Yesterday I had a day trip to Brussels, on a press trip organised by CAMRA and led by the author of a book about Belgian beer. Press trips can be bizarre things, and this one was no exception. 4 journalists, a CAMRA representative and the aforementioned author met at Waterloo at 7am. The three other journalists included an editor of a magazine about spirits who we shall call David, another magazine editor who we shall call Fran, and a freelancer called Sarah who had been sent by Asda. Names are changed and this post is firmly locked.

Fran, a bubbly, effervescent woman in her mid 30s, began the day by showing us her hand which was heavily bandaged. “I was attacked by one of my dogs,” she explained. “He was such a lovely dog, too.” Not that lovely, I pointed out. But Fran was unwavering in her devotion to her attacker, and indeed all dogs, regardless of their previous crimes. Any canine that was encountered throughout the day was met with a cutesy yelp of “Oooh! Look at yOU!” which prompted many of said dogs to give her a look which suggested that they’d be only to happy to savage her other hand. Dave was devoted to spirits, and had brought a load of them along in his bag for us to taste. He tastes spirits every night at his home in East Anglia, but his wife has laid down a rule that he can’t start tasting them until 10pm, for reasons that he didn’t go into. Dave had a cold, and spent the day sweating profusely and carrying a very heavy bag – presumably crammed full of spirits. The author, who we shall call Tom, wore a cream suit, and – as I discovered later – did not own a map of Brussels. Sarah communicated in a series of barely audible whispers, and I didn’t have a conversation with her until 9pm that evening.

Fran did not stop going on about herself all day. She revealed every job she’d ever had and how good she was at each one; she revealed how many books she’d written, how many radio shows she had been invited on, and how she had been headhunted to write scripts for This Morning. “I love one-liners, you see,” she explained. She demonstrated her aptitude for gags by delivering a series of pathetic jokes – often complete non-sequiturs – that we were expected to laugh at. Out of politeness, we did. After a couple of hours, the laughter became less hearty. By the end of the day the jokes were hitting the floor harder than in front of a restless crowd at the Glasgow Empire in the mid 1970s.

When she wasn’t crowing about her achievements, she sought sympathy. She munched on Ibuprofen all day because of her hand (which did, admittedly, look rather bad) and advised us about her various allergies. “I’m allergic to many things, but my allergies to chocolate and pineapple are fatal,” she said, nodding earnestly. On the Eurostar, we were presented with a fresh fruit salad. She ate everything except two small chunks of pineapple, which she offered to me. I declined, awaiting her imminent demise at having been in close proximity to these segments of tropical fruit. But no, Fran was stayin’ alive.

The first thing I saw in Brussels was a poster advertising a gig:

FAT BIRD
+ DJ KWAK

The plan was for ujs to have a guided tour of beer-related locations in the city. But we ended up sitting in a bar for 3 hours, followed by an hour-long walk being guided by Tom, who was by now very pissed and had little sense of direction, followed by 3 hours in a distinctly average restaurant. It gave me hardly any material for the piece I was supposed to write, the upshot being that I have to go BACK to Brussels at some point in the next 2 weeks.

We were due to travel back to London in standard class at about 6pm, but our train was cancelled due to strikes in France. This was annoying; but the woman from CAMRA got on the phone to Eurostar and we were admitted to the Business Lounge, an area stocked with free food and drink, comfortable chairs, internet access and complimentary newspapers. When it was finally time to board, we got on the train to find out that we’d been put in business class. This was a turn up for the book; reclining seats and room to stretch out a little. However, when the staff came around with complimentary booze, we weren’t to get any – because we’d been upgraded. Fair enough. We should consider ourselves lucky not to be sitting with screaming kids in the next carriage. But Fran went ballistic. “Er, excuse me? We’re PRESS! We’ve been on a, er, Eurostar press trip to Belgium? This man is an AUTHOR. I demand to speak to the train manager.” By this time my face was going red, while pressed up against the window, staring at the French countryside as hard as I could. Fran was told that the manager wasn’t available. “This is NOT good enough. We are PRESS.” “I’m sorry, madam, but you’ve been upgraded from standard class.” “Yes, so we should NOT receive standard class service! Now, where’s the train manager?” “I’m sorry madam, he’s busy.” “OK, fine, we’ll issue a complaint when we get home. What’s your name?”

It was excruciating. All for the sake of a poxy bottle of wine. We’d been fed and watered all day, for free; she’s an editor of a national magazine, and couldn’t be arsed to walk 50 yards and buy herself a drink. I was horribly embarrassed, and looked around at the others for solidarity. I found none. Sarah had her head buried in a book, and the others were discussing how awful the service was.

The Eurostar waitress returned, with more bad news. “I’ve spoken to the train manager, and I’m afraid that the situation remains the same.” The author started to weigh in on Fran’s side. “Oh, shall I remove all the references to Eurostar from my book, then?” he said, waving the book. “Good idea, said Fran.” “Look, I’m just following orders,” said the waitress. “OH! Haha! Oh! FOLLOWING ORDERS, are you? Haha! Following orders! Oh, I’ll be using that in my article! Following orders, indeed.” The waitress sloped off, sick of the tirade. The other passengers in our carriage were rolling their eyes. I wanted to go and explain to them that I was perfectly happy with my business class seat, but I just sat there, my head in my hands. A few minutes later, 4 Eurostar staff arrived, wheeling not just a trolley full of drink, but also the first class food menu, which they started handing out to us. “Ah, at last!” said Fran. We were given Parma ham, brie, bread rolls, lamb with a selection of spring vegetables, and another fruit salad which Fran ate, except for two more chunks of pineapple. She spent the rest of the journey moaning about how useless Eurostar is, and pointing out how great George Galloway is. I broke my silence to inform her that he was a worthless cretin. She glowered at me, before embarking on a series of anecdotes about the publicity campaign for her second book.

At Waterloo, everyone except me and Sarah bundled into a taxi and headed to Kings Cross. It was 9pm. Sarah and I walked along in silence. “For f*cks sake,” I said, finally, shaking my head. “I know,” said Sarah, in a small voice.