Bergs & beer in Belgium, rustic roads & racing in rural France - Slap's Euro dash

[somtamslap]

After an unremarkable 30 minutes on le shuttle I alighted frog-side and into a glorious world of charcuterie and filthy French accents. There is something inherently titillating about the average Franco female that I'm unable to put my finger on. The husky vernacular? The armpit hair? The lingering traces of offal on the belch? If you've ever sampled the delights of an Anduiette you'll know what I'm talking about. I mean these rude, rude people actually eat arseholes for supper. And since I spent a large portion of my adult life existing on mystery cuts of flesh infused with random sections of tropical vegetation, I suppose I feel a kind affinity with them.



Le shuttle

My plan, this weekend, was to journey across to Flanders in northern Belgium, take in some of their Bergs, which - to the non-cyclists among us - are a series of iconic ascents which help comprise the route of several Spring Classic cycling events and are famed for their keen gradients and cobbles. I would then find a suitable watering hole and steadily drink myself into sweet, sweet oblivion before bedding down in the cheapest accommodation I could find and, after what would surely be a totally unsatisfactory slumber, head back to France, perchance to catch the end of the biggest and toughest one-day cycling event of them all - the Paris-Roubaix.

That was the plan...

The reality went as follows.

I arrived in Oudennarde, Flanders - the epicentre of professional bike racing. This is the hub. Where amateurs come to seek their fortune. Oudennarde is to cyclists what Hollywood is to actors. But today in Oudennarde it was raining. It was also very windy. And it didn't take me long to arrive at an informed decision to hole up in the nearest pub I could find and get... what are the words I'm looking for? Oh yes, that's right... completely fucking spannered. This is Belgium after all - the spiritual home of beer.

I found a pub. It went by 'The Pub'. I couldn't help but applaud their pragmatic approach.

I went in. I ordered a Romi Pils. It quickly transpired to become the best alcoholic beverage I have ever tasted. A clean continental bierre.



Definitely the best beer in the world


I started with a demi pression even though they speak Flemish, not French, in Flanders - but I'm fucked if I know any Flemish past the word Tag, which apparently means thanks. So, Tag, Peiter - or whatever you name is, and prepare to see me every 15 minutes for the next four hours.

Of course, this being continental Europe you're never less than three metres away from an obscene sausage, so after my small glasses of the Romi Pils turned into half-litre jugs I decided it wise to call the garcon for some sustenance - he presented me with this delightful plate of nibbles - charcuterie and fromage.



What more could a man want?

Several litres later and an appalling level of drunkenness had been obtained. After being turned away from several dining establishments I finally found one that would grant access to a slobbering wreck of a person and I feasted with unbridled abandon on this. I have know idea what it is. Looks like Bolognese sauce and sandwiches.



Mystery plate of Belgian fare

I woke up on a hotel bed fully clothed bar one sock. I mused to myself that the previous evening had surely been a successful one, and I should celebrate this by making haste to the dining room where I would subsequently break-fast like a fucking lunatic.

This bacon, sausage, egg, smoked salmon, cheese and bread medley hit the spot. Amid the melee of ferocious munching I believe a few disgusted fellow hotel residents were forced to avert their children's eyes. Theese Engleesh man is a fuking peeg!



Hangover removal method

And so onto Roubaix and the cobbles of the Carrefour d l'abre, the most arduous length of Pave - old farm paths, still in use today - in the race.



Testicle terrorising terrain

I found a likely spot on a corner, just at the end of the cobbled section. Hopefully this would garner a good photo opportunity and I'd get to see and possibly get a good picture of Sir Bradley Wiggins in his last ever professional road race.

All was quiet.



Then the race leader rounded the corner to rapturous applause.



And the man himself, Sir Wiggo, with Peter Sagan in his slipstream.



A mere 10 minutes later normality resumed, and silence fell over the fields of northern France again.

[klong toey]

Very nice Mr Slap i am pleased to see you stopped for the train,there were some very naughty cyclist on the road the other week.

[Neverna]

The fried bread looks good, Slap. But no fried eggs, HP sauce or Heinz beans? Haven't the Belgians been colonised or civilised?

