I met with my oldest friends for a few pints of porter last weekend. It’s our thirtieth year together and we never fail to be amazed that we’ve made it this far.  

Our opening gambit was the topic of Dry January, the consensus being we might not have many Januarys left so why would we waste them.  

Once we’d caught up on each other’s ailments – as I believe is what people do once they’re over a certain age – we got on to our favourite topic – The Belgian Beer Festival. 

We met in Brussels in the early 1990s and with a motley crew of musicians, journalists and general nutters, we’ve lived, worked and played together ever since. We’ve lost some of our crew along the way so each year we make a pilgrimage to Brussels for the Beer Festival where we drink fine beers, reminisce on the wildness of our youth and pay tribute to our departed friends. 

Our trip has changed in recent years. What once was 48 hours of madness, barely seeing the inside of a hostel and bringing only a spare pair of pants, has now become a luxury apartment and lengthy afternoons sitting in Place St Cathrine, eating fine food and watching the wonderfully weird people of Brussels pass us by.  

The Beer Festival is on the first weekend of September, but we book our flights in January. By September, as we gather at Dublin Airport, there’s a palpable sense of relief of that we’ve made it through another year.