Club Arnage

I found myself staring through the window of a taxi at 08.30 this morning at a rather grimy industrial town in the heart of Belgium. As we approached the outskirts, I saw a factory unit with a large chimney belching out an acrid yellow smoke. I was surprised, nay shocked to see a big sign on the factory roof. It said the dreaded word: GRIMBERGEN! I am not sure if this is the brewery or just a bottling plant for the stuff. A signpost on the road said "Lucky Dip This Way"...

On my return to the airport, and with an hour or so to kill, I ventured to the cafeteria for lunch. Low and behold, the amber nectar was on sale. Not being one to let an opportunity go by, I took a bottle from the fridge as the perfect accompaniment for my lunch of frites and mayo. (Incidentally, why is this the only food they sell in Belgium, apart from the sprouts, moules and choccys?)

Whilst the frites made me feel slightly queasy, the Grimbergen itself was not entirely unpleasant. It imbued a sense of general well being and mild hallucinations, tho I would not recommend operating plant or machinery, or even trying cross the road, after a bottle.

However, I would warn against excess consumption, if the state of the locals are anything to go by. It would appear to stimulate accelerated beard growth and hair matting, a belief in the ability to fly, paranoia, loss of self worth and yellow teeth.

Ardet Nec Consumitur, which is the legend on the bottle, is probably Latin for Danger! Poison!

PS Second Le Mans connection. I am fairly certain the taxi driver was related to Jakkie Ickx; at least he drove in a style that seemed to ape the great man. Terrifying!

I love Belgium !!!  ;D

Some one has to. Must be lonely .

I chuckled when I read this Andy.... We first encountered Grimbergen in an Intermarche supermarket in Alencon in 1988. We were amused (and slightly worried) by the name, so we bought a case to throw in amongst the Heinies, Guinness and hideous Kanterbrau/Export 33/Kronenburg.
I recall the occasion when the first Grimbergen was (volutarily) cracked.
I believe the phrase used, was something along the following lines: "For fucks sake! - have any of you tasted this shite??"
The bottle was gingerly passed around the assembled party, to the accompanyment of ever more disgusted explatives. It was decided that the remaining Grimbergens should remain in the cooler, given their similar bottle shape to the other brews in amongst the ice. When beer was required, it had to be removed from the cooler, sight-unseen. If you had the misfortune to haul out a Grimbergen, it had to be necked in one. Hence the 'Grimbergen Lucky Dip'. My brother in law, Ricardo got two on the trot - and downed them like a true Yorkshireman - they then downed him and got him on the trot. He was pissing out of his arse all weekend. Grimbergen is not to be trifled with. It's inoffensive nose and body will fool and trap the unwary. Unlike other, more well known Belgian brews (Wifebeater (Stella) and Jupiler) the old grim stuff has the capacity to f**k you up very badly indeed. As an aside, it also tastes like sh*t and is a major cause of acid reflux disease in British race fans.
Matt    

Hi Matt,

As soon as I saw the Grimbergen sign , I thought of you immediately. And that I must post something to warm the cockles of your good British heart as you while away the chilly and gloomy autumn days in central Florida.

Next time you are over, be sure to try Chimay too, another great Trappiste beer. A load of us went on the piss drinking Chimay in La Baule, Brittany just prior to the "Jag" race in 1988. That night has gone down in history as The Night of the Demon.

We ended up in the Casino, no doubt they were very pleased to see four lashed up Englishmen at two in the morning. We all chipped in £50 to the kitty and our Gambling God, JDN, set to work weaving his magic at the roulette table. Half an hour later, we were up by about £1200! Delightedly we set off to the bar where JDN tried to order champagne. "What's the French for Champagne?" he asked. Champignon someone replied. The waiter was not impressed with his grasp of French nor with the fact that he was Wapping the Wad about in best Loadsamoney fashion (well it was 1988!) and buying drinks for the few remaining punters who were not appalled by our general drunken demeanour.

Anyway, after many more Chimays with champers chasers someone said where the fluck has JDN gone? as we had not seen him for twenty minutes. We stared at each other in horror and ran/stumbled back to the Gaming Room just in time to see JDN emptying his pockets of his last coins in a vain attempt to win back our wad, which he had so thoughtfully sought to increase. The bastard had blown the lot! A terrible brawl ensued and we were asked to leave the establishment in no uncertain terms. And not to come back.

Unfortunately we all got lost/split up on the 200 yard journey from Casino back to Hotel, precisely what occurred is anyones guess. However, the night ended at 6 am with the fool JDN being stripped naked and hung off the balcony by his heels with a table lamp stuffed up his jacksy in the broad daylihght.

I occaisionally hear JDNs dulcet tones on Radio 4/5 as a respected financial commentator/expert and I am reminded of his great gambling prowess. And you should have seen the state of him at his stag night at Le Mans in 1991.

