ST. GEORGE AND THE 'DOUDOU'

EXCERPT FROM EUROTRIPPING ©JR DAESCHNER

In preparation for the battle of St. George and the Dragon, the Belgian Red Cross has set up shop in the Salle de St. Georges of the town hall-surely they're not expecting injuries?-but with barely an hour to go, there's no sign of a battlefield.

Then I notice the metal bollards with holes in their tops in the middle of the square, forming a ring roughly forty by sixty feet. That must be it.

Thinking myself clever, I position myself next to one of the low metal poles, alongside a pallid guy with a sunken chest who tries to tell me something about the tremendous pressure on the frontline.

I smile blithely. He's probably exaggerating.

Within minutes, a couple of trucks rumble onto the square, dumping mounds of butterscotch sand onto the cobblestones, and men with shovels start spreading the stuff to form a purpose-built island in the middle of the plaza.

While they're working, the men who have been boozing it up at the beer stands begin to crowd around, greeting their friends with kisses-mwah, mwah-before tearing each other's shirts off and grappling in the sand.

Many of the hard men sport the mullets and facial hair common on the Continent but oddly eschewed by the modern English yob (as far as I can work out, Europe's Great Mullet Divide overlaps the English Channel).

In their impromptu wrestling bouts, they inflict half nelsons and full body slams that would break their necks if it weren't for the four-inch cushion of sand on the stone. As it is, the throws look painful.

Before long, practically every man under thirty is shirtless, the Walloons' pale flesh turning red in the sunshine and their shredded T-shirts tied as padding around the rope that's been pulled taut through the bollards.

And then the crushing begins.

All the stragglers from the cafés are trying to barge their way ringside; failing that, they're pushing as hard as they can to make life miserable for those of us at the front.

The guy who tried to warn me about the pressure has already been bullied to the back. I'm (stupidly) standing my ground-intent on photographing St. George-even as the rope threatens to sever me at the waist. The guys who keep ripping each other's shirts try to explain that it's impossible to take pictures, but then shrug when they realise I'm an ignorant Yank.

'Il n'est comprends pas. N'est parle pas français,' one guy says.
'Bon. Il comprendra dans cinq minutes,' scoffs another ominously.

READ THE FULL STORY IN EUROTRIPPING!