Khan's Oot !

I always thought "burying the bone" was a euphemism, but in "The Free Republic of Outremeuse" (a bohemian quarter over the river) they take it to a whole other level. The 15th of August (The Assumption) is predominantly a Catholic feast, but here, some centuries ago it mutated into a three day pagan folkloric blow-out drinking orgy.
On the day of the 15th, giant puppets of historical figures lumber down the streets - Charlemagne, Bishops and Kings, and local folk-hero Tchantches - a mineworker born between two cobblestones in the 8th century (there's a statue on the spot). His hobbies include drinking Peket and headbutting.
Ah! Peket! The local gin variant, now flavoured to disguise its rank taste. During the Quinze Aout the streets of Outremeuse run with the stuff, every bar, café and shop window heaves with thimble-size plastic glasses of every hue. Five for six euros, six for five euros, who knows? Who cares, just throw it down your neck, we'll be well oiled in no time and bouncing off the walls of the narrow streets.
Brass bands play cacophonous dissonant tunes, like that scene in 'Animal House' when Stork leads the marching band down a cul-de-sac, trombones buckling against the walls. Sousaphones are fitted with beer holders. Do they ever play when they're not seeing double? And they don't just mangle the classics, suddenly they're squeezing out a sozzled version of 'Seven Nation Army', the trumpeters playing one-handed, the other clutching a plastic glass of pilsner and a hangover. Should've taken it easy the night before, but nobody does on the 14th; everyone's a flailing mess.
On the 16th it's the last day of the festival, tinged with sadness. So to mark the occasion they stage a mock funeral. "Mati l'Ohe" (Matthew the Bone), a pig's bone, is carried out in his own miniature casket, a bottle of peket beside him.
The gathered throng outside the Tchantches Museum are dressed in funeral attire - frockcoats, top hats, lace and veils. Beefy cross-dressing men ham it up (no pun intended Matty) as grieving widows. Every mourner is armed with that essential requiem accessory - a stick of celery. Matty appears with his cortège and the fake sobbing and wailing begins. The funeral band play a sombre death march, which suddenly changes into a new Orleans carnival stomp, as two hundred sticks of celery are held aloft in unison and waved frantically. It's like 'Live and Let Die' meets 'Day of the Triffids'.
A meandering stop-start procession ensues, the band leading the way (God help us). Random stops are made for no reason, other than to whirl Matty 'round in a vortex of celery stalks and Oom Pah Pah.
Eventually he reaches his final resting place in front of the Tchantches statue, where he is ceremoniously cremated, amid red smoke bombs, much pretend weeping and more peket.

If you ever find yourself in Liège in mid-August, put on your best black suit, grab a stick of celery and get down to the "Quinze Aout", you won't look at the Virgin Mary quite the same again.