The evils of drink eh?

Highly amusing Andy - turning 50 quid into 1200 and then back to nowt again and celebrating with mushrooms, sounds like it was an eventful evening.
Le Mans is responsible for more of my dead brain cells than any of the other over-indulgences that I participate in.
I had to be dragged, semi-concious to the start of the '83 race, after 'having a bad pint' at the Stella Bar, near the front gate. I was in "just leave me here to die" mode, lying in a puddle of my own puke and piss, but was rescued and ressucitated by the very same Ricardo, who introduced me and most of our 20+ party to the delights of La Sarthe.
In '87 we stopped at Rouen for a few and I ended up totally ring-bolted and very nearly fell off the balcony of my hotel room, into a courtyard full of bemused guests, enjoying petit dejeuner. My rendition of Figaro was not really appreciated by the guests or the management.
In '92 we got into a very scary punch-up with a group of French truck drivers on the car deck of the Portsmouth Le Harve ferry. Our motorhome was then pursued through Northern France, until we killed the lights and gave them the slip. My brother Dave was driving, as he seemed slightly less arseholed than the rest of us. He somehow steered us into a layby that must have been the meeting place of all the local gays. First sign of trouble was when one of our lot went out to piss in the woods and came back and stated very matter of factly, that there were "two blokes out there running around with no strides on". Next giveaway was the endless succession of cars full of lisping fags, that kept pulling up next to our camper and knocking on the door - quite unnerving, even when you're hammered.
In the rains of '92 we had the 'Garage Vert Superbowl' - the less said of which, the better. How we didn't all get our heads kicked in that evening, is still a mystery to me. To all of the people who's barby's, tents and one small caravan (!) got knocked over, I'm sorry - and to the people who emptied their chemical toilet all over our site - we deserved it.
In '93 we parked-up in Chapelle next to a load of German lads from Wirmelkirschen, who we'd known for a couple of years. Collectively we drank all of their Warstarter and Dab and peach schnapps in one session. One of my obliterated friends then knocked over their sound system, tearing down their lights and flags and knocking over a long table with their dinner on it. For reasons I can't fathom, the Anglo/German camraderie kind of fizzled out after that.
Our Sunday lunchtime 'Champagne Frenzy' of the past few years, makes me shudder, as I sit here in the cold light of day.
I think my most shameful drunken Le Mans episode happened after the race in '96. We got the overnight ferry from Cherbourg to Pompey and rather than wind-down and take it easy, we got banjaxed on Nigerian Lager instead. We dumped the Motorhome in Bristol (can't remember who drove, but they shouldn't have) and picked up a car I'd borrowed from a work colleague, from my sisters house in Swindon. For reasons I can't really explain, I reversed out of her driveway, having 'forgotten' to shut the drivers door. The door snagged a tree and became detached from the car. We had to affix it with a tow rope tied around the car and done-up in a neat bow on the roof, before driving back up to Yorkshire. Very bad form indeed and nothing to be proud of.
Yes - drink does have quite a lot to answer for - but it's good fun, innit!    

Matt, you are a very very naughty boy. Just like several other folk I could mention!

We used to be of the belief that it was fine to get totally mullered (again) on the night crossing to Pompey, then have an hours kip curled up under a coat on the floor of the bar and think you'd be fine to drive home at 7.00 the next morning.

One year the wiring loom in the car caught fire in Chichester. We were that hung over we could not be bothered to stop. We just opened the windows to extract the pungent and very likely poisonous smoke, pressed on and let it burn itself out.

We stopped using Cherbourg regularly in 95 after nearly getting arrested for farting too loudly in a local Hotel.

So we now do morning/day time sailings as the temptation is much less great to get rat arsed.

For those desirous of more info on Grimbergen have a look at the website below. It is Michael Jacksons Beer Hunter site. No wonder the bleached fool dangles kiddies over balconies and sleeps with chimps if this sort of thing is his regular tipple. Or maybe it is another Michael Jackson?

http://www.beerhunter.com/documents/19133-000346.html

Andy and others , Being boeing but ....


My mate Le Mns SP works at Portsmouth Docks and tells me the Police do regular operations to stop Pissed drivers getting of the ferries / out of the docks after a fatal accident in 2000.

And the traffic Plod in Hampshire are @rse holes . Sorry but they are ....

Robbo, you are right, which is why we stopped travelling at night some years ago. DD is bad news for all concerned. It was not intentional, tho this does not excuse it, just a bit of over enthusiasm to get in one last piss up after a blinding weekend away. It never happenned when I was personally driving, but I will take my share of collective responsibilty within our group on occaisions when I was a passenger.

Never noticed that Traffic were too bad when I lived in Hants, but then again, I don't think I ever had a brush with them.

