I think I rather like the idea of running away. Not in the sense of running away from anything in particular, since my small French provincial town would doubtless struggle in any sort of impassioned chase, but running towards something. A century ago, that something would have been a quayside, a tourist information building filled to the rafters with sundry train and bus timetables, lost and misguided young men feverishly exploring their contents in search of an undefinable aspiration. Today, however, running away is far easier.
It was just gone two in the afternoon and the language assistance correspondence was seemingly never ending, one part down to my slow French typing speed and another part down to a rogue index finger. This rogue index finger which could not be stopped from manipulating the trackpad on its whims; emails, the BBC homepage, emails again, the French news! This rogue index finger was my very own lost vagabond, quivering at the sight of the various tabs of British telecommunications mail; indésirables, boîte de reception, fubar nightclub over 30s night, B&Q, shoes (in your basket, did you forget something?) etc’ etc’.
Within good time, however, this rogue index finger had found something far more valuable; Sam Fender at Forest National Brussels: tickets available. It turned out that amongst the pile of deceivingly personally addressed invites to lowland small town Scottish nightclubs and DIY mega store sales, was something far more appealing, far more tangible. It was barely believable; signing up to a waiting list for a sold out gig is a fool’s game. I had imagined the employees of Forest National gathered around an iMac monitor in their plush offices, reading out the names on this waiting list over a few bottles of Leffe. They would eventually get to Frank Baker, and, in a very Dutch way, would mischievously, joyfully cackle, and the intern would get out his pointy stick and gesture it in the direction of the A3 chart on the wall of a very obviously sold out Forest National arena. Yet, none of this had happened and I was off to watch Sam Fender in Brussels. There would be no ships involved, no ambiguous farewells to the village folk. This was running away in the modern era.
What felt like only a matter of hours later, I found myself navigating the station quarter of Brussels, which itself seemed to be experiencing the sort of identity crisis mulled over in Sam Fender’s music. The gigantesque Brussels Midi tower stood awkwardly in this confused little segment of the capital, a darts player in a suit and tie, a sausage in a tiramisu. Etc. Where, in this confused little segment, would one find a hostel?
Your Hostel, as in my hostel for the night, was just around the corner, which meant circling a good few roundabouts, but I was in Belgium so that felt oddly comforting. The man on reception, who seemed to be one of about two people who ran the place, had me make my payment for the bed, and then asked me to take a seat on the shabby couch just behind. It seemed he was getting a group of us together: the 5PM check in gang. So off we all went to our very grand and very large dorm (30 beds in all). In terms of hostel pals, the American couple had selected the geeky Frenchman with round glasses, and he’d obliged, in the subtle French way that French men tend to oblige. My remaining options all seemed to be lost souls with perplexed looks on their faces, as if searching for something their exceedingly large duck taped suitcases didn’t contain. Alas, I decided it was time to make my move. I would be back, but I had a meeting with a Geordie.
After a heartful Moroccan meal, probably cheaper for my choice of sitting in the single occupancy terrace, with breathtaking views into the windows of the Midi tower, I took the tram up to Forest National. Unlike most similarly named establishments, which tend to take their name from the apparently beautiful really wild thing they replaced (take any English housing estate as an example), Forest National was undeceiving in its title. From my wooded viewpoint, I observed the Brussels suburbs as they dozed off into the evening. Adolescent cyclists tackled speed bumps with the tact of a land rover. Bees floated around in a manner that seemed Belgian but was perhaps mere placebo. It was going to be a good night.
Inside, it was hard not to notice the dress code, strictly monotone. Some Belgians, and possibly a handful of French were scattered in among the Geordies. The Magpies, who of course had won their first domestic trophy in 70 years only three days prior, were jovial, but not ecstatic. No, it was a feeling of mutual content inside Forest National. Snippets of conversation with fellow NUFC clad travellers would take place as the night went on, but almost in hushed tones. The audacity of beating Liverpool in a cup final, of being in Brussels three days later, Jupiler in hand, CMAT about to take to the stage, was outrageous. The barman, who worked for free in return for gig tickets, had no idea who Sam Fender was and as far as he was concerned, Newcastle United would only be relevant if I could name a Belgian player to have graced the St James turf. I could’ve said Philippe Albert, but a mix of modesty and joyful amnesia made that impossible. Of course, we were all immensely proud, inebriated by life, but that was our secret. We all knew.
CMAT took to the stage and was tremendous, as always. In all honesty I can’t remember, even after consulting the streaming services, her setlist in the sort of minute details which would make commenting on it worthwhile, and concocting praise for the sake of it would do her an injustice. Regardless, give her a listen.
A half an hour pause followed, and on came wor Sam to a jubilant rendition of Going Home. I’d like to imagine that the avian inhabitants of the nearby woodlands succumbed to Mark Knopfler’s genius in the manner of a sort of Geordie pied piper, but that’s something for Belgian spring watch to contend with. In any case, it cannot be understated how impressive a piece of work Sam’s new album is. Every track in there is blessed, or cursed with the ability to make you smile, laugh cry. And after listening to the album in full, you listen to the lyrics, and every line is considered. It is prose more than worth its melodic charm. Nostalgia’s Lie, Reign Me In, Little Bit Closer are all memorable from an album point of view. Yet it was TV Dinner and Something Heavy which stood out in Belgium. Just the lyrics of TV Dinner are deserving of some sort of reward, maybe a Carabao energy drink or something. We do all love Carabao now, after all.
I must’ve been one of the last to leave, taking it all in, as if in the away section of a European football match, locked in on Police orders, fascist hooligans outside the turnstiles. But there’d be no fascist hooligans, only friendly Belgians, as I walked the 90 minutes back to the centre of Brussels. At one point I came along a few Irish lads, all in black and white, equally as lost and stunned as I outside a huge Audi factory. As the clocks ticked slowly towards midnight, as trams surged into the capital’s suburbs behind us, our odd group had become an anomaly among the Muslims celebrating their Ramadan evening meal. Memories of that hallowed Sunday afternoon were eagerly bounced back and forth between us, vivid descriptions of Dan Burn heading in our first, Alex Isak volleying in our second, our journeys to Brussels and whether, standing outside this Audi mega factory, we were even still in Brussels. Talk of Sam Fender, People Watching, CMAT would inevitably come up at some point, but it hardly felt necessary. Because of this precise moment, everything was going to be alright.
CoupFrank 
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