The holiday

The holiday

So the good old summer is here and we’re hitting the pharmacies for sun tan lotion faster than a dog bolting from the garden hose. I myself decided to head off to Brussels for a quick 2 day getaway, getting away from what you say, well Tuam doesn’t have the best facilities for a young man like myself other than going to the local nightclub and getting refused.  So I got up at 4am on Tuesday morning to get my flight to Charleroi airport in Brussels. Arriving on Belgian soil at 10am. Now most people would be all excited about being in a new place and would not care about the fact they didn’t sleep well. Not me. I spent 25 minutes arguing in broken French/goblygook that I should be allowed to check into my room. That being said I had to wait until 2pm before I could even get to see the room. Well I was like a colic child for the hours I was waiting, and made a point of sitting right in front of the reception desk, saying things like, “ridiculous” “my seven curses”  “gammy feen” and other such beautiful words I could manage.

When I finally got to my room, I decided to rest my eyes a little. 8 hours later I woke up and ready to hit the town. And by god did I hit the town. More like I hit the ground about ten times, Belgian beer is deceptively strong. During the course of the night I ended up arriving at o’reillys Irish bar. Fantastic I thought to myself, maybe they have Hennessey’s brandy and an auld Bulmers. I was met with a big thick Manchester accent. Now I’m not racist, but when you go to an Irish bar you half expect to meet someone with a similar brogue to yourself. Turned out I was better off to have met an English lad, it meant that he wouldn’t  have a clue what a traveller was and would not say I had enough after one beer.

Thinking to myself between drunken thoughts, I realised, why the hell would I go and spend my time in an Irish bar while in Brussels, it didn’t feel right. Then again why do so many Irish people feel the need to head straight to an Irish bar when they go abroad, is it some kind of inner patriotism or just our nature of being afraid to venture past our comfort zone.

I was like a big child in a sweet shop when I got to the busy part of the city, the part with all the pubs and clubs. Not knowing what to do next I decided to stand and look around. Within seconds I heard that familiar sound of funk music accustomed to Brazil. I entered the bar and was greeted with a big brown man shouting something in Portuguese and then he ran out into the street jumping around with joy. I was thinking to myself, god, what’s he been drinking, and headed in to see what was being served. Turns out I decided to go here on the night Brazil are playing a football match in the world cup. For the spirit of the game I decided to taste the tipple selling the best. Caiparinia it was called, although the next morning I had some pretty colourful names for it myself. It was extremely strong and sweet, like a female Russian wrestler, both beautiful but packing a punch.

The next day after I got over the initial part of the hangover, I headed back to the centre half thinking about reporting that Caiparina for assault, because it kicked my arse pretty bad the night before. Opting instead to go to the chocolate emporium located in the main square. Well I was only like a diabetic elephant with an overeating disorder, I couldn’t get enough of the chocolate, I’m sure I looked so attractive walking around with big chocolate lips and cheeks on me.

The sad part about this entire story is, I went to Brussels to stage a one man protest, protesting against Zionism and for equality to Palestinians. Thank god the Palestinians are not relying on me, I would have sold them out for a snickers and a can of Bulmers halfway across the Gaza strip.

So for all who are thinking of taking a holiday, best of luck and remember the lotion, at least some of us can get a tan to match up with the arm that hangs out the driver window.