Brussels Sprouts

The thing that really strikes you about Brussels, especially if you have ever been lucky enough to peruse a policy document of one of the many esteemed bodies of the European Union, is that it is nothing like the place you'd imagined these documents were created. Last time I was here I did visit New Brussels, the shiny, glassy centre of power where from which these guidelines, laws and policies emanate, and it was suitably sterile. But here in the old town life is quite different and examples of flagrant contraventions of health and safety guidelines are never more than a kebab shop away. Nick last night was tucking into a tasty chicken number when he crunched on a pea sized chunk of glass. Now if the rules were being followed to the letter, I think this would require the creation of a 3km exclusion zone around the offending shop and a fine/prison sentence for the manager, chef and their immediate families. However, right here, in the heart of bureaucracy, no-one batted an eyelid.

The fact that Brussels is not a living EU policy document is a blessing, as such a place would be hellish beyond Orwell's darkest nightmares. Instead many consider the heady indulgence of a mixture of excellent beer and excellent chocolate to be heavenly. The Chocolate Museum appears to have melted away but Beer Museum does go some way to enlightening us about the industry. The informational video does lack a certain finesse, in the cinematography, script and choice of actors, consisting primarily of the names of various beers read out slowly while zooming out from the respective beverages, complete with their large, decorative head of foam. Occasionally there is an explanation or a recipe read at the same torturously slow pace. Mention must also be made of the appalling soundtrack. I know it sounds like I'm just exaggerating for laughs but this really was dire, like a 15th century Gregorian monk's first explorations of a cheap Casio keyboard, remixed by a 63 year old Beligian DJ who was only slightly cool in 1984 but still thinks he's down with the kids.

Outside in the Grande Place there is a proscession that we had seen preparations for earlier. It consists of a marching band ("For when volume is more importnat the tune" mutters Nick, who plays jazz trumpet) surrounded by large wicker and papier-mache puppets, worn on the shoulder of the operator. At the back is a fierce looking soldier with a bow and arrow, standing about 4 or 5 metres tall. I ask one of the operators what it is like to wear and he descibes the harness and says that it weighs about 100 kilos. Then, incredibly, he offers it for me to try it on. I am not familiar with the health and safety regulations regarding the use of large to very large traditional wicker models in medium to high density crowds on a firm but uneven surface. However, I have been required to complete an EU course on heavy lifting in office situations (5 - 10 kg) so I cannot believe I will be allowed to do this untrained. But minutes later, here I am, staring out through a giant soldier's crotch at a spinning crowd of delighted tourists. I have been egged into a spin, something I condidered unwise after what even I will admit was some fairly poor handling of the simple straight line manouvere. After a few minutes of spinning I get more and more disorientated, and the weight of the harness, which presses on the top of the head and the shoulders, starts to become more apparent, I am seized by the urge to try and kiss one of the lady puppets. Thankfully, before I reach her, I am overcome by fatigue and set the thing down. I exit through the back of the soldier's skirt and an official white suited Belgian operator rushes to take my place, quickly starting a series of spins that make a mockery of my cumbersome and unsubtle technique.

We are looking at Brussels' most famous monument: Manneken Pis, a statue of a small boy relieving himself. Though a statue has been there hundreds of years, perhaps since even as early as the 14th century, one can't help but feel that it acts as a perfect modern metaphor for the city's attitude to the European rules created there.