

“Try to get back on the cable!” was the less than helpful expression that came my way from Jannick.

“I can’t!” was the even less helpful response that I gave.

“Can I just release myself from the cable and jump down?” Ah yes – the logic of the frightened - I’ll just deftly fall to the floor into that comfortable bush of nettles below me. That would be so much better.

Actually – considering the pain in my nether regions anything would have been better…

“Stay there, I’ll come up and help you!”

As if I’m going to go anywhere, I thought to myself.

And then true to word, Jannick - and not Angelina Jolie - came to my rescue.

To do this, he had to do the obstacles already successfully negotiated by me, which in truth was less than half of the course. He did it a damn sight quicker than me, skipping past my friends and colleagues that were waiting to continue with their adventure - stuck in a gridlock caused by an eejit Irish man suspended by his bollocks.

Eventually he helped me back up on to the cable, I got back to a tree and then he used a kind of self-made pulley system to get me safely back to the ground, much to my eternal embarrassment but equally as eternal gratefulness.

OK – so he didn’t save my life, but my bollocks were certainly very thankful of Jannick’s assistance that day.

The rest of the day passed off rather well, with just the one more obstacle to tackle – a team building puzzle which we failed at miserably.

In fact, the best team building effort of the day had to be when upon returning to my car, I realised that I had left my car keys back in the forest, presumably too preoccupied with counting my bollocks. About half the company was involved in retrieving them.

And that was how I ended up suspended by my bollocks 15 metres above a forest floor in Belgium.

Thanks for listening.

BTW – For the perverts amongst you that actually clicked on http://www.ILikeToDoItWithaStickof CeleryUpMyArse.blogspot.com - your email address has been recorded and forwarded. Expect a visit from the relevant authorities ....... YOU DEVIANT FREAK!!

Blast From the Past 1 - The Eggbasket

Dear Reader,

Join me if you will, in a confession of one of my most innermost secrets. The tale that you are about to read is the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. It recalls an event in my life that, as a child, had quite an impact on my formative years.

Looking back, as I recall the events that took place on that fateful day, I can smile and even joke about it, but at that time, as a kid, it was a truly traumatic experience.

So sit back, get comfortable, and follow me as I describe to you, in all its gory detail, the events that took place in your humble scribe’s young life one day in the year 1980.

I was seven years old.
Life is simple as a seven-year-old.
Of course the world seen through the eyes of a seven-year-old, is anything but simple, but with the benefit of hindsight (and with a certain amount of longing for the innocence of youth), I realise that life was great as a seven-year-old.

In 1980, I was in P4 (primary 4 year) at Ballyclare Primary School - the largest primary school for a 6-mile radius in the borough of Newtownabbey, Northern Ireland. Apparently it has quite a good reputation these days – and I’m sure it did in those days as well, but that’s not the sort of things that you worry about as a seven-year-old kid.

I worried about the fact that I was the youngest in my year.
I worried about the fact that I was smaller than nearly all of the girls, never mind the boys.
I worried about whether or not I was going to embarrass myself in front of my teacher, the Goddess that was Mrs. McAuley, in the weekly spelling ‘B’ competition.

Ah yes – the spelling ‘B’ competition.

This was a wonderful way of torturing the kids which took place every Friday afternoon, when we should have all been daydreaming about the adventures that the upcoming weekend would bring us.
Basically, it involved us all standing up in class taking it in turns to spell words that the teacher read out to us. If you got it wrong you sat down in an embarrassed silence and waited until there was only one person left. The last person standing was proclaimed the spelling champion for the week.
The prize offered to the weekly spelling champ? As if the wonderful smugness of beating your classmates wasn’t enough, you also got to write your name on the black board in a box in the bottom right-hand corner. No matter how much Mrs McAuley used the blackboard the following week, she never removed that person’s name.

Oh how badly I wanted to get my name in that box!

I was totally and utterly convinced that by being able to spell words like ‘Mississippi’ and ‘diarrhoea’, I would be able to instantly make up for the fact that I was a seven-year-old midget and convince her to leave my nemesis, Mr. McAuley and ride away into the sunset with me on the back of my BMX.
Strangely enough, despite the fact that I got my name up in that box on more than one occasion – we never did run off together, but I kept the BMX in good condition, just in case…

An interesting footnote to this, is that whilst I was still at primary school, Mrs. McAuley, changed from a P4 teacher to a P7 teacher THE SAME YEAR as I went into P7!! So she was actually my teacher when I was an 11-year-old midget as well!

Draw your own conclusions, Dear Reader!

But (not for the first time) I digress.

Ballyclare Primary School is quite an old building. It had just the one floor and was shaped in such a fashion that the classrooms were side by side in a square shape, surrounding the inner courtyard, where there was a small garden. It was in this garden that Mrs. McAuley would read to us on warm summer term afternoons. We sat around her completely wrapped in such tales as The Lion, the Witch and The Wardrobe, written by fellow Northern Ireland man C. S. Lewis.

