The blogging has slowed down, but I can assume this is only because everyone is working so hard to prepare for the upcoming trip.

In only 30 days, the American contingent of the upcoming tour will be boarding their aircraft for the transatlantic journey. Some will be tempted to over-imbibe on the flight to start the trip off right … and … well, others will just over-imbibe. I mean, temptation … that word doesn’t even seem to make sense in this context. Should I drink or should I not drink? What type of question is this? I mean, the alcoholic drink is there for the asking. In situations like this, I just ask myself, “What would Keith do?” ‘Nuff said.

But seriously, you don’t want to overdo it, because Thursday, August 31 will be a long day in Brussels (especially for those of you whose flight lands at 7am). And the quality of airline drink leaves a lot to be desired. You want to be ready for what awaits in Brussels.


The Delirium Cafe will be the official meeting spot for tour participants. The primary UK team doesn’t arrive on the EuroStar until 6pm, so early arrivals are cautioned to pace themselves. Remember, the Delirium stays open until 4am.

For those who are not familiar with The Delirium Cafe, it features over 2500 different beers from around the world. But most importantly, it has the widest selection of Belgian beers. So start thinking about those first few Belgian beers. Will you stampede straight for the Westvleteren 12? What would Keith do?

Across the street from the Delirium Cafe is the new Floris Bar, presented by the same owners as the Delirium. Floris is a brand new bar specialising in Absinthe and Jenever. Yeah, we’re talking about the almost mythical green fairy, Absinthe … check out Wikipedia for more links and information: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Absinthe. And Jenever, our old friend … I can recall many evenings at the old Belgo Zuid when the Jenever stick would arrive at the table. Curiously, I don’t recall the rest of those evenings … What did Keith do?

The Floris Bar is reportedly open until 8pm to 6am on Wednesdays thru Saturdays. And yes, that is frightening.

Friday afternoon, the survivors will probably try to pay a visit to Cantillon Brewery. http://www.cantillon.be

And then Friday evening, the Belgian Beer Paradise festival descends on Grand Place. http://www.belgianbeerweekend.be

Over the course of the weekend, the beer festival, Delrium Cafe and Floris Bar should keep us busy. But in between, we’ll try to make time for visits to A La Mort Subite (sudden death), and the Bier Circus.

Late Sunday afternoon, the brave will journey on to Amsterdam … and we’ll see old friends at the Gollem, Belgique and Wildeman. If Absinthe is a hit, then we’re also investigating reports of an Absinthe bar in Amsterdam.

Inspired by the recently formed Carbon Trading Markets, that allow the worlds polluters to buy carbon credits from forest growing countries, I am proposing to create a derivative market in Green Tea Credits.

Green tea is rich in anti-oxidants and, it is said, helps purge the body of the toxins left after consuming too much alcohol. Unfortunately it tastes disgusting. But, some people like it. Its very similar to the way in which some people like modern lifestyles, with cars, TVs, factories, power stations, etc, whilst others are happy to live in mud huts and hug trees.

This is the basis for a potentially symbiotic relationship between alcohol drinkers and green tea drinkers. The Green Tea Credits Market (GRETEC) will enable alcohol drinkers to purchase Green Tea Credits from green tea drinkers, thus allowing them to mitigate their boozing without going through the inconvenience of actually drinking green tea.

Since the benefits of green tea drinking are probably purely in the mind, there’s no reason why this approach shouldn’t work just as well for the credit buyers, so long as they truly believe in the benefits.

Longer term, because the people who hug trees are probably also the people who like green tea it is not inconceivable that the Carbon Trading Markets and GRETEC could merge into one unified market so that enlightened consumers can live a life of unabated luxury, get pissed, be healthy, and save the planet all at the same time.

R.A.B.

It happens to the best of us.

A few drinks … more than a few drinks … and while it inspires some to formulate groundbreaking new theories in quantum mechanics … some of the rest of us just need to head to our “Laffin’ Place” for a little while. Recharge, refresh, renew … for the inevitable next stop on the pub crawl.

