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'Next time you're feeling blue just let a smile begin, Happy things will come to you...' – The Smurfs.
Belgium, world famous for its chocolate, waffles, lace, diamonds, smurfs, Jean-Claude Van Damme, Eddy Merckx, Dr. Evil, the Mannekin Pis, Tintin, the EU Parliament Centre and, its BEER!
Historically, Belgium the Netherlands and Luxembourg were known as the Low Countries, which used to cover a somewhat larger area than the current Benelux group of states. Many conflicts between European powers have been fought in Belgium too; include in this both World Wars. Today, Belgium has its own uniqueness, inhabitants of the country use one of two languages in everyday life, either Dutch or French, though there is a small group of German-speakers but, most folk are bilingual. And it were also a good job they understood English with the rabble I made the short trip by the big iron bird, across the North Sea recently, with. 
Brussels was the destination for nigh on 40 of us on a four day jaunt: Culturally the architecture in Brussels is profoundly heterogeneous, with old and new buildings and landmarks sitting side-by-side. From the medieval constructions like the Grand Place, to the postmodern buildings of the EU institutions, they all give Brussels an non-cliche façade. And making your way to the centre of the city and our hotel by taxi, at breakneck speeds, you pass in the distance the weird, but wonderful, Atomium. The Atomium is a symbolic 103-metre (338 ft) tall structure that was built for the 1958 World’s Fair. 
It consists of nine steel spheres connected by tubes, and forms a model of an iron crystal. Nowadays it’s the most popular tourist attraction in Brussels, and the symbol of Europe’s capital. It’s very impressive indeed. Once in the epicentre of the city, apart from the aforementioned, the wee Manneken Pis takes pride of place down a cobbled side street. 
The Manneken Pis is a fountain containing a bronze sculpture of a urinating youth! The statue is also dressed in costume several times each week and, is repeatedly stolen with the current statue being a copy. The original is kept at the Maison du Roi/Broodhuis on the Grand Place. And if you’re lucky enough while passing, or more like staggering by, the Manneken Pis, on the odd occasion the statue is sometimes hooked up to a keg of beer with cups filled from the fountains contents and handed out – nice touch that.
Talking of ale, the main haunts and activities of our visit, other than a spot of sightseeing, were to be the splendid bars in this vibrant, cosmopolitan city.
The wealth of bars in Brussels stock Trappist and Abbey beers, which are usually to be found bottled - t’CC 'Cool Hand' bottle opener coming in ‘swift’ handy for these. Whereas on draft you’ll find a near infinity of beer styles: Amber ales, pale ales, blonde/golden ale, brown ale, champagne beer, dubble, Flemish red, fruit beers, hop-accentuated beers, lambic beer, saison, Scotch ale, stout, strong ale, table beer - less than 1.5% - triple, white/wheat beer and winter ale... to name but a few.
The bars: The three Délirium’s - the Café, the Taphouse and the Little Café - all received the pleasure of our company during our sojourn; The Délirium Café is known for its long list beers; in 2004 it was reputed to have stocked 2,400 different brands of beers, making it a record breaker and was entered into the The Guinness Book of Records. On offer are beers from over 60 countries, including many Belgian beers with the bar's name coming from the beer Delirium Tremens that’s on sale and, whose pink elephant symbol also decorates the café's entrance and its brother and sister gaffs too. The Délirium Taphouse has 27 ever changing beers on tap, and the Délirium Little Café as 30. All three are open until 4am, at least. The lads ploughed through the extensive list of beers, putting in valiant effort to drink the bars dry but, understandable, to no avail. So, on leaving these establishments; sideways, three steps forward, two back and some needing assistance, we soldiered on full of Bulldog spirit because, England expects, and all that bollocks!
Apart from the Délirium’s my top three traditional bar recommendations are: À la Becasse, "In the Snipe", is a well hidden away bar at the end of a narrow passage, near the Grand Place. Apart from a small neon light pointing you down the alleyway to À la Becasse, the only other giveaway telltale signs are a bronze outline of a snipe, a jug and two tankards in the granite set pavement at the bars entrance. The bar is famous for its jeune lambic blanche, a refreshing white beer served in a stone jug - which me and a mate sampled, along with other beers on offer - poured by waiters wearing monastic-style uniforms in pleasant surroundings. Lambic is the oldest style of beer in the world, dating back to the Mesopotamia of 4000 BC and contains an airborne yeast for its spontaneous, fermentation.