Oh how wonderful she looked with her hair shining in the sunlight, her white cotton blouse seeming to illuminate….

Ahem – but I digress again.

Unfortunately, the school was built at a time when there were only farmers and sheep in the area and Lord knows, whilst great companions for amorous encounters sheep may well be - in need of a school education they most definitely are not.

This meant that originally, the size of the school was never an issue. But then something strange started to happen in my hometown - or more to the point in other towns within commuting distance on the other side of Belfast to the South. The price of property in towns like Bangor, Hillsborough and (the original) Hollywood (I kid you not), started to rocket – so when people couldn’t afford to buy property there, they started moving into our wee part of God’s own country. This meant that the capacity of the school increased to proportions never envisaged back when the school was first built.

So what did the North Eastern Education and Library Board do to resolve the situation? They supplied the school with mobile classrooms, that’s what. These were what could only be described as flimsy wooden huts similar to those seen in Prisoner of War camps.

Our class was one of these, and was situated on a small hill overlooking the school playground. In the morning, no matter what the weather, we had to stand outside and wait on the teacher arriving before we could go into the ‘classroom’. The room was freezing in the winter, and we had to sit wearing our coats on more than one occasion.

(I tell you this, Dear Reader, for no other reason than to pull at your heartstrings, to ‘butter you up’ for the traumatic events that I am about to describe).

Each day we had two breaks – a 15-minute break at 10:15 and a 45-minute lunch break at 12:15. Every break time, the playground would be a huge cacophony of noise. Shrieks of laughter, fear and pain fought with each other to create a noise that can only be made by the holy terriers that are primary school children.

Kids ran, kids fought, kids played ball games, and kids chased each other all in the form of pre-pubescent entertainment. As a result, two six foot walls were placed just in front of the exits from the girls and boys toilets, in order to prevent serious injury occurring when we ran screaming out of the toilets into the madness and mayhem of the playground, where all the other kids were already running and screaming.

When it came to running and screaming, the guys I knocked around with made it into an art form. We played games like British Bulldog, where the object of the game was to run from one end of the playground to the other without being stopped dead in your tracks by members of the other team. Basically anything went, as long as you were able to stop your opponent.

Another game that we played was ‘Tag’. This involved one person being ‘It’ and chasing all the others to try and catch them. Once a person was caught – that person then had to help ‘It’ catch all the others. As we got a little bit older this game was changed to ‘AIDS’ – as in “You’ve got AIDS!” and then we ran about ‘infecting’ each other by catching them. Highbrow stuff it most definitely was not, but at least we weren’t infecting each other in the proper way…

One day we were playing the ‘It’ game and I was one of the few remaining boys to get caught. I had about half a dozen boys chasing me. I may have been a midget, but I could run like the wind. (Being chased by a gang of lads all several inches taller than you is always a wonderful incentive!)

One of the guys who was chasing me was well known to the rest of the school as the fastest boy in the school apart from my best mate ‘Dinger’ Bell (these are facts that only seven year old kids know or even care about), was chasing me.

My pursuer belonged to one of the largest families in town. Indeed there were four huge families in Ballyclare that everyone knows. Each family was enormous with at least a dozen children (and these are Protestants!) who then went on to have other children of their own. Several of his brothers were well known as ‘hard men’ and as a result, he struck the fear of God into me - being chased by their kid brother was not a nice feeling.

In my efforts to avoid getting caught by him, I tripped and started to stumble, headfirst.
Rather than fall flat on my face, I continued for several steps, fighting to keep my balance, scared to death of putting a hole in my school trousers. On reflection, it really would have been a wise idea to fall and take the flak from my mother instead.

As I stumbled head first, I was unable to see in which direction I was going, so you can imagine my surprise when my head crashed against the corner of the ‘safety’ wall outside the girls’ toilets.

The whole world went head over heels as I fell, stunned, backwards to the ground.

I lay where I fell, completely without any idea as to where or who I was. I could hear nothing apart from a loud ringing in my ears. I have no idea, for how long I lay there in that state, before one of the teachers who was on playground duty that day came and picked me up to take me into the school.

Up to this point, in the words of Mr. Plant, Mr. Page and the rest, I was “dazed and confused” but that was all soon to change.

The easiest way to get into the school from where I had fallen was through a door just adjacent to the girls’ toilet. As the teacher carried my stunned self into the school, two girls, a couple of years older than me, walked out of the toilets chatting animatedly. They took one look at me and stopped dead in their tracks.

“OH MY GOD! – LOOK AT THE HOLE IN HIS HEAD!!!” screamed one of them.
“EUUUUUGGHHHH!!!” exclaimed the other in disgust.

Upon hearing this, I started to scream and thrash my legs about in wild panic. What the hell had happened to me??! The buzzing noise was being replaced by excruciating pain. My head felt like it had exploded into tiny parts!