There’s nothing wrong with sleeping in public … whether it’s on the train back to Dublin from Bray … the lobby at the Jury’s Christchurch in Dublin … or eating an Indian meal in Amsterdam.

The Skimmington Castle is also a popular spot for a kip.

When you need to worry is when your friend (not pictured) is still awake but says “Don’t leave me, I can’t find my way back to the hotel, and I’ve lost my room key.” We were good friends, sort of, we got him back to the hotel, and helped Paul explain to the front desk that he had lost his room key. But then we left Manuel to escort Paul back to his room, so we could go grab another beer at the hotel bar. It was a relief to hear that Paul woke up the next morning fully clothed …

Quantum Qorner:
The Science of Tomorrow Applied Today

DT = t / ( 15v * square(AI))

Drink Induced Time Dilation Effect
– or, the bits missing from Einstein’s General Relativity

Sorry to start talking quantum mechanics before we’ve even started drinking (although this inversion of cause and effect could in itself be proof that serious drinking is definitely going to happen), but I’ve been pondering the subject of how time becomes increasingly compressed in proportion to the volume of alcohol consumed.

I shan’t bore you with my highly scientific analysis, but here are my conclusions:

1. Start drinking as soon as you can, because you will almost certainly run out of time later (although it has been known for the bar to run out of stock first, but that’s a different problem…)

2. The reason you can’t remember anything about the evening after a certain time is that after a certain volume the evening ceases to exist.

(more…)

We were at the end of a long day in Covent Garden, London, and were drowning our sorrows in 10 or 11 pints of The Porterhouse’s finest Oyster Stout, when we felt “the need for curry”.

Like a rowboat being pulled to sea by the rapidly ebbing tide on Dublin bay, we found ourselves helpless to resist a small curry joint just round the bend from the Porterhouse.

We ordered up everything on the menu … downed the massive quantities of India-inspired sustenance in a feeding frenzy … and then I excused myself, and headed down the steep steps to the loo.

As I was washing my face, pre-relief, I decided to give into the massive pressure that had been building in my bowels and attempted to pass wind. Well, holy Moses, was that a mistake!

I don’t know whether it the oyster stout or the curry, but a tidal wave of the hot stuffins filled my previously white shorts. I swiftly headed for the, thankfully full-door, lockable head, where I stripped off the offensive garments and hid them under the throne. After about half a roll of TP and 10 minutes, I managed to make myself presentable enough to exit, only to find out my jeans had been breached by a brown Rorschach blot. So I wrapped my raincoat ’round my waist and casually strolled back upstairs for a hasty escape. I’ll always wonder who the next poor soul was to enter the loo…

Suddenly, as Skippy (the Skip-meister as we call him) came wandering through the vestibule, he was shot dead.

The bullet had come from nowhere, it seems, but oh, what a mess it made. It had struck him square in the mouth, causing an avalanche of tooth and jawbone fragments to rocket across the foyer into the lap of a job interview candidate named Missy.

Skippy howled, as best he could with his face hanging, well, out of his face, and scared everyone shitless. He writhed and bucked with blood shooting out of his face like a fountain, until he finally lay there still, in a pool of blood.

Missy was so surprised and disgusted, the vomit literally exploded from her face, catapulting the retainer from her mouth and putting the eye out the receptionist seated nearby.

Yes, she had been on an all-hotdog and bean diet, and YES, that did stink…the stink of the dead I think it’s often referred to. The receptionist arose and ran for the door…God only knows why, but tripped over the chainsaw wielding drawf who was trimming the bushes. He cut her in half at the knees…her lower legs left standing in mid-stride, while her torso broad-jumped onto the hood of a parked car where it lay motionless, giving the hood of the car what looked like one of those flame-front paintjobs.

Why did it have to happen on the day I wore my lucky suit? The rich, velvety dark crushed velvet fabric was just covered, no permeated, with the remains of Missy’s lunch. I am still amazed to this day how she leapt across the room, and started sucking the vomitus from the fabric…kind of makes you sick, eh?