For those who are still reading this, you will remember that I left you on a bit of a cliff-hanger last week (nine years spent analysing literary techniques well-spent!). So just how good was this night out? Well, it was really good. Just as ILoveMakonnen promises, the club was indeed going up despite being a Tuesday, and this afforded us two possibilities. You see, at one end, surrounding the bar, were groups of sweaty Englishmen clasping their Carlsberg and reminiscing about Maga 98’ with the lads. And at the other end, nearer the doors, presumably to escape the smell of Chaz and Dave from Bolton, were Belgians our age dancing.
Now, seeing as none of us were sporting the tell-tale three lions shirt, we were able to flit between the two groups. Consequently, at one moment you might have found us, brothers in arms with the Bolton boys, chanting “Vardy’s on fire!” louder than any song the DJ could play, ruining the night for everyone who wasn’t an English football fan, and at another moment you could find us rapping to ‘Gold Digger’ and looking super cool because we knew all the words and even got the accent right. Needless to say we wandered back at 3am singing ‘Wonderwall’ through the streets of Brussels.
The next day was just as good. With only one day there we had a lot to see and not much time to see it. So, following the map of Brussels’ pubs and bars kindly donated to us by our strange Irish friend, we crafted a walk of the city to take in all of its sights. We walked about 25km (if only we’d had PokémonGo) and were even able to balance out last night’s laddish behaviour by visiting a cathedral, a botanical garden and the royal palace. Oh how cultured! Of course, this sightseeing was not without its fair share of classic laddish banter! We hid from Mr. Steal Yo Girl in the cathedral, we looked after a baby bird, we found a body rolled in carpet in some bushes (he was alive) and we even loitered in a skate park for a bit.
That night, unwilling to break tradition, we went out again. With Wednesday night’s limited options, we retraced our steps from before. In the pub we found a mutual connection with a group of Belgians who believed the Strongman looked like Samwell Tarly (he 100% does). We exchanged English and French swear words (multiculturalism at its finest) and learnt that the Belgians don’t hate us as a nation. Around 3.30am Mr. Lane Change (the mum of the group) asked me to find everyone because we had to drive to Lille in five hours. However, he and the DJ then decided they wanted to stay with two Finnish girls, so we left them. When I woke up at 7.30am and checked snapchat I found that they’d walked home 45 minutes ago. Good luck driving to France boys!
To be continued…