The West Flemish polder clay-boy saw two hefty nuns speed past on a racing bicycle, hoisted in exciting bib shorts; sponsored by the diocese.

A few years later, he marveled at the throbbing sensation in his lower regions as he held a delicate-skinned girl in his arms.

In his attic room he saw the light and met Bob Dylan.

In his monkey years, he gloated when the Dutch teacher puked his dirty black goatee on the ferry to England.

And on the threshold of adulthood, he saw his great and true love smile for the first time in an Oostend's music café.