Next up is Le Cirio: the interior takes you right back in time with is dark wood panelling, ornate chandeliers and brass pillars. The relaxed atmosphere was only spoiled when I asked for a Silly Scotch beer in my best Scottish accent-not. The waiter could neither understand me in my ‘normal’ Northern dialect too - I resorted to pointing. Silly Scotch is a 7.5% golden ale introduced to Belgian breweries by the Scots during The Great War, and I can also voucher that Silly Scotch a fine wee drop of ale. They also had a grand display of medals for brewing and the beer they serve. The bar also gets a thumbs up from me.
And last, but not least, À la Mort Subite: Nothing has changed for a century in this historic bar that bears the name of the brewery, "Sudden Death", that supplies its beer. The prices are chalked up on huge mirrors, the walls yellowed with smoke, and waitresses bustle between the tables serving a hundred different beers accompanied by hearty plates of cheese and sausages. Folklore is that the name “Sudden Death” comes from a drinking game that locals played when they nipped in for lunch. It would rude not to partake in such a game, so I opted for a large glass of tackle, which is 14% and, a very acquired taste, to say the least. You feel the percentage too when hitting fresh air and the midday sun when vacating the institute.
Over our stay I made sure I dined well on decent local fodder and still had my five-a-day in the form of, a Bloody Mary with a lump of celery to accompany my continental breakfast, plus a cherry, raspberry and strawberry beer during the daylong session – I got a real liking for the cherry beer. Making a mad dash before leaving for home I purchased my better-halve a lovely, hand-selected box of Belgium, dark chocolates. Well, you’ve gotta keep in the good books for the next away trip with the lads, haven’t you? I could harp on for an age about while we were on the pis in Brussels but, my advice is, get over there and experience, see and drink for yourself in one of the most underrated city's in Europe. Bill.
Here's a few shots of the forthcoming Connoisseur shoulder bag, something we always wanted to manufacture was a handy bag, filling the gap in between a smaller pouch accessory and a larger rucksack, bum-bags/fanny packs aren't very cool (were they ever?) plus, they wouldn't seem nearly reliable or big enough for your camera, kindle or tablet. Our shoulder bag will be that perfect accessory for easy access to all your daily bits and bobs.The finished article will come in Canadian 'digital' camouflage heavy canvas (lined) with leather finish and metal fixings and adjustable strap. Designed in mind for when coat pocket space just isn't enough, it's a small bag with loads of pockets and compartments, and a secured zipped compartment for precious bits great for your digital SLR, sarnies and dirty novels. Perfect for ramblers, gamblers, scramblers and the boy about town...
-- "A change of speed, a change of style, A change of scene, with no regrets; A chance to watch, admire the distance, Still occupied, though you forget; Different colours, different shades; Over each mistakes were made..." – Curtis / Hook / Morris / Sumner
I wanna take you back to where it all began: to the outset of my profound infatuation for music and concerts, and more preciously, Punk Rock: I’d watched Punk mature – if that’s the appropriate word? – on Top of the Pops and listened to the late night Radio 1 John Peel Show, on my wireless. I also became a master of tape-recording Punk on my birthday present; a Philips cassette recorder. I would sit in my bedroom on Sundays, index finger on the record push button, between 5 and 7pm, waiting for Simon Bates to countdown the ‘official’ compiled top selling 40 singles of that week, on the Radio 1 Chart Show. You had to be quick off the mark before Bates jabbered over a Punk track near the end of its three minutes airplay. I’d stacks of BASF C30’s, C60’s, and C90’s, go! The bleeders were fookers for snapping, though!
Then collecting vinyl became my vice. I’d racks of artistic picture sleeves, coloured vinyl’s and obscure shapes. Some, I have to this day. By late ’78 I’d began dressing the part too; scruffed up hair, a drawing pin through me ear (done at school, for a laugh), logoed band T-shirts ordered out of Sounds magazine, striped jumpers, Wrangler straight jeans or owt that Frank Clarke stocked and DM’s. F. H. Clarke had an Army & Navy store on the outskirts of the town centre and many a trip would be made to Frank’s on Saturday mornings. Frank always wore a grey warehouse coat, white shirt and tie, his dark hair slicked back with an oil leak disaster of brilliantine, and he always seemed to have a un-tipped Park Drive or a Wills Capstan cig on the go. “Right then lads. I’ll see what has arrived this week, shall I?” he’d say has he cut the strings from the brown paper bundles on the counter with a pair of scissors. In his compact shop there were hardly room to let-rip with shelves crammed floor to ceiling with ex-military combat wares, emergence service uniforms and industrial clothing. Standout items are a pair of brown hessian/canvas leg-hugging strides and a beige full-length overcoat, which I adorned with Punk lyrics and slogans purchased from Frank.