[thaimeme]

The fried bread looks good, Slap. But no fried eggs, HP sauce or Heinz beans? Haven't the Belgians been colonised or civilised?

I believe, they too, were the brutal colonizers...

[patsycat]

Looks like a croque monsieur.

[Topper]

Looks like a croque monsieur.

that's what I thought as well, but I didn't want to embarrass Slap by saying he'd been served a hi-so grilled ham and frommage sandwich....

[somtamslap]

there were some very naughty cyclist on the road the other week

Indeed there were. But I think it was the TGBs fault for being on time.

The fried bread looks good, Slap. But no fried eggs, HP sauce or Heinz beans?

Breakfast pretty much covered that little lot.

Looks like a croque monsieur.

It was a croque, Pats. A croque of shite.

I didn't want to embarrass Slap by saying he'd been served a hi-so grilled ham and frommage sandwich....

I demand someone explain the Bolognese sauce. It's totally incongruous.

[somtamslap]

In the meantime - in a bid mitigate the enormity of my midriff a fraction - I've just spent 3 or so hours in the saddle cycling 80 kilometres. And I'll be damned if it didn't take me a good 15 minutes to locate my left nut after that little lot.

[terry57]

I'd be very careful consuming all that cheese Slapper, it will block up your bum hole.

Nice pics by the way.

[Dillinger]

80kms?

That's impressive.

Think the most Ive managed was around 18 miles back in my teens and even then I couldn't walk for 3 days

Although it was a Grifter

[grasshopper]

Slap, you've destroyed my mental picture of you, way to buggery! Here I was thinking of you as a Chang singleted to and from with an enormous corporation to the fore, whiling away your declining years in a little hamlet deep in Isaan.

Now! Respect! Deep respect! A sinuously muscled U.K. version of Big Mig. Thighs like treetrunks and calves akin to that of an Isaan farm/bar girl. Deep salaam, effendi!

[hallelujah]

After an unremarkable 30 minutes on le shuttle I alighted frog-side and into a glorious world of charcuterie and filthy French accents. There is something inherently titillating about the average Franco female that I'm unable to put my finger on. The husky vernacular? The armpit hair? The lingering traces of offal on the belch? If you've ever sampled the delights of an Anduiette you'll know what I'm talking about. I mean these rude, rude people actually eat arseholes for supper. And since I spent a large portion of my adult life existing on mystery cuts of flesh infused with random sections of tropical vegetation, I suppose I feel a kind affinity with them.



Le shuttle

My plan, this weekend, was to journey across to Flanders in northern Belgium, take in some of their Bergs, which - to the non-cyclists among us - are a series of iconic ascents which help comprise the route of several Spring Classic cycling events and are famed for their keen gradients and cobbles. I would then find a suitable watering hole and steadily drink myself into sweet, sweet oblivion before bedding down in the cheapest accommodation I could find and, after what would surely be a totally unsatisfactory slumber, head back to France, perchance to catch the end of the biggest and toughest one-day cycling event of them all - the Paris-Roubaix.

That was the plan...

The reality went as follows.

I arrived in Oudennarde, Flanders - the epicentre of professional bike racing. This is the hub. Where amateurs come to seek their fortune. Oudennarde is to cyclists what Hollywood is to actors. But today in Oudennarde it was raining. It was also very windy. And it didn't take me long to arrive at an informed decision to hole up in the nearest pub I could find and get... what are the words I'm looking for? Oh yes, that's right... completely fucking spannered. This is Belgium after all - the spiritual home of beer.

I found a pub. It went by 'The Pub'. I couldn't help but applaud their pragmatic approach.

I went in. I ordered a Romi Pils. It quickly transpired to become the best alcoholic beverage I have ever tasted. A clean continental bierre.



Definitely the best beer in the world


I started with a demi pression even though they speak Flemish, not French, in Flanders - but I'm fucked if I know any Flemish past the word Tag, which apparently means thanks. So, Tag, Peiter - or whatever you name is, and prepare to see me every 15 minutes for the next four hours.

Of course, this being continental Europe you're never less than three metres away from an obscene sausage, so after my small glasses of the Romi Pils turned into half-litre jugs I decided it wise to call the garcon for some sustenance - he presented me with this delightful plate of nibbles - charcuterie and fromage.