The teacher tried to calm me as best as she could, which is quite difficult to do, considering I was taking some sort of epileptic fit in her arms as she was trying to carry me through swinging doors without accidentally banging my head on the doors adding further to my pain.

She took me to the staff room, where I was greeted by rather surprised expressions from a male teacher who was to become my P6 teacher and a female teacher who was an old witch of a woman who used to beat my father up on a regular basis (several years before whilst he was a kid at the school of course).

They grabbed some hand towels and tried their best to mop up my blood. Upon the sight of all the blood, I went into hysterics again, but she did a great job of calming me down. She then decided that it would be quicker if she drove me to hospital instead of waiting on the ambulance.

My mother was contacted and, understandably so but still rather surprising to me, my recollection is a bit vague at this point. I’m not sure if she came along with us in the school van, or if she went directly to the hospital.

Either way, the next thing I remember is lying on the hospital bed getting stitched up when my mum came into the room. To paraphrase her at this point, she describes what she saw:

“When I came into the room you were lying on the bed with a huge bandage on your head. You looked so small and frightened but you were trying your hardest not to cry, biting onto your bottom lip”.

The sight of her brave eldest son fighting back the tears made my mum want to cry herself but not wanting to start me off into (more) hysterics, she decided to crack a ‘joke’.

Dear Reader, I love my mother dearly, but honest to God - the ‘joke’ that came out of that woman’s lips was possibly the worst thing she could ever have said to me under the circumstances. For at this moment she was to utter the following words:

“I hope you didn’t lose any of your brains when you hit the ground!”

A feeling of pure undiluted fear shot through my spine and stabbed my heart. My mind raced as I tried to think back to the playground. All sorts of thoughts and questions flew through my aching head.

As a seven-year-old boy, I had no concept of human biology. I did not know what I do today about the human brain. So when my mother made this remark – I assumed the human brain was like a basket full of eggs!

Perhaps some of my brains did fall out! I wasn’t looking at the time - did anyone pick up my brains and put them back in my head??! Don’t stitch me up yet doctor – I have to find out if my brains were picked up!! How am I gonna cope with some of my brains missing??!

Rather surprisingly, I kept all these thoughts in my head, as if I was scared to lose even these most horrific thoughts - at least my brains were still functioning well enough to scare the shit out of me!

So for the following two weeks, I stayed at home drinking Lucozade and Ribena, watching daytime TV, whilst all the time wondering whether or not I still had all my brains.

When I returned to school, I went back to the scene of the accident – and was more than a little disappointed not to find any brains (mine or otherwise). I was also disappointed to see that despite the pain and agony that had been inflicted upon me, my clash with the wall had not even left so much as a scratch on the wall.

For the next few years, whenever I struggled with my school homework, I was convinced that it was because some of my brains had dropped out. When my Mum or Dad shouted at me because I was struggling with my homework, I would reply (at least in my head)

“WELL WHAT DO YOU EXPECT FROM ME???! I LOST MOST OF MY BLOODY BRAINS IN THE SCHOOL PLAYGROUND!!!!”

As another little footnote to this story, whilst living and working in St. Albans, just north of London, I met a couple who drank in my ‘local’ – The Noke Hotel bar.

She worked at the same company as me and he was a decent enough fella, who liked his football, even if he did support The Arse(nal). He was also an avid Glasgow Rangers supporter and one weekend I headed up along with him and the girlfriend to see the game against Hibernians (like Celtic but from Edinburgh).

He was a member of the “The Nottingham and Sheffield District Loyal Glasgow Rangers Supporters Club (F**k The Pope)”. That was their name - I am not kidding – if you don’t believe me, I can show you the T-shirt he gave me! So I travelled up with him and this bunch of absolute psychos. Actually, the whole trip is something that I would like to document but perhaps at another time.
However, imagine my surprise, when, just as we went to take our places in the Broomloan Stand, I heard a Ballyclare accent shout “Oi - What the fuck are you doing here?!”.

I turned around wondering who the hell was behind me, when who did I spy grinning at me like a loon from two rows behind? – yep – none other than my pursuer. I replied in the time honoured tradition “Fucking hell – what the hell are you doing here?!”. To which he replied – “I’m a season ticket holder – I’m over here every other week!”

It was at this point that I noticed who he was sat with – some of Ballyclare’s finest low-lives. Not to mention a couple of his brothers.

I turned to face the game but was left with an uneasy feeling, I still remember the last time he was so close behind me – no matter how many of my brains fell out….

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

OK Folks,

Soap box time.

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

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

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

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

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

Picture the scene:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

First up: Germany v Republic of Ireland

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

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

Scotland Faroe Islands

England Andorra

Czech Rep. Wales

And then of course….nothing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Café Old Trafford, Lepoldsplaats, Antwerp - GOOD

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

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

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

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

Thanks for listening.