March 23: Conversations and Observations

Until yesterday, I thought that maybe I was catching up with a ton of stuff: three blog posts to finish off, a new website for a friend’s restaurant, sorting out a glitch on another, arranging a (very) mini break for the famdamily… until yesterday. Many people have spoken and written and emoted about who what why how WTF happened – a particularly useful insight is written here – but I certainly do know who, as do many people from my more profane past: it was a bunch of morons. No more, no less.

Following the capture of Moron Number Three by means of him being a tosser (phoning his mate to get a place to stay), much had already been said about the who what why how – not least by a certain Peter R Neumann (Afred E‘s namesake), who had been roped in by Newsnight as an ‘expert’. One of the posts I was about to publish featured an arse-ripping of Mr Neumann, but I’d held off as I suspected I was being a tad harsh. Peter had pointed out the ‘fact’ that Molenbeek had essentially been left to rot by the local authorities, so it was to be expected that bunches of morons should emerge. I got mad because, if he’d bothered to waste some years of his life living here, he would know that the whole of Brussels has been left to rot by most of its communes, which is a consequence of the lack of care of its civil servants and the je me’en fous (I don’t care/give a shit) attitude of its inhabitants.

By way of a peep into what I mean, some conversations and observations from today:

Soldier Boy

One of the posts I’m about to unleash describes the idiocy of what’s been perpetrated in central Brussels by our local mayor, Yvan Mayeur (note to the BBC: one of NINETEEN, not ‘the mayor of Brussels’). In brief, this moron has pedestrianised the main arterial road (Anspach) and diverted the traffic into the side streets (where all the bars and cafes are). While walking along Anspach this morning, side-stepping the ravenous TV crews and chalk-wielding defiantists, I was side-stepping with larger steps from cars pootling along as if the city’s tragedy gave carte blanche to all modes of transport to pootle as and where they wished. And not a police person in sight.

Along the road at De Brouckere, there were ten or so soldiers in full anti-urban-terrorist kit, checking on people entering and exiting the metro station. But still no police. The entrance to the pedestrianised section was wide open, and cars were starting their pootling along Anspach from there. But hold on, the Bad Guys had already blown up the metro yesterday… and surely other Bad Guys might like to take the opportunity drive into the middle of where all the sad people were and do their worst.

So I took a picture.

And this soldier boy walked over and said (note that I’ve camouflaged his words in olive green),

• No pictures.
• I live here – I can take pictures if I like.
• No pictures – it’s a security risk.
• But… we’re surrounded by TV crews.
• But you can’t take a picture.
• Yes I can – I live here and you have no authority to stop me: you’re a soldier.
• I am here to protect the people.
• From my pictures? Here, have a look at my ID card: you can see that my address is just around the corner.
• Do you have a press card?
• What?! I need a press card to take a picture?
• Soldier Number Too: Show me that…
• Can I just point out that while you’ve been interrogating me, about fifteen cars have driven into the middle of a pedestrian area, full of… pedestrians…
• That’s a police matter.
• But there are no police here.
• Then you’ll just have to go and find one.

So I went to get a haircut instead.

You Can’t Get There From Here

Having had the locks parted from my eyes, I wended my way back to the bosom of my wife family. Close to home (in one of the pretty and once-calm back streets where the cars now go), I happened upon a small herd of the local constabulary. I regaled them and asked whether I might have a word – that is, I told them about the cars, soldiers and lack of policing in Anspach. They listened very politely and I thought intently, in that they appeared to intend to do something about it. But even after six years, I still often forget just what a fucked-up city this is.

• That’s terrible sir, it shouldn’t be allowed.
• Sure, so will you come with me so that I can show you and you can do something about it?
• Oh no sir, that wouldn’t be possible.
• But it’s just over there – not a hundred metres.
• That’s true – but that’s not our district: we have no jurisdiction over there.
• You’re shitting me (actually, I said ‘kidding’, but we all knew what I meant).
• No sir, we’re not: it’s all down to the votes and politicians, and we can only do what we’re told.

So I went home to listen to some fine piano playing (while thinking that I really must have the policeman’s words in blue).

A Qualified Response

Last Friday, we entered into our yearly oh-my-god-I-can’t-take-it-anymore-this-country-is-nuts scenario with Vaillant, who send their engineer for a maintenance check-up and leave us with a non-functioning central heating and hot water system. We then have to enter into a boiler-shambles the like of which you really, really cannot imagine. Every. Fucking. Year.

While the girls were out for a swim (and a shower), I stayed home, waiting for the next ‘technician’ to turn up. No show, natch. So I called them – over two hours – six times, each time with a different unoperative. By the end I was almost reduced to tears of utter, frustrated anger (as a friend described once, like a legless rhinoceros)… but it was one of the middle calls that had me wondering if the world had been Dalified.

• Sir, the technician who called last week says you need a plumber. (She said in Vaillant Green)
• No, the system was working last week, but following your technician’s skilled intervention, it no longer does.
• Your boiler is working sir, but your plumbing isn’t.
• No, I’ve had the plumbing checked and am assured that it is the boiler that is malfunctioning.
• Sir, are you a technician?
• No.
• So how can you tell the boiler is not working?
• Because it was last week, and I can now observe with my human faculties that it is no longer doing its boiler stuff: the heating is stuck at full-on and there is no hot water.
• But you cannot say it is not working, as you are not a technician.
• Uh ………………………………………………………………………….. ?
• I think you need a psycho-analyst.
• I do not.
• Are you a psycho-analyst?
• No.
• Then how can you tell that you don’t need a psycho-analyst?
• Um …………………………………………… click brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr…………..

I’ll let you know if we have it all working again by next Friday. If not, can anyone offer shower facilities?

Some observations:

• You may have seen some shots on your tellies of people emoting and doing the sharing of grief outside Bourse. Under where all their tears were falling is the single most disgusting metro station in the history of the world. I mean, it is rank. The only staff it ever sees are the poor cleaning people who have to mop up the faeces, sick and gloop.
• The road above is not even fit for walking on, let alone provide smooth and safe passage for motor vehicles. One of the reasons that arsehole pedestrianised it was so that he didn’t have to spend money repairing it. It also means he doesn’t have to deal with demonstrations through the middle of town every month or so.
• Consider having to walk on Brussels’ pavements, wobbling over the 150 year-old cobblestones, falling into holes and tripping over rogue cobblestones. Watching the ‘artisans’ working on replacing the walkways of Brussels, I wonder how they manage to get their legs in the right holes of their trousers, let alone make a flat pavement.
• Or consider the roads, of which the very worst is a toss up between the one alongside the Tour & Taxis exhibition centre, or the frozen sea-scape outside the royal palace. No, not  ‘dilapidated’ Molenbeek: the dilapidated royal palace.
• Want to take an escalator out of any of the metro stations? Chances are it won’t be working, whether it’s in a crap-hole like Bourse, or at the seven-year-and-counting concrete hole in the ground in the middle of the EU institutions, Schuman.
• Perhaps you’d like to sign up for an internet/TV package? Perhaps you live in the centre of town and want to join the Proximus community. Sure: but only if you don’t need it for four months, have seven separate days to wait for a non-appearance by a Proximus (Approximus) employee and don’t really give a shit whether you get the system or not.

Brussels is a fucked-up city in the middle of a fucked-up country. Most people who have anything to do with it know this well, but the trouble is that is also the home of something truly precious and we would all do well to work towards making Brussels the city it really should be.

Which is what I’m going to write about next… I have an idea… as long as the security farces get some professional help and training and deal with the bunch of morons.

I mean, bizarre is liveable, but death isn’t.