Tippler Does Brussels

Had a blast yesterday at Scotland House, Rond-Point Schuman, then afterwards at Sterling Books, where author Iain Banks was giving a reading and signing copies of his novels.

Banks is probably most famous for his controversial first novel, The Wasp Factory, and The Crow Road - although sci-fi fans will know him better as Iain M Banks. That ‘M’ makes all the difference.

A genuinely funny Scot - well, he would be, being born in Dunfermline as was this blogger - I had a thirty minute chat with him at Sterling. It was a sort of off-the-cuff, see how it rolls, relaxed interview. By the end, half the staff had pulled up seats to listen and a bunch of fans were milling around earwigging.

It was great fun all round and if you want to know more, go to UP Front’s home page and click the link. You can even hear a recording of Banks reading from his latest book, The Steep Approach To Garbadale, at Scotland House, courtesy of Quarsan.

Finally today, UP Front is now on Skype. The address is sinergy_upfront, or just type in Up Front Brussels. Free calls, wahay!

Dunno about you, but I reckon one of the most annoying things that can happen in a bar is when a ’space invader’ descends.

By that I mean the following: there’s you and maybe one other person sat at a long bar, so there’s plenty of serving room. You have your pint, your newspaper and your fags on the bartop in front of you and your coat slung over the back of your seat.

All very cosy and, I would have thought, a clear marking out of your albeit temporary ‘territory’. The bar-room equivalent of a dog pissing on a post.

Then you go to the loo. And while you’re gone, some halfwit walks into the pub and, seeing that there’s at least fifteen places to stand and order a drink without blocking anything or anyone, immediately chooses to engage the barman at the exact spot where all your stuff is.

So you come back from the loo and this asshole is blocking your chair, your pint and your fags while, to his left and right, there’s acres of room. I mean what is going through the guy’s head? And when you have the audacity to point this out, politely or otherwise, he invariably gets the hump or, worse, contrives to look surprised.

Yesterday’s occurence was arguably even worse. I’d been sat at a small two-seater table in the Oirish pub doing the crossword. There were roughly ten empty tables in the bar. I left fags, paper, a full beer, an ashtray and a pen - the whole lot spread out across the table. Not only that, but my coat was on the bench, quite clearly visible.

I came back from the loo and this twat was literally about to climb into my seat to the point of sitting on my jacket. I was rendered almost speechless but not quite. “Are you blind, mate?” I said. “Which bit of this fucking table and bench looks remotely unoccupied? Even a bit?”

“Oh, sorry,” he mumbled and shuffled off, presumably to bother some other poor bastard. By this point, the bloke at the table next to me was pissing his pants but later told me that, as the guy was about to put his fat arse in my spot, his own jaw had dropped at the inanity of the moron.

These people should not be allowed into any decent pub and, if you spot any, please discourage them.

By the same logic, I suppose that if you were on a busy bus one of these space invaders would happily try and sit on your knee.

If they’re really that blind and/or stupid they shouldn’t be allowed out without a fully trained nurse.

So, the nominations are out for this year’s Acadamy Awards ceremony on 24 February - assuming it goes ahead, due to the writers’ strike.

Julie Christie, now 66, has been chosen for the fourth time and could well win her second Oscar for Away From Her, in which she plays a woman with alzheimer’s.

Hope she remembered to turn up for rehearsals…

Her previous Oscar win was for Darling, a 1965 movie in which she played an amoral model who sleeps her way to the top. I shall refrain from comment.

Perhaps surprisingly, neither of her other two nominations for Best Actress included one for her role in Dr Zhivago. No one was apparently Russian to nominate her…

Elsewhere, My Left Foot star Daniel Day-Lewis is in the list again (for Best Actor in the movie There Will Be Blood). He’s hottly tipped but is up against the likes of George Clooney and the sex god that is Johnny Depp.

As ever, Johnny won’t win. But who cares, eh? I’d ccertainly cuddle him if he feels like a good cry.

Keira (twice) Knightley didn’t make the cut this year but, if she also needs consoling, she can get my number from Johnny…

Her lack of a nomination is sad but not as tragic as the sudden death of actor Heath Ledger at the age of 28. Ledger starred in the amusing A Knight’s Tale as well as taking a supporting role in Monster’s Ball but is best known for playing a gay cowboy.

His death is suspected to be down to a drugs overdose.