Ta for the tip tho Robbo.

Andy - you have totally surpassed yourself!
The Grimbergen link is fantastic and I've emailed it all over the world to partcipants in the lucky dip, over the years.
"It has a burgundy color, a raisiny aroma, an orangy, toffeeish palate and a cinnamon-like, spicy brandyish finish".
What class!
From this, I deduce that Grimbergen is made out of Burgundy, raisins, oranges, toffee, cinnamon and brandy - with a little creosote thrown in for flavour.
Big H even hinted that he liked the stuff!
Ah, that's really brightened up my day - 1st class posting, Zarse!

On the more sobering subject of drink/driving, maybe we should start another thread. I think it is interesting that very few people 'fess up to driving while under the influence, but look at the evidence when you're at the circuit.
I don't recommend it, I don't think it's clever - or responsible, but I've done it more than I should have (i.e. ever). Thankfully, I've never hurt anyone or damaged anything - but it's the old, old story - every time you do it, you shorten the odds of something horrible happening.
I'd go so far as to say that, of the people leaving the circuit immediately after the race on Sunday afternoon, 50% would be legally drunk. I suspect that the French police only target those who are very obviously hammered - otherwise they would be stopping every other car/bike/van. To those who claim that they don't drive with beer in 'em, good for you. But I can't explain how the beer and champagne fuelled celebrations on the pit straight at 4pm, miraculously evaporate into sobriety when the drive home commences.  

When Mrs. Gibber was looking through this years photos, she cried out with shock.  "What is it my turtle dove" :-X I asked.  " I don't believe it" she replied, and with a shaking hand, offered me a photo of us lads in a bar.  "Oh" I said, " we did find a few bars".  "Not that you bone brain" she lovingly replied.  "Look what's in your hand".  "Oh my lord" I replied,  " a can of coke, must have been Sunday afternoon".

Moral of the story...........once you have been temporarily relieved of driving duties, you don't ever want to do it again.  Believe me ;D ;D

Why thank you sir!

But what is all this cinnamon and oranges rubbish? I personally detected tastes on the palette of old garden gates blowing in the wind, coal, onions, hydrogen peroxide and overcooked sprouts. On the nose there is definitly a strong hint of cat sick and burning tyres. And I am fairly sure there is surgical spirit in there too.

No wonder the Trappist monks take a vow of silence.

Lovely stuff!

HGB

I must say I find Belgium a little sinister at times. Within an hour of arriving at the airport, I saw in the following order, a dwarf dressed up in a big plastic ice cream cone, a sad looking fat man with hypertension facing backwards in a speeding Customs Van, a machine in the street that sold hot frites and smelt awful and a dead horse on the side of the road. Now I defy anyone to see that lot by 09.00am of a Monday anywhere in the UK.

Different? Surely. Surreal? Definitely. Deeply weird? Maybe.

But I find it very difficult "love" Belgium.

The one time I went to Belgium I was forced to fly on cheapo airlines so went on Ryan Air to Brussels.   Hah.......Brussels my  ****

Apparently it was Brussels Charleroi. That would be the equivalent in the UK of Bristol London!!!!   2 x £60 taxi fares to/from Stanstead, 2 x 90 Euros taxi fares to from client in Belgium later and I was at my destination, the DHL offices right next to the main Brussels airport. And the fare saving.....£100...plus an extra 4 hours lost in traveling time.

Still, at least I got to see the field known as Waterloo!!

Uhh, where about was that ? That sounds weird indeed but still less scary and repulsive than many of the stories above ;D. Road side Friteries are an excellent thing to have, though.

Whoa! I've just stumbled back onto this thread, (with much amusement) and would like to stand up now, tall and proud, stiff as a guardsman, and say "Hi, my names H, and I'm an aspiring alcoholic!".

I've never really understood why it's called the Demon Drink. Is it because of the Demons that you're drinking with, or is it because of the ones that come out of your bottom the next morning? Legion are the times I've embarrassed myself and others horribly, since starting out on this foamy road. Getting into bed, stinking drunk and naked, with my parents (who were up until then blissfully sound asleep) after a session at The Dolce Vita (ten strippers for the price of one, every alternate Wednesday) was probably when it all started. There was also the time they found me, and this must be a common tale, in the morning, sitting bolt upright on the sofa clutching a knife and fork with the contents of about six curry containers spread uniformly from my forehead to my bollocks, culminating in a chilli riddled puddle between my feet. Now that we're grown up though, things are different, aren't they?

