So this is Christian -he's getting married. He and his mates (I think from a town just north of here) came to Ostend for their Stag do. Y'know, hang out in the city, see a few shows, spot a bit of theatre and break loose to some fine music.
This is Belgium. They do things a little different here. In the town I grew up in Masterton, New Zealand (a little town with no festival at all I might add) where on your Stag do you drink beer untill the groom-to-be sees two or three of everything, then his mates dream up ways to confuse him into thinking that criminal, obscene, or scandelous behavior has some weird semblance of normality to it. I suppose this is to create some kind of shameful distance between you and your pre-married self.
If I get married, take me to an Arts Festival, we'll get shit-faced on art till we're swimming in it. I won't tell my spouse, I'll lie and say we went to the rugby (and lost, I don't want to talk about it).
This guy (and his son) are French but live in Brussels. It can now be confirmed that my french is currently at about the comprehension level of a three year old (better than my Flemmish which is at the comprehension level of a comatose moron).
What happens to cute kids when they grow up?
(appart from drunkenness, disillusion and degenerative illnesses)
And this is Kaspa. Lemmie tell you about Kaspa. He helped me sort out my freight coming into the country (apparently it is not an everyday occurance to for a house to turn up at Brussels air cargo terminal). Kaspa is climbing the heroism ladder with me this week by talking his way through a few tricky situations, driving like a naval helicopter pilot and then lending me his bicycle. (these are 3 of the 9 steps to heroism)
I have a feeling that there is a limited audience for ukelele feedback noise. I am starting a club. Next meeting, my house. All welcome. Bring a plate.
And then it rained. And rained. Damnit!