ChokeCrack Mountain, anyone?

A couple of posts back I mentioned that I had a bit of a problem over Christmas. This was it…

I’d been so broke for several months that I neglected to pay the electric bill. They switched me off on December 20th, which was nice. Not partially off, so I had at least one light and, say, the fridge, but totally.

Fortunately, they only threatened to turn the gas off, so at least the flat was warm, if a tad dark.

I’d already said I’d cook Christmas dinner for Laura and a pal - a barman whose parents where at that point located in Farawayistan, so the young lad was facing the prospect of Christmas alone.

I nearly cancelled but, in the end, said ‘fuck it’, cooked the bird and the roast spuds at Kiwi Ed’s place (he was on holiday in NZ) and carried the stuff back to mine. The veg I could do chez moi as the hob is fortunately gas, but the oven’s electric.

I then spent 27 euro on batteries for my beat box so we at least had music and we got merrily pissed by candlelight, occasionally reaching out of the window for another bottle of white wine which was chilling nicely on the window ledge - or ‘fridge’.

Given the time of year and given that it is Belgium, once I’d finally paid the bill it took them ages to switch me back on. Till the 15th of January, actually.

But at least I won’t have too big a leccy bill this month. I like to look on the bright side, you know.

Hello folks - and a belated happy new year.

Apparently, today is the worst Monday of the year, that’s according to people like the Samaritans and the Citizen’s Advice Bureau who take calls from those of us who may be pissed off.

The reason this is the case is down to a complex formula that measures things such as melancholy, post-festivity debt, daylight (or lack thereof) and so on.

Feels just like any other bloody Monday to me, to be honest, notwithstanding the size of the bar tab I ran up over Christmas…

Meanwhile, pals of mine have recently got into the habit of ringing either myself, Laura or sometimes both of us during the time that some loving couples put aside for a mid-Sunday morning shag. You know, just after the coffee-in-bed routine.

This is having a weird effect. It seems that some guys get off by wearing nappies, or getting whipped and so on, and while I’m not particularly into that sort of stuff, I have to confess that it’s rapidly getting to the point that I expect a mid-bonk phone call and, if it doesn’t come, er, neither do I. It’s sort of ‘no phone, no bone’, if you catch my drift.

It’s because I’m waiting for it, I guess, and can’t concentrate properly until it’s out of the way. As one does, I mentioned this in passing to Tom Joad down t’pub and he, in his not-quite-infinite wisdom, described it as a ‘Pavlovian response’.

What in God’s name a raspberry dessert has got to do with it is beyond me. Each to their own, I suppose, but don’t be calling ME odd…

 Whoops, there goes the phone…

Just texted Kiwi Ed with suitable greetings as it is already New Year’s Day down in NZ. He thanked me and responded that he’s ‘fairly sober’.

Yeah, right. Kiwi’s idea of ‘fairly sober’ is three pints of cider at lunch, back to work for an hour, then another five. Given that he’s home on holiday, however, you can forget about the back-to-work bit.

He texted me at ten o’clock last night to say he would call me from the hotel ‘once I’ve finished this pint’. Do the maths, that was ten in the morning, NZ time. So he started boozing fourteen hours prior to midnight. And he was ’fairly sober’ as the New Year rang in?

Must have had a big bloody dinner…

Anyway, sillyness now. The following ‘joke’ ends in a punning punch line, of classical derivation - it’s a famous line from Shakespeare, in fact. Can you guess it?

A non-Liverpudlian walks into a cafe by the River Mersey and asks for a cup of tea.

“No problem,” says the waitress. “But we have three varities; the usual stuff that we call ‘builder’s’ tea, a subtle and refreshing Earl Grey and, our most recent addition, Koala tea.”

“As well as being flavoured by a cute, furry, tree-climbing creature from the Antipodes, the latter tea uses water drawn from our famous river, the Mersey, which flows past our front door,” the waitress adds.

“OK,” says the visitor, “I’ve never heard of Koala tea, but I’m happy to give it a try. Bring it on!”

A few minutes later the waitress comes back with a tray, upon which is placed a liquid-filled cup, a saucer, milk, sugar and the obligatory crap biscuits.

The guy looks down at the soupy gunge and exclaims: “Hey, what’s going on? This tea has got lumps of fluffy marsupial floating in it!”