The next step on the ladder was to attend The Warehouse, St Johns Place, Preston. This were either with my Mums blessing, when she advanced me a few pretty greens, but I hadn’t dare tell me Dad (Mums are great, aren’t they?) or, I’d climb out of me bedroom window when grounded on more than one occasion. I’d two paper rounds on the go plus a part-time job unloading a local shops Sunday delivery and the shops shelves to fund my fix too. Just into the Nineteen-Eighties, I fulfilled my next goal.
The Warehouse – Preston’s Hacienda - was a hidden backstreet nightclub in Preston town centre, situated to the left hand side of the towns Parish Church, and its bygone hewn gravestones. On Thursday nights the club was a haven for Punks, Skins, New Wavers, waifs and strays, pissheads, oddballs, the curious and one or two norms/squares who’d stumbled across the place in a drunken haze, by falling through the doors. The approach to the club was a narrow granite-set street; a bedroom store to the left, a four foot high stonewall that encircled the church to the right. If there were a band on that night, there were usually a drunk and disorderly queue, de-formed, gone nine, waiting for the big black doors to open as the thud thud of the base from the DJ’s speakers would pulsate through the thick, white walls of the building. Or if one the ‘biggies’ in the Punk world had been booked, sometimes on a different week night, tickets had to be purchased weeks in advance. This because the club only held around the hundred mark.
Following visits to the ‘normal’ Punk pub hangouts; the Dog & Partridge, Toms Tavern and maybe The Britannia, Old Black Bull or The Sun, the lads I went with ventured across town to the Warehouse. If there was no queue, you would BANG on the door and a minute or so later one of the two doormen would open up. Just inside the doors was the till, and to the rear a secure cloakroom. Entrance fee paid, which varied on whoever was playing, you turned left through a second set of doors under the watchful eye of the doormen. BOOM; the music punched you full in the face, leaving g-force impression and your ears bleeding. To the left were the lavs, which were covered in bodily fluid stains and graffiti and stunk to high heaven; the his or hers toilets were only used when the bladder were busting by both sexes in whichever of the two; or, by some lovers, for a knee-trembler. To the right was a small, 8ft be 8ft dancefloor with its own speakers and spotlights and a brick pillar on each corner, situated next to the stairs. The stairs lead to half a dozen dimly lit alcoves with a central fixed table and benches either side that overlooked the tiny dance area, routinely frequented by a lonesome pretty vacant, too drunk to fuck Punk, giving it his all. Or an alcove may have sometimes had a courting couple engaged in activities best be known to man and woman. There was also a kitchen where you could order chicken and chips, or burger and chips, or chips, in a basket.
Back downstairs; the floors under foot were covered in quarry tiles which added to the din as tunes bounced off the surrounding solid surfaces. The walls were painted an off white. To the left were cast iron tables and chairs, to the right was the bar. The hairy-nosed, scruffy old bloke who owned the Warehouse worked behind the bar, as well as a barmaid, serving up dishwater Lion bitter. If the beer weren’t bad enough, it were served in plastic following a fracas with the Morecambe and Lancaster Punks one evening down to different opinions of dancing techniques - the night ending in total bedlam and mass carnage.
Coming away from the bar, shaking your head in disgust after taking a sip of the swill in the plassy glass, to your left were the DJ box with its chain mail curtains. Dropping down a couple of steps was the aluminium dancefloor 15 to 20ft square. When beer slops ended up on the aluminium it was treacherous underfoot while attempting to pogo; many an outfit were ruined. And raised up a couple of steps was the stage. The setting behind were the bands strutted their stuff was organic, bare brick walls; profoundly, urban chic indeed. All-in-all, a compact gaff. A gaff where bands should be watched and where bands should listen to; plain and condensed venues, not venues such as stadiums or open air concerts. Raw, pure and simple.
