Bucko's World

Belfast – a tale of two 50^th Birthdays

“Belfast?”

“Errm, yes Belfast.” I respond, with an enthusiastic nod, grinning and wishing I had a map to hand to indicate exactly where in the British Isles this mystic land is located.

“Belfast?”  this time with more emphasis on the BEL.

Oh lord above…”Yes, Belfast.” FFS.  Capital of Northern Ireland and probably the most underrated city in Europe?

“Belfast, really?  Don’t they just shoot you on sight for being Christian or something?  Why the fuck you wanna go there?”

Jesus in heaven give me strength….18 years since the good Friday agreement and 22 years since hostilities ceased – but some nobheads still don’t get it – you’ll still go to Turkey and Egypt no doubt…daft cunts…

And so go most conversations I’ve had since, way back in February, a plan was hatched to do something different for the upcoming big birthdays of Lisa and Kieran.

It’s fair to say Lisa broached the subject about going, after years of me going on about family holidays from way back when (35+ years…) – the beauty of Norn Iron, the amazing Giant’s Causeway, great people, lovely food etc etc – “what’s not to like?” she asked.  “Well, do you think Kieran is going to want to do that for his birthday too?”  I enquire.

Turns out - with the exception of one rule, which I’ll leave you to work out for yourselves – he couldn’t get on a plane quick enough to visit this (apparently massively misunderstood) part of the Emerald Isle, and of course, his genetic homeland. 

And so it is we find ourselves parked in Jamie’s Bar, Gatwick Airport, two bottles of wine in, discussing plans for the long weekend ahead, bearing in mind it’s going to be very Irish while we’re there i.e. it’s going to be pissing down.  Turns out, exactly the same as if it had been dry…

We have an unmemorable flight – which, as I’ve said before, is really what you want – and an hour later we find ourselves at Belfast International Airport, a bag down.  As we stand around looking bemused (along with a couple of other passengers also stupid enough not to travel with carry on only) a gorgeous young girl, with flowing dark hair, comes down to us, walkie talkie in hand, to help us with the missing bag.  Unfortunately, despite this still being Britain, she doesn’t appear to speak English, and we have no Romanian, so we’re all pretty much fucked.  She waves her arms, we wave our arms, and all that actually comes from this is the word “jammed”.  Ten minutes later the bag eventually appears on the carousel and we’re on our way.  But…

…not before Belfast International Airport provides us with the first laugh of the holiday, and first “only in Ireland” moment…Ladies and Gentlemen, may I introduce the most useless set of doors in the world ever…

As we’re a bit late arriving at the hotel, we dump our bags and head off in the direction – indicated by the taxi driver who’d dropped us off – towards the bright lights of, err, Nando’s.  Now, it’s been 35 years since I’d been to Belfast, but I was pretty certain there were good bars and restaurants around the area of the Europa hotel (more of which later) – and I was pretty sure he’d sent us the wrong way.  But hey, a taxi driver on his own patch, why would you disagree?  Perhaps he though that, because we’re English, what we wanted as grub was KFC, Pizza Hut, and the aforementioned Nando’s.  Twat.

Fortunately, we find a lovely looking restaurant called Kitch, which looks spot on for what we want on our first night.  In we pile waving four fingers in the air – to indicate the number of us for a table, in case they’re Romanian here too – only to be told that the restaurant is closed.  It’s barely nine O’clock and we’re a hundred quid plus tab, but no, they’re closed.  Well fuck them; they’ll soon be bust with that sort of attitude – wankers.

Luckily, just opposite and willing to sate our huge thirst and hunger is a proper Irish gaff – a Thai restaurant…

Well, any of you who know our small gang on this trip will know that Thai is our go-to nosh on a night out, so we know our stuff Thai grub wise.  Well, this place is outstanding.  I think they must have realised, somewhere down the line, that the portion sizes most Thai places serve (in London at least) weren’t going to cut it here.  And so everything is a least twice the size of back home, which is a good thing.  And, more importantly, delicious.  We offer a huge two fingers to the bellends across the road as we stuff our faces, drink a gallon of wine, and feel quite smug at our choice.  Massaman’d and Pad Thai’d out we head back to the hotel  - but not before Belfast can throw up a delicious morsel of the stereotypical image of the Gaelic youth…