To which the waitress replies: “Yes sir, and that’s because ‘the…”

(Clue: the line is a pun and is spoken in a famous play by a female character, albeit it one dressed as a bloke. Any guesses?)

Meanwhile, Happy New year!

(Daffers got the answer very quickly - so if you can’t be bothered to think about it, go to the first comment)

I’ll keep this brief, boys ‘n’ girls - just to say I hope you all had a great Christmas and have exciting plans for New Year’s Eve.

Despite some challenging external circumstances (that are too complex to cover at this point) I managed to have a fine day - one of the highlights of which was meeting Laura at 11am Christmas morning at Gare du Midi, as she got off the train from Mons.

I was feeling pretty stupid - this because I was wearing an ill-fitting Santa hat. Her wide smile was well worth the humiliation, however. She looked great in a flimsy green, sequined top that wouldn’t have looked out of place at the Eurovision Song Contest.

Elaib, meanwhile celebrated his birthday on Christmas Eve with Yours Truly, once we’d finally found an open pub. This was at around 8pm.

He was due to attend Mass at ten but, needless to say, the Avenue Louise chapter of God’s flock were left to perform their service and songs minus the descant of our mutal friend, who was happily slamming back beers in de Valera’s and basically said “Fuck it” after pint number three. 

We finally tracked down a taxi at just-past-midnight. I only hope his lovely wife wasn’t TOO hacked off…

Meanwhile, happy everythings to whom it may concern. Back in 2008…

Several people lately have mentioned that I haven’t been blogging much. And all these lovely people have been concerned. And, bloody hell, that’s more than I deserve. Thank you a very, very lot.

It’s not just the beer, trust me.

For example, last night, some twenty-two-or-thereabouts-spotty-fucker, with whom I’d been speaking about the fact that Liverpool’s football team is not very good, suddenly said: “So, do you still masturbate?”

I was stunned. The cheeky little shit. Do the kids of today just NOT get it?

Of course I bang one out. Have a Tommy Tank. Pull one off. Indulge in a ham shank. Just had one, in fact. Thinking about my ex-cleaner-turned-porn star. And it was great, although she may want a wage rise if I hire her again.

Bottom line, I’m in-my-40s-and-single! What exactly, apart from popping down Gare du Nord with the turkey-and-trimmings money and spending it on some ebony-skinned lady of the night, are my options?

The fucking 22-year-old idiot - when I was a lad we learned about life, Peer Gynt, cutting up frogs, the Dissolution of the Monasteries, taking part in wanking contests and deciphering Shakespeare. There was also occasional buggery on the curriculum.

The benefit of a classical education. Never did THIS BOY any harm… Trust me, there are worse things in life than a sore arse.

Anyway, so, for the three of you that are still dropping by this blog, here’s what’s been pissing me off.

1) Proper stuff, now - my old pal died, as you know, and I’m realy a bit fucked-up about that. He was a fairly useless fat git but, actually, he was also one of the kindest people I ever knew. This came as a surprise when I thought about it, but it’s true. He was. And there was superior-old-me thinking I’m some kind of clever bastard and therefore more worthy.

All I did was live longer.

JD, I hope you have a way of reading that. Love you.

2) Myself and a colleague just cleared a huge amount of money in a week, by doing great work, but it wasn’t in the business we really wanted to earn money.

3) My best pal can’t take losing a football game as what it is - just losing a football game. He has more conspiracy theories about that match than exist about the death of Princess Diana and JFK combined. Sadly, for him, there were about 100 million witnesses who know Liverpool were NOT robbed. They just lost 0-1, don’t make it MY problem.

4) I’ve split up with a girl - whom a lot of my male friends feel they can ring (and do, all the time, not, of course, because they want to shag her or anything…) because she was considering alternative plans to bugger off for New Year’s Eve. Her ‘other life’.

And I heard this not from HER but from a third party. When, exactly, was she going to tell ME? To say I’m not impressed is understating it a tad.

5) My luck is so bad right now that I recently managed to get stabbed in a four-gun shoot-out.

HOWEVER

There are reasons to be cheerful:

1) The latest Tragically Hip album is fantastic. Go on, you know you want too. It’s called ‘World Container’. The kids won’t get it, but it includes the greatest ‘grumpy old man protest rant’ ever.

2) Three members of the original Led Zep line-up are still alive and playing together. This is the nearest I have ever found to proof that God exists.

Although the c*nt never got me a ticket.