What more could a man want?

Several litres later and an appalling level of drunkenness had been obtained. After being turned away from several dining establishments I finally found one that would grant access to a slobbering wreck of a person and I feasted with unbridled abandon on this. I have know idea what it is. Looks like Bolognese sauce and sandwiches.



Mystery plate of Belgian fare

I woke up on a hotel bed fully clothed bar one sock. I mused to myself that the previous evening had surely been a successful one, and I should celebrate this by making haste to the dining room where I would subsequently break-fast like a fucking lunatic.

This bacon, sausage, egg, smoked salmon, cheese and bread medley hit the spot. Amid the melee of ferocious munching I believe a few disgusted fellow hotel residents were forced to avert their children's eyes. Theese Engleesh man is a fuking peeg!



Hangover removal method

And so onto Roubaix and the cobbles of the Carrefour d l'abre, the most arduous length of Pave - old farm paths, still in use today - in the race.



Testicle terrorising terrain

I found a likely spot on a corner, just at the end of the cobbled section. Hopefully this would garner a good photo opportunity and I'd get to see and possibly get a good picture of Sir Bradley Wiggins in his last ever professional road race.

All was quiet.



Then the race leader rounded the corner to rapturous applause.



And the man himself, Sir Wiggo, with Peter Sagan in his slipstream.



A mere 10 minutes later normality resumed, and silence fell over the fields of northern France again.

No 15% rocket fuel brewed by lunatic monks? A trip to Belgium sans the local loopy juice is like an Isaan day without pla ra.

[somtamslap]

I'd be very careful consuming all that cheese Slapper

Pretty tame the Belgian cheese - not like the ripe stuff frog-side that smells like the bus station lavs in Saraburi.

80kms?
That's impressive.

At an average speed of 22.5kph no less. Very reasonable for a fat person, that is. However, I am unable to walk properly this morning.

A sinuously muscled U.K. version of Big Mig

Big Mig sans the EPO, but with an extremely large gut. In all truth I spent the winter months eating and drinking and have only got back one the bike since the weather's turned a little more humane.

No 15% rocket fuel brewed by lunatic monks?

I was going to, but the Romi Pils was discovered. Delightful little drop.

[somtamslap]

Stop the video @25:49.

On the bottom left corner you'll see a patch of grass which roughly makes up a right-angled triangle.

At the top-most point of that triangle you'll see a bag.

That bag is mine.

My bag is famous.

[Smug Farang Bore]

Belgium FFS....

[somtamslap]

It'll do until I'm back in situ on South East Asian turf. Then 'My filthy weekend in a Burmese brothel' etc, et al, shall resume.

[mingmong]

'My filthy weekend in a Burmese brothel'

bring it on Bruss..................

[mingmong]

On the bottom left corner you'll see a patch of grass which roughly makes up a right-angled triangle.

At the top-most point of that triangle you'll see a bag.

the only Bag I could see was a 'Goony'

[Topper]

^ I thought it was a "My Little Pony" bag..

[Dillinger]

Cant make out the bag, but the guy closest to it, in the blue jacket looks like he's self-fornicating over a spectators back, at the sight of Sir Brad leading the pack

[somtamslap]

Great work, Boll!

You computer savvy types scare and impress me in equal measure.

[kingwilly]

there were some very naughty cyclist on the road the other week

Indeed there were. But I think it was the TGBs fault for being on time.

The fried bread looks good, Slap. But no fried eggs, HP sauce or Heinz beans?

Breakfast pretty much covered that little lot.

Looks like a croque monsieur.

It was a croque, Pats. A croque of shite.

I didn't want to embarrass Slap by saying he'd been served a hi-so grilled ham and frommage sandwich....

I demand someone explain the Bolognese sauce. It's totally incongruous.

That's what made it hiso.

[kingwilly]

15% rocket fuel brewed by lunatic monks? A trip to Belgium sans the local loopy juice is like an Isaan day without pla ra.
[at] [at]

Did you really need to quote 10 pictures for a 1 line reply.?

[patsycat]

I agree, i have a sore finger rolling the mouse thingy.

[somtamslap]

That's what made it hiso.

That's what made it Belgian. They just don't get food.