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!

I love Belgium !!!  

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    

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!    

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

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.

When Mrs. Gibber was looking through this years photos, she cried out with shock.  "What is it my turtle dove" 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

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.