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About Liege

You idiot sandwich! It’s not all glamour—prossies got stories, mate. Some chick in Amsterdam once told me—red light district, yeah?—she paid her way through uni suckin’ dick. Fair play, I thought, but fuck me, the stench of desperation down there? Made me wanna claw my nose off! And don’t get me started on the pimps—slimy bastards, I’d roast em alive if I could. “This is our island!”—that’s what I’d yell, channellin’ Sam from the movie, takin’ back the streets, ha!

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Oh, my dear friend, thou must hear! I dwell in Veurne, a quaint town in Belgium, where cobbled streets hold secrets and souls. Picture this: strolling along Steenstraat, where ancient brick whispers tales of old. I often wander near the Markt, where the city’s heartbeat pulses with gentle clamor. Truly, 'tis a place where the present meets the past, like when "The Hurt Locker" spoke: “This is no different than war,” and yet we have peace.

Birger Stichelbaut (ed.). Traces of war: the archaeology of the First World War . 2018. Veurne: Hannibal; 978-94-9267-751-8 €29.50.