A good adult game, if I remember correctly, is to visit a boozer (what the hell was the name of that brewery where 'Old Sphincter' was the premium ale?) with a 14 pound sledgehammer, reach Himalayan heights of inebriation, then try and hammer the parking meters outside into the ground. I can speak from experience here, and let you know that it guarantees a night on a very uncomfortable bed and an unearthly timed morning reveille. I also spent a similar evening retired dressed in a lime green, slightly see through nightie and very questionable underwear. Somebody surely has more facts than me on this one, but I can't find them.

I have to say though that LM has only limited opportunities for 'Oh crikey, the vicar' moments. I think this is because so many others are filling the lanes on the highway to oblivion. Why we get allowed back into the same hotel on Sundays every year is beyond me, and a testament to the tolerance of our French hosts. When the owner and his missus have to get up at about 3 am, dressed in their nightclothes, and carry you unconcious from the foot of the stairs to your room, then I think it reasonable to assume that they won't exactly be pleased to see you next year. But no! What on earth they think when they see us drive off, tooting and waving, 4 hours later is a mystery.

One of crew, Wor Geoff, managed to clear a large space around him in the grandstand, just as the cars were crossing the start finish line at the start of the race. People actually left their seats rather than stay and watch the pinnacle moment of the weekend. Now that has to be impressive. And I too would have been full of admiration had I not known that he was spending the weekend with me in a very small tent.

I'm always keen to discover something new though, and after a couple of years of Kir Royals on the first night I understand some rough cider is being considered for next year (normally I only use this stuff to keep the compost heap ticking over in the winter), and it would seem churlish not to get a couple of packs of Grimbergen in, if only so we can see Wor Geoff wrestle with Mr Arse again in the morning.

They're not kidding when they say motor racing is dangerous...

H

H you too are a very wicked man! You will answer for your sins in the Ever After, which needless to say, will be DOWN THERE!

My own first proper brush with the embarrassment caused by booze coincidentally came with my first proper brush with the embarrassment caused by a woman (as opposed to girl). Sure I had chucked up over some girls lap after a few too many lagers at the Young Farmers Disco, but I mean the sordid feeling when you wake in the morning and look at "what you have done".

1981 at the tender age of 18, I went to stay with a mate in Middlesborough. We got very drunk and I was accosted in a club and led away to the slaughter by an older woman. I say older and I mean older! Her name was Audrey. I expect she has died of old age by now or at least is in a home for bewilldered old bags. We went back to her house on a council estate, the sort where every garden has half a rusty Mini and six burnt out matresses in the garden (why?). Even on a sunny day, a pall of gloom hung over the area, it was probably the ICI factory. Anyway, I awoke the next morning with a never before experienced feeling of wretchedness and a dose of the crabs. Obviously the crabs didn't make themselves known for a few days but you know what I mean.

Now to some folk this would be enough to turn them teetotal. But for me it was a life changing moment. I was quite happy to see the experience as a antidote to the drudgery of everyday life. Not that I wanted to end up with a scarlet old hag again but I realised that booze, if left to take it's own course, could lead to all sorts of strange and ultimately rewarding high jinks and scrapes. Thus has it been ever since.

I owe it a lot, alcohol.

Some of the stories on this thread are truly, truly hilarious...  ;D

I have to agree... alchohol is a truly amazing thing... buts its ability to gird ones loins and render them useless at the same time is one quality however, that has always dismayed me... ;D

Try Vodka and Orange , yes a bit girlie , but its a love drug . Your women will want you more after  a drunken V & O session  ;D

Andy, UNCLEAN, so you got a dose of the dreaded 'Sandies'  who hasn't???? I found that whiskey poured neat onto the scote and all affected areas got rid of them. They get pissed and fall off. oh well thats the theory anyway.
must agree that some of the stories posted here have me in fits of laughter, maybe someone should collate and print them,
H were you Audrey when you were younger!!!

Good idea about the whisky Sav, but I dont think it could have been H. Unless, that is, he used to be a particularly talented and perverted drag artiste with an infested doodah, which I recall, had the approximate demensions of a wizards' sleeve.

"Unless, that is, he used to be a particularly talented and perverted drag artiste with an infested doodah, "

Oooh, I've been rumbled.

Never, ever, carry a card in your pocket with the "Re-assign Gender? Yes Please!" box ticked.

Wizards' sleeve indeed!

H

H thats why a female to male gender re-assignment is known as astrap-a-dick-to-me. and male to female, a dick-less tracey

Sav, haven't you got patients to gas?

not anymore today, off to the pub for some 49er now,

Quote from a colleague of mine in Belgium, when asked about the Grimbergen:

"Well, its is a beer that used to be brewed by monks, that were not allowed to enjoy any pleasure in their abbey except their own brewed beer. No women, no gastronomics, no luxery, ... So basically this beer should compensate for all the pleasures you can ever imagine....
They did not change the recipe since then...
Hope you understand now, the experiences of some people..."

I obviously hasn't aged very well ::)