Outside the Warehouse, come 2am, the beads of sweat that had turned in to a flood and saturated your T-shirt during the course of the night, due to the intense heat created by the sardine can packed venue, now turned to steam and rose skywards in the cold night air as we made our way to the Real McCoy for a flame grilled burger to munch on the three mile walk home. Gone 4am I’d hit the sack; I’d rise three hours later for my paper round, and then school, in a right fit-for-nothing state.
In the first month of a new decade, 1980, I went to my first Warehouse gig. On that night were the anarcho-Punks Poison Girls, Honey Bane and Crass. I was fourteen at the time. And they didn’t even ask me my age when I gained entry. I’d recited the 14th of February 1961 in my head all day too, so I wouldn’t balls-up if asked my age. I’d asked for a pint of ‘beer’ in the Bull & Royal pub in town, though. That night walls to the rear of the stage was decked out in daubed, anti paraphernalia flags and banners which also prompted animal rights, feminism and direct action. The Crass logo represented an amalgamation of several icons of authority, including the Christian cross, the Swastika, and the Union Jack flag, combined with a two-headed Ouroboros to symbolize the idea that power will eventually destroy itself?
All very confusing to a 14 year old. It still is now! They had a back-projected slideshow and video collages going on before and after each group performed, who were all dressed head-to-toe in black, accompanied with propaganda chanting, speeches and weird music being played too – so what? I don’t give a toss.
Over the coming years I was lock, stock and barrel wholly hooked on live gigs and the Warehouse with groups having me doing an array of weird stuff; the Notsenisbles, sick of being normal. Athletico Spizz 80, looking for Captain Kirk. Discharge, fighting the system. Salford Jets, walking round town looking at the squares.
The Exploited, fucking Mods. UK Subs, had a stranglehold on me. Theatre of Hate, believing in the west world. Angelic Upstarts, wound me up like a clockwork orange. Black Flag, had me... rolling round the stage, the dancefloor with Henry Rollins, and getting thrown out of the Warehouse! (I’ll save that tale for another day, though.) But like all good things, they came to an end. I began frequenting the Warehouse less and less with less and less bands playing there. 
Only over the period of my Thursday night jaunts, there are one band and one gig that stands out from the crowd: The next time I crossed the Warehouse’s threshold was on the 28th February 1980, this is when the post-punk band Joy Division played there. The Warehouse is also where the live album, Preston 28 February 1980, was recorded; for some unknown reason though, the recording wasn’t released until May 1999? Also, the gig took place just 12 weeks before Ian Curtis tragically took his own life. Curtis had hung himself in his Macclesfield home leaving a suicide note, declaring “ At this very moment, I wish I were dead. I just can’t cope anymore.” - RIP
Section 25 were the support band that night, another group signed to the iconic Manchester record label Factory Records. Only when Joy Division took centre stage, they had my wide blue eyes, and lugs, transfixed – it being a true, sound & vision encounter: Though the gig were riddled with technical difficulties involving the PA system allegedly caused by interference from the electric beer pumps - Curtis chatted to the crowd and at one point declared “Everything’s falling apart!” while the road crew troubleshot the sound problems - Joy Division delivered the goods. Their set was impressive as Curtis sung haunting lyrics while doing his dying fly routine with the stand out song for me being ‘Transmission.’
I left the Warehouse that night, ears ringing, staggering slightly too, with a lasting impression, and a promise to purchase ‘Transmission’ on single the very next day following school, which I did. The single was played time after time on my hi-fi and also took pride of place in my single rack parallel to my LP rack where Joy Divisions ‘Unknown Pleasures’ took pride of place. Unknown Pleasures pulsated intense vibes that I seemed to be in touch with even at an early age too. The cover was a textured sleeve and featured a design of the PSR B1919+21, which is a pulsar with a period of 1.3373 seconds and a pulse width of 0.04 second, fact fans. The LP sleeve contained no track information on the back, nor the traditional side one and side two markings on the record. The only writing on the labels was ‘Outside’ for side one, and ‘Inside’ for side two. Track information and album credits appeared on the inner sleeve only. An iconic record sleeve and record if ever there was one.
All these harboured memories came flooding back recently with the release of the awesome CC tee shirt, Sound & Vision*. Though I hasten to add, the Sound & Vision isn’t a direct copy on the Unknown Pleasures. Within hours the tee shirt in three different colourways and styles sold-out. But not to worry, the lads a t’CC informed me there has recently been a reprint is the process of being prepared for those who missed out. - Bill [Some of the above extracts are taken from the forthcoming book, Northern Monkeys]*not a Joy Division tee.
