The Belgians…

It was one of those rare days here in Ireland where the sky looked Mediterranean by mistake. Not a cloud over the country. The sort of heat that makes lads take their shirts off in public and suddenly believe they’re born for outdoor living. I’d been in the beer garden since noon because, frankly, it felt disrespectful not to. Cold creamy pints going down like water. Every table was full. Someone had dragged a speaker outside and was absolutely murdering the place with Christy Moore.

By around five o’clock, the country was operating at half-speed. You could feel it. Nobody was in work mentally. The buses were late, builders were leaning on their shovels scratching their arses, and every pub in the city had that loud happy roar spilling onto the street.

I was four, maybe six pints deep when my phone started vibrating violently on the table.

At first I ignored it. I assumed it was the group chat arguing about where we were heading next. Then everyone else’s phones started going too. Proper emergency-alert sirens blaring out across the terrace. The music cut off. You could actually feel the mood shift in real time.

I looked down expecting weather warnings or maybe another government disaster with water restrictions.

Instead it said:

EMERGENCY ALERT: BELGIAN MILITARY ACTION CONFIRMED AGAINST IRISH TERRITORY. SEEK SHELTER. AWAIT FURTHER INFORMATION.

Silence.

Not total silence, obviously. There was still traffic and seagulls and some gobshite at the back laughing because he thought it was a joke. But the kind of silence where everyone’s brain stops at once.

“Belgium?” someone said.

Not fear. Genuine confusion.

“Belgium?”

A lad beside me actually started naming Belgian things out loud trying to process it.

“Waffles… beer… Tintin…”

Nobody knew what to do because, honestly, Belgium attacking Ireland sounded less believable than aliens. If France invaded, fair enough. Britain? Historically consistent. America? Disturbing but plausible.

Belgium felt like a typo.

The pub staff turned on the news inside. Suddenly every screen had maps and red banners and grim-looking presenters speaking far too calmly about “unidentified naval movements” and “European security escalation.” Apparently Belgian forces had seized some shipping routes in the Atlantic after a dispute none of us had ever heard of until that exact moment.

Outside, though, the weather was still gorgeous.

That was the strange part.

The sun stayed shining while the country quietly lost its mind.

Then fighter jets screamed overhead.

Real ones.

Low enough to rattle glasses.

And suddenly the whole thing became real in your stomach.

The pub emptied in about thirty seconds. Chairs knocked over, drinks abandoned half-finished. One man tried to leave with four packets of paynuts and tayto stuffed under his jumper like wartime supplies.

I remember standing there squinting into the sunlight thinking how ridiculous it all looked. Dublin in perfect summer weather while Europe apparently descended into chaos over fucking Belgium.

A notification came through saying reservists were being called up.

Another saying ports were closed.

Another saying avoid coastal areas.

Meanwhile two tourists at the next table were still eating chicken wings because they thought it was immersive street theatre.

By nightfall the city had changed completely. Helicopters overhead. Gardaí everywhere. Long queues outside off-licences and ATMs. Every smoker in Ireland suddenly becoming a military strategist.

And all I could think was how unfair it felt that the best weather of the year had landed on the exact day Belgium decided to lose its mind.

Please tip a poor Irish citizen who desperately needs to go back to eco🫶🏻