3) After all the pain, monstrous living and drugs I can still count to three. Wooh!

4) Four, even. Misunderestimated myself. Yay!

5) Liverpool - 0, Manchester United - 1 (Tevez). Oh, I am SO larfing my arse off…

6) Local Boy In Photograph - by the Stereophonics. Off the album ‘Word Gets Around’. Oh, go on, trust me. That train runs on and on…

7) Oh yeah, ‘blonde jokes’. They’re good.

8) Finally, have a think - isn’t all the shit, crap, soul-sapping bollocks that goes on everyday, that sucks the love and the basic decency out of one and all of us - and slowly breaks all our spirits - isn’t it still, still, STILL a whole lot better than diving under a thundering tram, swallowing pills, leaping head-first off a balcony or sticking a gun in your mouth and pulling the trigger?

I think it is, and I’ve thought about it a lot.

By the way, you should all take your cars to be crushed.

It’s with a heavy heart that I write this. I was telephoned by Aloicius the other evening with the news - heard via a mutual friend in York - that a once-very close mate, with whom I shared two flats and an abundance of good and bad times, has died.

JD, as he was universally known, was a ‘bit of a one’. Always overweight, perptually skint and something of a lazy arse, he still pulled the girls, largely down to his big brown eyes and lost-puppy look. He also had a terrific sense of humour. Just as well, really, considering the scrapes he got into.

JD’s worst trait, apart from supporting Leeds United, was, like mine, his incessant drinking. We were once in a bar called the Punch Bowl in Stonegate, where the new landlord was showing off his first ‘guest beer’. None other than Timothy Taylor’s Landlord. JD and I were more than familiar with this beverage, it being the beer of choice at our local, The Spread Eagle.

After foisting two pints each of the stuff upon us the landlord knowledgably declared that the 4.3 abv beer was indeed excellent but, given it’s strength, was not really ‘the type of beer you could drink all night’. He only figured out why we burst out laughing at this remark when, a few hours later, he popped into the Spread and found JD and Yours Truly happily downing our tenth pint of said beverage.

The Spread was about a kilometre away from the house JD was living in on the occasion that, one night, (I heard this the day later) he drunkenly got into his van and rear-ended a taxi at the traffic lights at Walmgate Bar. All sorts of unpleasantries ensued, not least the passenger suffering from whiplash, and when I later asked my friend what had possessed him to get in the van when he knew he was shit-faced, back came this deadpan reply: “I was too pissed to walk, mate.”

JD’s excesses were legendary, which is more than can be said for his work skills. We once went to an Indian restaurant at which Jon had recently been engaged in fitting a suspended ceiling. The owner had offered him a free meal for two on top of the cash, so off we went to chow down.

All was going well and JD was proudly showing off the ‘excellent’ job he had done on the ceiling when, half way through the main course, three of the tiles came crashing down onto our heads and sent curry and beer bottles everywhere. I’ll draw a veil over what occured next but, suffice it to say, we were not in situ for the sweet course.

The thing with JD was that I always thought of him as my ‘Picture of Dorian Gray’. I felt I could drink and misbehave while the worst excesses would be wrought on Jon and not on me. I think he felt the same in reverse. We felt we would mop up each other’s excesses and both live forever. Not the case, sadly.

And the real thing that hit me the other night was that, although I’d lost friends in their teens and early twenties, once people get past those ‘danger years’ you exect them to bat on at least until their mid-fifties/sixties, regardless of lifestyle. But my old friend JD has now died of alcohol-related diseases after a protracted illness, not due to some silly falling-off-a-ladder accident.

Worse, the stupid bastard was only 41 years old. I don’t mind telling you I’ve cried like a baby this week - angry and sad at the same time. And not just for him, but for me too.

JD, line one up for your old mate. Although, hopefully, I may be some time yet.

Meanwhile, my sympathies to the pub landlords of the fair city of York, who now face the prospect of going skint.

Just before he led the delegation to South Africa for the World Cup draw at the weekend, FA chief Brian Barwick, tasked with picking the next England boss, was walking down the street in Tonbridge.

I know this cos he spoke to my step-mum.

She was also walking down the street but was heavily weighed down by four huge shopping bags.

Up walked Barwick and said: “Hello, love, can you manage?”

“Yes, of course,” she replied, “But I don’t want the bloody job…”

That woman has class.