You have to pay a supplement to get on french trains, basically to prebook your seats so heads dont end up standing, seems like a pretty good idea but then again beign irish and unused to such concepts we seem to be getting fucked over all the time on trains fines, irate conductors and useless interrail tickets. Some random women was so pissed off at the conductor for shouting at us that she gave us ten euro to pay the fine, Id been trying to give her a bloody fifty but apparently it was no good. We got talking to this spainish girl untill we got to Montipeiller, yup be advised the crust look is where its at in terms of european fashion waves at least thats her opinion too. Her boyfriend is a stylised crust, world music, ska and hip hop seem to be whats prompting it. I managed to hold up a conversation in french for over two hours, well broken french and english, with intermittent words and pictures drawn to illustrate more complex points like describing the weather in ireland and the like. Fuck I couldnt even think of the word for small.

Montipeiller was hell. Everyone we talked to swear profusely that there was a total impossibility of getting to Brussels, it beign friday after all, we ran around trying to jump the TGV, but its schedule was fucked up and we couldnt make out where the hell it was goign from in terms of platforms. The TGV when travelling means one long pleasant fuckign sleep, a desperate attempt at showering in a sink (i even washed my feet, being wet i slipped as the train careered around a corner, hanging on to a door handle to prevent splitting my head open, feet trapped in sink is no fun), walking through first class stocking up on the mini drinks and snacks that the other class of people leave behind, then a subtle raid on the individual wrapped free ginger biscuits availible at the bar. eventually some one decided to tell us that oui, it was possible to get a train to brussels albeit indirectly, well thank fuck for that and off we went.

Arriving back in Leuven we danced through the square ''hey hey were the monkeys'' fucking clas, a mattress to sleep on and comfort. Id emailed Wendy, saying wed be late possibily, when we got to teh squat she wasnt there, my fault should have emailed her saying we'd arrived, but Id just assumed she'd be hanging out there. Awoken by her the next morning. Got down and dirty in the kitchen, mashing up some wierd vegan burger mix for a community street party in Leuven, those vegan burgers are fucking gorgeous, im keeping the recipe to myself, you'll have to pry it out of me. Ah no, i think me and short might make a batch for the next RTS, shorts planning on making a batch of spiked cakes for it as well, thats if we can get skunk back, cant decide as to wheter we should dose the public or just those we know and who'd be up for it.

Hitched for the first time, train hopped to Antwerp. Things were looking desperate, me Wendy and short standing at the side of the side of the road pleasding for lifts in the middle of a city. Some cigar shop were hosting a feminist rally, well they wanted 100 women to smoke cigars and smash the women and cigar taboo, of course in the process open up a new market for their product. Kindly they provided free orange juice as we baked in the sun. Wandering around the corner we saw a garage, and there he was, Robert, wonderful Robert.

Robert has a car, an normal car, hes not a millionaire you know, hes an normal man, with three kids. I spotted him, his old VW painted at the side in some wierd random cubist off take. Randomly asked for a lift to Rotterdam , and sorted we were. He even bought us coffee as short got his shop lift on for glue to fix his runners. I was a bit freaked out by Roberts constant efforts to reassure us he was an normal man, i mean wouldnt you? Turns out we just happened to get a lift with some Bulgarian classical composer, who also produces all these pop acts. Quite famous, in his own circles, hence the reassurances of normality, of course we hadnt a fucking clue. Dutch TV spent ten million making a documentary on him last year, quite the sexual revolutionist he is, with a host of girlfriends and an advocate of polygamy, hence the dutch noteireity. Fucking sound, chomping away on his rollies and ranting about his family, history, pacificism, the war in iraq..we were sorted. He left us at this turn pike, we barely even had time to write a sign for Den Haag when we had another lift to the train. These ducth trains are easy to hop, two stories on them so you basically play this game of running up and down stairs avoiding the conductor, over and above, back down again, where ever he is, you by pass him, right fun.

Sitting in soem shit net cafe now, cant even open up any applications or another browser, bloody crap. We made it to the Blue House, a huge fuck off squat in Den Haag, theyre battlling eviction in october so have a whole month of events on. The place is HUGE. There was a rave happening last night as the gig was on, and we didnt even know, all this in the same building. Ex-cathedra were a surprise, thought with a name like that theyd be as hardcore as fuck, nope just real souped up fun ska, bloody deadly, didnt even drink, had a slight go of a joint with short and still danced my ass off. Oli Da Gato were crap, the bar staff put on Easp measa for some reason and I couldnt help but nitice how fucking good they are in comparison to anything we've heard in Europe, things just seem a lot healthier in ireland, more original, more active and more clued in. A squatter girl enthused as to ''ah you must know easpa measa?'' and we got our silly pointing to the ceiling, fist shaking type hardocre dance on, one, two, three, vocals and guitar crash in, all fingers point to the ceiling, shake back and forth, there ya go... Cant undersatnd this macho dancing shit here, people pole axing into eacho ther, even to the extent of flying across tables. me and short figued the best way to stop it is to actual dance as well, and shoot dirty looks at the drunken fuck wits, its a reclaimation of the dancing space and it actual works, you force the fucks out of your space and youre grand, just dance its the best way to deal with it. Wendy left her hoodie behind in the bar when we were beign shown to sleeping spaces, i put it in my bag and totally forgot, the sleeping areas were locked so I couldnt check to see if it was there, its full of sentimental value and she was tortured all night with losing it, while we all ran around looking for it, asking EVERYBODY. Going to bed, there it was, dumb fucking me, in my bag, someone slap me in teh head, please. Hate when shit like that happens.

Foot n Mouth and Kid Blunt have arrived. Got talking to them outside, fair fucks to them for pulling the tour together, two bands two cars, must be cramped. Got talking to this Belfast guy outside, raging he was, he was expecting the irish bands to have a shipment of buckfast and salt n vinegar crisps, no sign of either. Fucking Paparikya, curry, bolognese flavoured crisps, but no bloody cheese and onion or salt n vinegar, now thats odd. Why is it that people with Belfast and Scottish accents always seem so hilarious? Apparently, according to this guy, the squatting scene is full of mad happy people, they wander the streets with no where to go, then fuck they see a squat ''ah, a squat'' they say and in they go, rated at the door on a mad happy person scale of 1-10 and in they go. ''Aye mate, this squats for people with a rating above eight, they take seven and below in down there.'' Apparently all the big ones are like lunatic asylums, then he does a mad happy person dance, like a pixie hands waving in the air, gleeful starry look in his eye. ''Aye, mad fucking happy lunatics.'' Hopefuly some of them'll be out tonight, i guess mad happy lunatics are better than depressed lunatics.

The squats been open about twenty years i think, theyve all ready levelled some of the buildings at the back so it really looks like theyre gonna move on it. The people based in it seem a bit depressed and pessimistic about the possibilities of keeping it open but others of flooded to it to work on a campaign month to get local support. Town is flooded with posters of automen looking masked up types carrying a banner with an AK 47 and a red star in a march, ''Hell no we wont go.'' Dont kniow much about the history of it yet, but should get an interview done about the situation. A cop was killed by a fridge in one defensive action years ago.

Labels: Belguim, France, Travel